Page 77 of You’re So Vein

Now that I’m back in the village with its half-dug-up stormwater pipes and bright storefronts, and my heart no longer feels like it’s fighting its way through my ribcage, everything that happened at Augustin’s cottage feels like a dream.

Except that I can still taste moss on my tongue.

Except that my lips hum with magic.

Except that he asked me if I feel safe with him, and the answer is terrifying—

I can’t do this now. I need to go home, sleep for two days, and fill in the paperwork to pull out of the mayoral race.

I step out into the rain. Something moves out of the corner of my eye.

I whirl to face whatever it is, terror clawing at my throat. A shadow darts around the corner of Zen and Tonic.

“Hello?” I whisper.

The only reply is another clap of thunder.

Who else could be out at this hour?

Augustin is right, this is foolish. I shouldn’t be out on my own, jumping at shadows. I should have let him walk me home.

Mud splatters up my trouser legs as I splash my way across the village green and head for home. I don’t see the shadow again.

By the time I reach the house, the sun has nearly risen, and although it’s hidden behind grey storm clouds, I breathe easier. Whoever the husker is, they can’t get me during daylight hours. The neighbourhood is waking up – sprinklers going in the gardens, dogs barking, kids giggling. As I round our driveway, I’m hit by a wall of familiar Ahuja family noise. The TV blasts children’s morning cartoons. Preeti’s in her room above the garage, her meditation app on full blast. Mamma and the aunties cackle around the kitchen table. I duck low as I scoot around the house, so no one sees me through the windows.

I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but it looks like there are even more of the Gorilla Gardener’s red flowers springing from the untended beds near the front door.

Papa is doing something with a power tool in his workshop. I suck in a breath as I approach the door. I long for bed, but first I need to tell him that I’m pulling out.

He looks up and turns off the sander when he sees me, his eyes hollow, his skin dusted with sawdust. His arm trembles from the weight of holding the sander. Most cancer patients would be in bed, not making things in their shed. But Papa can’t sit still.

“Beta, you surprise me!” His warm eyes crinkle at the edges. “I didn’t expect you to be up so early. You look like you never went to bed!”

“Sorry, Papa, can we talk for a sec?” I move around his workbench. “What are you making?”

He’s sanding the top of an imposing desk. It’s beautiful – old-fashioned without being too ornate. Papa’s added some carved details in the corners – flowers that look like the ones the Gorilla Gardener planted on the verge. Drawers are held in vices along the workbench behind him. Since it’s disassembled, I can tell one even has a secret compartment.

“It’s for you,” he says with a grin. “I’ve seen the beaten-up old desk in the mayor’s office. I think it’s been there since before the Reformation. My daughter the mayor deserves a desk that says she means business.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Papa, I should tell you that—”

He cups my hands in his. “I’m so proud of you, Beta. I know you’ve had a difficult few years. Your mother and I worried about you so much while you were deployed, and we love having you home with us, and you’ve been so helpful through all of my treatment. But maybe we should have forced you back to the RAF.”

“Don’t say that.” Tears pool beneath my eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Papa.”

“Do you know what it means to me that you’re running for mayor?” he asks softly. “I always wanted to help this town. When your mother and I immigrated from Delhi… it was difficult. We were a young couple in a strange country, missing our families, trying to figure out how to create a good life for ourselves. People weren’t always friendly to us. Your mother especially struggled when she was pregnant with Preeti, and I was busy at the shop. She felt all alone. The local mothers’ group made offensive jokes about curry, which made her feel unwelcome. I tried to support her, but I’m the man, you know? She would cry to me some nights that she wanted to go back to India. I almost sent her back. I wanted our children born here, in our new home, but I was so afraid I would lose her, that she was becoming less of herself.”

I didn’t know any of this. I can’t imagine my strong mother crying or my father considering living apart from her for one moment. And underneath it all is the old knife wound, twisting deeper, of pregnancies and gross mothers’ groups that I’ll never get to have.

“Things got better slowly, and when our families back in India saw how well we were doing, many of them immigrated as well. We made friends. We built a community. Now I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, but so many people feel like your mother did. Lost and alone. Every day in the hospital, I met people who came in with no family, no community. I wanted to help them. I want everyone to feel like Argleton is their home.”

“Oh, Papa.” He’s just like me. When he sees a problem, he has to fix it.

“I have so many plans, so many ideas…” His smile falters at the edges. “But life had other plans for me. The doctors say… well…” He waves a hand, dismissing his prognosis the way he always does, refusing to let it hang too long in the air.

Guilt tightens around my ribs. I can’t believe I was thinking of quitting. This might be one of the last things Papa and I do together.

Papa’s voice thickens. He squeezes my hands. “You’re fixing things already. People look up to you. They listen to you. They’re excited about what you can do for this village. And I know that you have feelings for Augustin—”