Page 7 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

Where other uppity South Asian homes I’d been to were monochromatic, decorated in shades of beige and brown, Tara’s home was alive with color.

A blue velvet couch and bench drew the central focus, and a soft yellow loveseat added contrast and warmth. All the seating surfaces were adorned with colorful Mughal print cushions bought from India. A muted Turkish rug added a certain hominess to the large area that would otherwise have looked cold and barren. A stunning painting of a tree in blues, pinks, and metallic gold brought the design together.

I lowered myself onto the loveseat upholstered in a color reminiscent of Amalfi coast lemons. Mihir sat on the large blue couch, taking up the space his large body demanded.

“Now, why are you furious with me?” he drawled.

I stifled my amusement. “You’re hung up on that, huh?”

He didn’t respond, just leaned back in the seat and waited.

Hmm, he seemed like a man who was used to getting his way. Now, what if I didn’t give him what he wanted? A part of me was already considering the possibility of ruffling his feathers.

I held my silence and sipped the tea.

“Well?” he demanded.

Before I could respond, I heard tiny beeps at the door, followed by a deep buzz and a click.

“Tara!” I deposited the cup on the coffee table and sprinted to her open arms.

“It’s so, so good to see you,” she said, squeezing me into a hug.

“Where’s Sameer?” I asked.

“He just got done with his meeting. He’s really sorry he couldn’t come to pick you up at the airport.”

“That’s alright. I can hold it over him for a while,” I said.

“Don’t be mean to him, please? He’ll be home in a bit.” She looked around me and smiled at Mihir. “I can’t thank you enough for picking her up,” she said, walking to him. Her eyes landed on the cup on the table. “Ah, and I see you made tea!”

She bent to give him a quick hug. “Will you join us for lunch? I made chhole poori.”

“Ooh!” I said before Mihir could respond. I loved the spiced chickpeas she made, along with the deliciously puffed-up poori.

“Sure,” Mihir answered, reading the excitement on my face. “How can I help?”

It ached to see that they behaved like siblings. This should’ve been me, not him. After Tara’s departure, it had become quite lonely in New York.

Tara gifted him a sweet smile. “Everything is ready and in the oven. You can keep Sona company while I freshen up.”

She gave me one more tight squeeze before disappearing down the hall.

I retrieved my mug of tea and settled back down, this time facing Mihir.

He continued to study me intently, but I gave him no clues.

“Sona—” he finally said but was interrupted by the whirr of his phone in his hand. “I’m sorry, I need to take this,” he said and answered his phone. “Yes.”

I nodded and took the time to study him instead. Who was this man who had replaced my camaraderie in Tara’s life?

As I watched him, his face changed. Gone was the calm visage and the subtle mischief on it. A strange shadow now fell over his face. His dark eyes turned blacker, if that was possible. A thick vein appeared on his forehead as his grip on his phone tightened, and his knuckles turned white.

“Why haven’t I heard about this until now?” he barked. His voice was different too. Deeper, ominous.

He lifted a finger to excuse himself, and I acknowledged it with another nod. He rose quickly, and with angry steps, strode over to the glass wall.

“I don’t care about the fucking money,” he said in a voice that made me flinch.

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