I look up, but her back is to me while she hangs her stuff. I wish I could see what was going on inside that pretty head of hers.
Her volunteering to help Anjali with dinner has got to be a good sign, right? Since I’ve stepped foot in this cabin, all I’venoticed was how disconnected Rachel seems, floating around like a ghost.
Disengaged.
As if she’s got one foot out the door already.
Does this signal a change, or is she volunteering simply to be polite?
I know Rachel. The last thing she wants is to be a burden to others. She’ll always find a way to be as helpful as possible and uplift the people around her. It’s the same reason she’s invited Océane to live with us.
“Wonderful!” Auntie Anjali squeals before turning to me. “You’re helping, too.”
“What?” Air leaves my chest, and I freeze in an awkward position, all bent over from trying to remove my boot.
“We’re making Aloo Wadiyan for eleven people. And we don’t have any rotis, so we need to make those, too.” Anjali smirks at me. “And I know for a fact that you make better rotis than Rachel.”
“It’s not lack of effort,” Rachel calls out.
She’s still by the fire stove, now hanging our sons’ snow clothes.
“They’re made with love, but they’re ugly.” The words come out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think them through.
I love to joke around with Rachel. It’s part of our love language.
At least, it used to be. I’m not sure joking around right now is the best move.
But my heart leaps in my throat when Rachel bursts out laughing. A tingle of warmth spreads across my body in the most comforting way. It’s been too long since I’ve heard her laugh like this.
I missed that sound.
For a moment, our eyes meet. I lose myself in the green forest of her irises. In that short moment, I can read so much from her expression, but I don’t know if I can trust my judgement. Trust what I’m detecting.
A glimmer of a chance.
Her gaze falls when Corey comes up to her with a leg hug attack. I take that opportunity to turn to Anjali.
“Fine, Auntie. I’ll save the family from the scourge of Rachel’s rotis.”
Anjali claps her hands happily. “Good! Get going then.”
Mom is already distracting the twins with what seems to be a card game, so we should be able to cook unbothered.
Anjali turns to Rachel, who’s now making her way towards her, having freed herself from the leg hug. “Can you start on the onions and potatoes while I crush the wadi?”
Rachel nods in a small, shy motion. She’s no longer laughing, but a tiny, shy smile remains on her lips. I pick a spot on the counter and start grabbing everything I need to make the roti—whole wheat flour, a large mixing bowl, a measuring cup of water, and a rolling pin—while Rachel starts scavenging the fridge and pantry for her ingredients.
Though she’s far away, the skin of my body prickles, longing to have her near me.
I almost sigh with relief when Rachel places herself next to me. We’re far apart enough that I’ve got enough space to make my dough, and she’s got enough space to place Aunt Jocelyne’s huge wooden cutting board. But, given my size, our elbows brush when she reaches to grab the chef’s knife hanging on the magnetic blade holder.
Is it my imagination, or did she shiver at our contact?
Both of us get to work while Anjali preps the wadi and grates ginger and garlic. It’s anything but a calm moment.
Around us, the cacophony of the cabin is in full force—the roaring of the fire within the wood stove, Aisha’s phone blaring as she lounges on the old couch scrolling through videos, the twins at the table laughing with Mom, Dad and Suresh deep in conversation about the merits of coffee versus tea, and Jocelyne asking Ajay about his recent trip to Chennai to visit his grandparents on his father’s side.
It’s a full house for sure.
