“Is Chachi her nickname?”
“No, it’s Hindi for your dad’s younger brother’s wife.”
“That is very specific.”
“Yeah. Everyone in the immediate family gets a very specific title. And then everyone else like family friends or more distant relations are called ‘Auntie’ and ‘Uncle’ more generally.”
Beau nods, taking in the information. “I guess she’s heard of me.” He smiles.
I do not want to have this conversation. I wish that the dads would go for a good distracting fistfight right now. Their tempers have been simmering for weeks over the joint show; they must be ready to boil over.
But of course, they can’t make my life easier at any time. They’re so contrary they can’t even be contrary when I want them to.
“Priya...is the worst.” I begin and then immediately stall. For a lack of knowing what to say.
Beau looks at me and opens his mouth like he’s going to follow up on my nonresponse. But then I’m saved, because before he can ask me anything, he sits up straight and pulls a vibrating phone from his pocket. “Oh, I should take this. I’m sorry; I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time.” I watch him walk to find a quiet corner of the room, bringing the phone to his ear.
While Beau’s gone, I decide I might as well have some drinks and snacks on hand when he gets back, since I’ve been stealing his all night. I stop on the way to the bar to talk to some clients, testing my memory to ask them about their lives. It’s draining and after three of them, I need that drink myself.
I don’t know how Priya does this for entire parties.
I take the booty back to the table, looking around to see where Beau is. I don’t see him, but I do see Gavin and Priya. Anyone who knows her knows what she’s doing: working the client in front of her with charm and grace and a tenacity that would rival a bulldog’s. Gavin lets her shine while he basks in her energy, looking so proud, and not trying to outdo her.
For all the sass I give them, they are a great example of a healthy, functional relationship. But that still doesn’t make the idea of a relationship any less scary, if the tightening in my chest is any indication.
I munch on some of the food I got for Beau. If he really wants some, I’m going to need him to be around. Otherwise, I can’t control what happens.
I’m halfway through some Tandoori chicken when I feel a tap on my shoulder, choking a little on the chicken as it goes down the wrong pipe.
“Oh shit, Sonia. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Beau grabs my glass on the table and pushes it toward me. I shake my head and keep coughing. That’s whiskey...it won’t help if I drink it. Beau runs to get me some water. Finally, the coughing subsides.
“I’m so sorry,” Beau says again when he comes back, water in hand.
Two sorrys in a row. And I don’t think this one is about me choking.
“I have to leave New York.”
Chapter Eighteen
My heart pounds with the news. A wave of panic crashes over my body, until I’m drowning in the sensation, taking deeper breaths to get any air in my lungs.
“I... I thought you had till the end of the week? Is everything okay?” I force out. There’s a slight shake in my voice I can’t hide, no matter how much I try.
Which is absurd. Because I don’t even want him in sickness and health, through richer or poorer. Through arguments about north and south.
I just want him for another week. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
He rushes to reassure me. “Everyone’s fine, but we have a problem with the mulch vendor.”
I have no response to that, never having had a mulch problem before.
Beau takes the silence as an invitation to talk more about it. “If we don’t get the right mulch with the perfect amount of nutrients at the exact right times, we’ll have a late growth spurt or rodents or not enough weed protection. Peaches are fickle.”
“Apparently. And you have to go in person to deal with the...mulch problem?”
“Yes. Daniel is at a fruit tree conference out of state and Mom’s business has its own busy period. Dad tried to talk to them, but he’s busy with other work and I’m the one who built a relationship with this vendor. They’re not answering his calls and Dad wants me to take care of this in person, fast, before we don’t have a crop next year.” He looks genuinely disappointed, which is a small bandage on a gaping wound.
