Page 69 of Tasty Cherry

“You forget all the prime rib sliders I put away.”

“That’s right. Good.”

“Aren’t a lot of Indians vegetarian?”

He shrugs. “I was born here. I am way more American than Indian. My father was not, I guess you’d say, a big fan of my mother’s traditions.”

I feel lucky with how I grew up. “Is Arya your only sister?”

He nods, swiftly cutting chicken breasts into strips. “She is. We are close.”

“Does she work?”

“She teaches art to small children. She has a degree in fine arts.”

I turn to the living room, taking a longer look at three tall paintings on the side wall. “Are those hers?”

“They are. Most of the art in the house is Arya’s.”

“Has she sold any?”

He shakes his head, sliding all the chicken into a bowl. “She tried to get into galleries early on, but the rejection was hard on her.”

“It would be for anyone.”

He nods, swiftly throwing spices into the bowl without measuring. This is something he’s comfortable cooking.

“Did your mother teach you how to make curry?”

“Absolutely. After my father left, we were able to make more of it than before.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight.”

So Arya was only two. That’s hard.

“I need to let that sit for a while,” he says. “You want something to drink? We can do wine, or I found that cider we had at the bar.”

“Really?”

He grins. “Really.” He heads to the fridge.

Camille is going to die. He got the thing we first drank together.

He extracts two cans. “You want a glass? Never mind. Of course you do. We’re not heathens.”

I laugh as he pours the cider into tall, clear glasses. He has everything. A whole life.

I feel like mine has barely started.

He passes me a glass, and we tap them together.

“To our one-week anniversary,” he says.

He’s right. It’s come around again.

The cider is cold and crisp. Sebastian sits on the stool next to me. “You did great this week. You and Brooklyn both.”

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