Page 63 of The Matchmaker

“I think you have to know Darcy to understand. When she’sin on something, she goes all in. We started chatting at the coffee shop because I was obsessed with her foam latte creations. I’d watch her while I waited for my order. Every day a new design. Hummingbirds. Tulips. Roses. When I finally asked her about it, she told me if you’re going to do something, you may as well give it your all. She even invited me to come by after the shop closed to teach me how to make them myself.”

“That explains the latte machine gathering dust in your kitchen pantry.”

“Yep. She had a rough life growing up. Her dad fled the scene in her toddlerhood, and her mom’s a poster child for how not to parent. Darcy basically raised herself. I think ‘going all in’ is how she’s learned to cope.”

“Well, great. Now I feel bad.”

“I get it. If it were anyone else, I’d definitely side-eye it, but it’s…it’s just Darcy.”

I slip off my heels and curl up on the sofa, grabbing the cashmere throw I’d gotten him as a housewarming gift years ago and wrapping it around myself as he opens and closes cabinets in the kitchen. In contrast to my century-old historic home in Morningside, Azar’s got a three-story stucco townhome in the trendiest part of Brookhaven. Compared to my ancient fireplace and original nineteenth-century wooden floors, his home is a portrait of sleek contemporary cool. Black dinner table and chairs. Dark frames with black-and-white art on the walls. A white sofa. White bed. The red teakettle on the stove—which I gave him for his last birthday—a welcome spot of color. Looking around, I don’t see any sign of Zayna. No sweater left over from a visit. No slippers tucked on the shoe rack. Not yet at least.

“Do you ever really use that teakettle?” I ask.

“Of course not. I only pop it up when I know you’re coming.”

“You knew I was coming over?”

“I was covering my bases.”

“I’m glad Darcy insisted on the outing,” I tell him.

“I was surprised you were up for it,” he says.

“I wasn’t. But it was good to get to know Samir. And to get out of my own head. Our next outing should be with Zayna. We keep meaning to get together for a hangout.”

“Hmm? Oh, sure. Chai?” he asks, opening the cupboard next to the stove.

“Yes, please.”

He pulls out a box of tea leaves, fills up the kettle with water, and places it on the stove. I glimpse his laundry room through the open door.

“No. Way.” I get up and walk over and press the door wider. The basket on the washer is stacked with neatly ironed and folded clothes.

“You iron your scrubs now?” I trace a hand over his minty-green work outfits.

“What else am I supposed to do?” he calls from the kitchen. “Toss them in a heap?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do! I think you’re getting worse.”

“I’d argue better,” he protests.

“Hmm. Maybe I’m jealous. You’re so organized.”

“Just built that way.”

The space smells like cinnamon and cloves when he flicks off the stove. I head back to the couch as he brings over the steaming cups and sits next to me on the sofa. Reaching over, he grabs the remote and flips on the television.

“Hold up!” I protest as he clicks the History Channel app. “Ihaven’t even started the latest season ofWildyet. You’re already on episode six.”

“You didn’t miss much,” he replies. “No one’s tapped out of the competition yet. They’re all starving. Lots of rabbits getting out of snares. It turns out mushroom soup can make you sick. There, now you’re all caught up.”

“Azar! Those are called spoilers.” I take a sip of tea. “Hey. Good chai.”

“I added star anise, how you like it.”

“It’s way too late for caffeine. But somehow chai is exactly what I need right now.” I settle against the couch.

My mother drank chai at night.

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