“Of course!” He opened it and poured three glasses.
“Helloo,” a masculine voice called from the front.
Riya’s heart instantly went into overdrive. As if it recognized Dhillon’s voice before her brain did. She cursed her traitorous heart, quickly washing her hands and occupying herself with cleaning up. There was nothing as comforting as fresh, hot rotli, but making it made a huge mess, for which she was now grateful.
She glanced at Lucky, who looked at her like she was an idiot. She rolled her eyes at the dog. “He’s come to getyou,” she explained.Not to see me.Lucky plopped his head back down onto his paws.
“In the kitchen!” Her father pulled out a fourth glass and poured wine into it.
Great, now he’d be having wine with them. Her stomach fluttered in a happy way she wished she could ignore.
Dhillon’s footsteps were unhurried. Riya had her glass at her lips when he reached the kitchen. Damn. The man could fill a doorway. His head nearly grazed the top, and his broad shoulders leaned effortlessly against the frame as he folded his arms across his chest. He must have showered after the run, because his hair was wet and slicked back, and he wore loose basketball shorts and a fitted T-shirt.
Riya took a gulp of her wine.
“Hi, Karan Uncle. How’s your leg?” He leaned over and kissed Riya’s mother on the cheek. “Auntie.” He greeted them comfortably and took the offered drink. “Started drinking without saying cheers, did you, Riya?” His voice took on the tone of irritation she’d become familiar with over the years. It was like he rehearsed it. “It’s bad luck.”
She grimaced and held her glass out, clinking it against the others. “Cheers.” The word was deliberate, like a sassy teenager making a point.
This earned her a raised eyebrow over dark mocking eyes.You’re still mad?
She gave a one-shouldered shrug, into which she tried to put the full force of her anger as well as the depth of his offense.You were wrong.
He sighed. It wasn’t an apology, but she read the regret on his face. Her father was discussing his sister’s upcoming visit in August. She lived in India, and the two of them hadn’t seen each other in a few years. He was talking about all the places he wanted to take his big sister and all the things they wanted to do. His excitement was contagious, and Riya’s mother was equally thrilled. Riya loved her foi very much and was excited to see her, but the timing of her visit put Riya on edge.
Her father’s sister was coming for Rakshabandan, which was at the end of August this year. It made complete sense for brother and sister to be together for the holiday that celebrated the sibling bond, but as Riya no longer had a brother, she generally chose not to even acknowledge the day.
She felt Dhillon’s gaze on her during this discussion but ignored it. She didn’t trust herself to look at him with Samir’s memory hanging between them.
Dhillon chatted amiably for the length of his glass of wine with her parents, which meant she did not have to interact with anyone. She was grateful, knowing he did it not to help her but because he genuinely cared for her parents. Just as she cared for his family. They’d been neighbors for close to twenty-five years, after all.
Her thoughts wandered to Rakshabandans past. When she and Samir celebrated. She remembered the first time she had actually made his rakhi.
She had been about seven. Her mother had got her some embroidery floss and taught her how to make a simple braid. She had practiced and practiced until she had made a rakhi she was proud of. It was blue and pink and she just knew her big brother would love it. She had helped her mother make some sweets, too. When the day arrived, Riya could barely contain herself. She couldn’t wait to tie her rakhi. As per usual, they got together with the Vora family. That year, Auntie’s brother, Hiral Uncle, had joined them, in addition to Rumit Mama, Riya’s mother’s brother.
She had already shown Dhillon her rakhi, and he had approved, saying it was awesome.
Hiral Uncle sat on the floor first, and Sarika Auntie tied his rakhi. Then she untied it because Hiral Uncle said it was too loose, so she tied again. They fed each other a small piece of peda, after which Hiral Uncle presented his sister with an envelope with cash as her gift.
Rumit Mama and Riya’s mom had been next. They tried to stuff each other’s mouths with as many sweets as possible, while everyone laughed around them. Rumit Mama gifted his sister a book she had been coveting.
Then it was Riya’s turn. She had worn a beautiful blue-and-pink salwar kameez that Rumit Mama had brought for her. Samir was dressed in his cream-colored tunic and matching pants.
They sat on the floor, legs folded, across from each other. They blessed each other. Then Riya pulled out her homemade rakhi to tie on Samir’s wrist. It was entirely too long. Her face fell.
“That’s okay, Riya,” her brother had said. “Just wrap it around a couple times.”
She wrapped it around twice, and it fit perfectly. She chanted the prayer that wished him a long and happy life and tied the rakhi tight. She beamed as they fed each other sweets. Samir hugged her and presented her with a gift, a stuffed elephant toy. It was soft and fuzzy, and Riya slept with that toy for years. It had been a perfect Rakshabandan.
Some days later, her mother was called into Samir’s school. Riya had to go with her. When they got there, Samir had a bloody nose.
“What happened?” asked their mother as she approached him outside the principal’s office.
“This kid was bugging me about my rakhi. Making fun of it.” Samir sounded angry. “He pushed me when I told him to shut up about it. So I punched him.” Samir grinned. He caught Riya’s eye and winked.
“Samir.” Their mother had not been impressed. “Hitting is not the solution.”
Both boys were given detention, and they had come home after meeting with the principal. Their father had pressed his lips together when he heard the story and saw his son’s injury.
