Page 131 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“Aai asked me to bring you home,” Sona said after she hung up the call. “She’s really intent on getting you married, it seems.”

“Deal. Let’s have dinner, and then I’ll come home with you.”

After a quick, quiet dinner at the hotel restaurant, we went to my room to pack me a bag for the night. Out of habit—and because I still wasn’t used to thinking of Sona as an outsider—I removed the formal shirt I was wearing and tossed it to the bed where she sat. It was unintentional, but her eyes darted to my bare chest and remained there. I heard her breathing drop in the silent room. Her eyes blinked rapidly as I undid my belt buckle. The swoosh of the belt coming off the loops was her Pavlov’s bell. I flung the handcrafted leather toward the bed to land at a distance from her. Her eyes turned to the belt, then returned to me as I undid my pants and stripped down to my boxer briefs with a slow, deliberate motion. The biggest lure was yet to come. I turned my back to her and heard a hard gulp.

As I casually walked up to the closet to retrieve a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I heard her shuffle off the bed. I anticipated her touch on my back, now graced with a tattoo of a flying eagle, its wingspan stretching across the span of my back.

Her muted footsteps grew closer, and I felt the warmth of her hand near my body.

“What are you looking at?” I asked when I sensed her standing behind me.

“Can I touch it?” she whispered.

“Yes.” My hands gripped the open doors of the closet as my head dropped forward.

She traced the powerful ink on my back with her soft fingers. My stomach dipped as her touch landed on my spine and glided all the way to the shoulder blade. Soft and delicious, the way I remembered it. My hands on the door clutched tighter.

I wanted to turn around, grab her in my arms, and thank her for giving me everything I had needed. My birth mother, a renewed connection with my parents, and a love that was pure and selfless.

“It’s beautiful. What’s the symbolism?”

My heart sank when I heard her question. “For me, it’s clarity. I went in seeking pain, but I found freedom, meaning, and connection. Do you like it?”

Her touch vanished. “I’m the wrong woman to ask that question now, aren’t I?” she said with a sassy edge to her voice as she withdrew to her spot on the bed.

I pulled up a pair of jeans and walked to her with the T-shirt in my fist. “You’ve missed this body, haven’t you?” I asked, leaning down softly toward her.

Her gaze traveled at a painful pace up my torso to meet my eyes.

I turned my voice a seductive octave lower. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I was thinking”—her words were slow and dreamy—“that you’ve kept up your waxing routine.” Her lip curled up.

I had to laugh. “Of course I have. I’m a high-maintenance man. Now, let’s go see what you mom has planned for me.”

When we arrived, we found her parents eagerly waiting for me. We assembled in the family room, chatting and laughing while I taught them how to play poker. Sona retreated to her room for her daily meditation. We were still playing when she peeked out to announce that she was going to bed. Getting under her skin was an absolutely delightful side-effect of this entire enterprise.

Later that night, after the couple retired, I called my parents.

My parents.

“How are you?” That’s the first thing my mother asked me.

My mother.

Her concern pushed me to tears. I wept unabashedly from the shame of having hurt them. I begged their forgiveness for my cruel words.

“Don’t,” Mom said as she tried to choke back her tears. “You don’t need to apologize, my child. We were at fault. I should be saying sorry to you.” Dad stayed at her side, running a hand down her back, his eyes glassy and wet.

“But you were right about one thing,” I said. “I am your son. Nothing can ever change that.”

The past few weeks had been instructive, to say the least. Between my talks with Mikey and Grant and my heartfelt conversation with Sona, I was already reassessing my ideas of self. On this journey of renegotiating my identity, one thought kept coming back to me loud and strong: my parents loved me. They cherished me, and I fucking loved them with vigor. I was neither abandoned nor unwanted. All three of my parents had worked hard to give me the best life they could.

“Did you see your mother?” Dad’s question drew me out of my thoughts.

I told them about the meeting, and my parents smiled while they wept. “She told me everything, and I am grateful to you.”

“No,” Mom said in a stern voice. “I don’t want to hear this language of gratitude. It sounds like we did you an ehsaan, a favor. You are our son. We did what we did for us. Not for you. For us. You brought me the happiness I desired in my life. If anything, I am grateful to you,” she reminded me, and I couldn’t stop the stream of tears running down my face at her words.

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