He tugged on a curl. “Very well.”
“Can I call Aji to tell her?”
“Certainly. Tomorrow.” He was perpetually surprised by how close Luna and his grandmother were. Lord knew, Shweta Dixit, Legend of the Silver Screen, hadn’t done much but toss cash at her grandchildren, especially the two she hadn’t met until their teenage years.
Dev might harbor some rejection and resentment over that, but he took those emotions and dealt with them the way he dealt with all emotions: bundled them up into a ball and stuffed them deep deep down. Like all healthy people did.
“How was the party?”
It glowed for a few minutes.“Fine. Like any other party,” he said, with a twist to his mouth Luna probably wouldn’t catch.
“Did you meet anyone?”
Those fierce eyes popped into his mind.Yes.“No.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?”
Luna crossed her arms over her chest. She wore an old Coca-Cola T-shirt of his. Vintage, she’d called it, when she’d politely asked if she could take it from his donation pile during the move. “Adil Uncle said you needed to find a woman, or you’d lose all your money, and since all you do is work, these parties are your only chance.”
Adil. Why.“He said that toyou?”
“No. I heard him on the phone.”
“He’s incorrect.”No, he’s not.“I’m quite content as I am.”No, you’re not.
Luna nodded slowly. “If you say so, Kaka.”
“I do.” He busied himself pulling her blanket up higher so she wouldn’t see the frown on his face. Her mother had never been in the picture, and the therapist he’d obtained for Luna had stressed the need for consistency and calm since her father had died. His brother had been neither consistent nor calm, so Dev figured it was extra important he give her a stable home, and a stable home didn’t include talk of shaky finances or an asshole of a grandfather essentially cutting his grandson and great-granddaughter out of his will. “Time for bed now. You have lessons early tomorrow. No more phone for the night.”
Luna groaned, and it was music to his ears. He’d much rather she play the role of a conventional teen as opposed to the withdrawn, too-mature child he’d taken custody of. “Fine.”
He took her phone and placed it in the dock on her nightstand. “Good night.”
“Night.”
He quickly undressed once he was in his room, and neatly hung his suit up, next to about a dozen suits like it. Every year or so, he had his stylist replenish his closet with clothes he could easily put together. He was hardly the fashion plate his cousin was. Dressing in neutral clothes didn’t speak to his soul, but it ensured he didn’t embarrass himself.
When he took his watch off, something glinted in the light coming from the bathroom. He brought the watch closer to his face. The thread was tiny, an itty-bitty souvenir from the night stuck between the links. He pulled it out and blew at itgently. It fluttered to the floor.
His version of a face routine consisted of removing his contacts, a quick wash with a cleanser, and a pat down. He eyed his shower but decided to tackle that in the morning.
He opened the bedroom windows and listened. Santa Monica wasn’t Mumbai. It was a different ocean and different sand, but if he closed his eyes he could imagine the clock had turned back. That his brother hadn’t gotten drunk on a boat and died, leaving Luna and his astronomical debts to Dev. That he hadn’t had to uproot his whole life because he couldn’t stand to remain in the same country of his loss. That the fate of his small family wasn’t resting on his shoulders, in a place where he couldn’t simply glide on his family name.
Dev closed the windows. He’d love to fall asleep to the noise of the ocean, but when he slept, his brain couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and fake. He didn’t want to wake up homesick.
You told me you’d searched the universe for a woman like me.
He climbed into bed naked but for his boxers. Dev removed his glasses and placed them on the nightstand, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired, but he couldn’t shut away her memory. Why couldn’t he? He was usually so good at compartmentalizing.
He held his hand up and studied it. It was blurry without his glasses on.
Who was she? It made no logical sense, her reaction. Was she a fan? A stalker? He shuddered at the latter. He’dalready had a couple of those, and he’d rather not repeat the experience, no matter how much of an instantaneous connection he’d felt with her.
If she was a stalker, though... he should know who she was, right? For his own purposes, for protection?
Yes, you most definitely need protection from that little scrap of a woman.
