“Yes, and I went to the shops today too,” I tell her, knowing that if I don’t steer her away from a conversation about my food intake, she’ll pry into what I’ve eaten and open up a whole other mess of lies.
We talk for the next thirty minutes, her pestering niggling its way into my chest and making me feel a little more whole than I had a few hours ago. Overbearing love is often overwhelming, and I don’t process it the way most people might, but growing up in a Desi household, I got used to this kind of treatment from my family. It’s friends and strangers that get under my skin.
“I love you, Mummy,” I say before ending the call, feeling like absolute rubbish for the many lies of omission I’ve strung her along with. The pain it causes me is nothing compared to the loss she’s already suffered, and I’m determined to protect her from any more burden for as long as I’m able.
That was both fuelling and draining, all at once.The flat is quiet now, the dim screen light fading across the wall as I sit in the stillness, too tired to move.
CHAPTER
NINE
I push my way inside,stopping in my tracks as my gaze lands on Adhira, cuddled beneath a mountain of blankets, looking every bit as bewitching as she has each and every time I’ve caught a glimpse of her or managed to reel her into a quiet conversation about her latest hyperfixation.
I’ve learned she’s a quiet person who keeps to herself, but when her mind latches onto a topic, she’s amenable to chatting about it for a few minutes. Her voice always changes then—louder, warmer.
It’s rather adorable, and while the last week has still been tense, those unguarded moments have been some of my favourites.
My lips quirk in an uncontainable smile at the thought of her being comfortable enough to share oxygen with me tonight. Maybe now she’ll stop acting like I’m an intruder half the time,scurrying off to her room whenever I try to shift the conversation into something more meaningful or enquire about her. She remains tucked away until I leave for a workout, practice, or just to throw a pot at the studio downstairs.
The room glows in the muted light from the telly, soft shadows flickering across the cabinets.
“Hiya,” I greet her, shutting the door softly behind me.
She wiggles her fingers at me in acknowledgement and keeps her eyes trained on the screen, watching reruns ofa rugby union match from last week between the All Blacks and France. The low roar of the crowd hums beneath the commentator’s sharp vowels, every thud and whistle pricking at my own muscle memory.
“You’re a fan?” I ask, kicking my shoes off and setting them in the hallway cupboard. I choose to ignore what I saw her watching the other day; something tells me bringing it up would get me nowhere good.
She doesn’t tear her gaze from the screen. “I enjoy the athleticism and brutality of the sport.”
Well, consider my interest piqued. “You ever play?”
“Mm-hm,” she says, and just when I assume she won’t provide any more detail, she adds, “I used to play football with Rafael’s girlfriend before we graduated, and since she’s your coach’s daughter, we incorporated a lot of rugby drills to mix it up.”
“Football is my second love. If you’re ever looking to play a friendly game, let me know—I’m sure we can find a co-ed team to join sometime.” The second the words fly out of my dumb mouth, I know they were a mistake. She probably thinks I’m trying to force my company on her.
She gives me a terse nod but doesn’t bless me with another word, and my heart hammers against my ribs. “I’m going to make dinner. Care to join me when it’s done?”
She pushes herself upright, the pile of blankets shifting into her lap. Her deep cinnamon-brown eyes are glassy and magnetic, even from several metres away. It’s the kind of beauty that’s like a slow ache in the chest, the sort that lingers without permission.
I swallow around the lump in my throat, steeling my spine for whatever insult might come from those pillowy lips.
There’s another uncomfortable beat of silence before I can’t stand it a second longer. Dragging a ragged hand through my messy waves, I avert my gaze to the floor, kicking at nothing. “Yeah, okay, sorry I asked. I’ll just, uh…”Fuck off?Nope, don’t say that. “Cook for myself.”
Her dark brows knit together, lips pinching as she tilts her head, assessing me. I’ve never felt so naked under someone’s gaze.
“Food would be nice,” she finally says, and a sudden swarm of butterflies erupts in my gut. I let out a quiet breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding, my heart slowing to a manageable thud.
“Yeah, cool. I’ll…yeah,” I mutter, flustered.
I catch the twitch of her lips, and my pulse flutters. “Would you like some help?” she asks, and the thought of her brushing against me in the small kitchen has me bouncing on the balls of my feet.
“That’s okay. It won't take me long.”
I wash my hands, wiping them on a dishcloth, and busy my anxious mind with cleaning and chopping vegetables. I’ve noticed that Adhira doesn’t eat meat—or at least she hasn’t had any in the fridge or cupboards—so I’ve stopped buying it for myself on the off-chance that, like today, she’d be willing to eat something I’ve made her. A giant tray of raw chicken in the fridge would likely be very unsettling for someone who seems to spend an alarming amount of time retching into her toilet, especially if she has a moral objection to eating meat.
I whip up a simple curry with canned chickpeas and sautéed vegetables, serving it with a mountain of jasmine rice. It doesn’t take long before I’m setting the plates on the kitchen island, placing Adhira’s food in front of the seat she always chooses—the one closest to the door, not crammed against the wall.
After grabbing a couple of forks, making sure to set the smaller one on her plate, I call out, “Hey, supper’s ready.”
