Page 105 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“He’s a friend of Tara and Sameer. We met at their wedding,” I jumped in before Mihir could respond. I had anticipated a version of this question and rehearsed that answer in my head several times over.

My parents studied me with suspect curiosity, and I pretended to be engrossed in my food.

“Yes.” Mihir cleared his throat. “We met at their wedding.”

“I hope the food is to your liking,” Aai said.

“It’s very good, Mrs. Thomas,” Mihir smiled at her. “I have to learn how to make this dal.”

“Oh, do you cook?” Aai sounded impressed, and I coughed to cover up my scoff.

“A little,” he said with a modest laugh.

“That’s very admirable!” Aai gushed. “Sona only learned to cook when she went abroad. Before that, she never needed to.”

I stayed quiet, hoping to melt into the background.

“What do you do, Mihir?” Appa asked.

When Mihir told him about his work, Appa’s eyes danced with glee. They worked in the same field. Finance and numbers gave them their high. They continued talking in their own language, which I swear sounded made-up.

“I think I’ll leave in a bit,” Mihir announced as we wrapped up lunch. “I saw a hotel I can check into.”

“What’s the rush?” Appa drawled in his accent. “You can leave in the evening. I’ll have the driver drop you. Or better yet, have dinner with us. Medha?” He looked at Aai.

“Yes, absolutely. What would you like for dinner? Sona, any suggestions?”

I was suddenly yanked out of my comfortable, nondescript space in the background and placed under the spotlight.

“Uh, what?”

“Any ideas for dinner?”

“I don’t know. Do you eat meat, Mihir?”

His eyes shone with amusement, but his face remained poised. “Yes, I eat meat,” he responded amicably.

“Chicken or mutton?” I asked him with a straight face.

“Anything is alright, but I don’t want to burden you anymore, Mrs. Thomas. I’ve bothered you enough.”

“It’s not a bother,” Aai said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “We enjoy having people over. And you’re Sona’s friend. You’re practically family.”

Mihir threw me a quick, supposedly discrete, look, but I knew my foxy parents were onto us.

“Mutton is good, Aai,” I said. “I can help.”

“That’s alright. Lata is here.” Then, turning to Mihir, she said, “Our cook makes excellent mutton.”

After lunch, Mihir tried staying up for a while, but his fatigue and jetlag finally caught up with the food in his belly. He almost fell asleep talking to me before he retreated to the guest room.

While he slept, it rained, and the air cooled. The sweet smell of the first rain was soon replaced with the melodious rhythm of drips and splashes. On the 18th floor, a strong wind gushed in through a sliver of the open window. I cozied up with a book and a cup of cardamom tea at my favorite spot in the anterior family room.

“Hey.” That familiar voice still created strong ripples in my heart.

“Hey,” I said, pulling my feet off the armchair. “Did you get a good nap?”

He nodded. “What are you reading?”

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