Page 20 of Afterglow
She glances away and winces. “I probably shouldn’t.”
Yeah, she doesn’t wanna live with you, you loser.
“But you can.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. This is a really nice place.”
“And it’s paid off.” The statement comes off more arrogant than I would have liked. “How long were you thinking?”
Her eyes go wide. “Maybe…two months? Only until I take my exam.”
Two months? She can stay as long as she wants.
“Yeah, cool.”
“I won’t be able to pay rent now, or even a few months…but Iwillpay back when I can.”
“It’s fine. No worries.”
It’s notfine. I am a knotted ball of worries. I just invited Behraz Irani to live with me for two more months.
Oh, Fletcher. You’re a sucker for punishment.
It might kill me to be around her so much.
“That’s settled,” I finalize, pushing myself off the sofa after clapping my knees. “Let’s go get your things.”
I should be paying attention to the road. Instead, I’m watching Behraz across the cab of my truck chewing on the skin of her thumbnail and staring through the lazy rain rapping against the window. The directions lead us to a strip shopping center on the other side of town, in Kanata, not far from the Regents home arena, the CTC.
We park next to the curb. The storefront signage is hidden by a white banner, the name and business hours half-scratched from the glass door, visibly closed in comparison to the lit-up neighboring Halal Butchers. The rickety wheels in my brain turn. I assumed Behraz was of Indian ancestry, like Indi and Gabe. Maybe she’s Pakistani? Or Arab? I’m too unworldly to know for sure and asking her outright is surely a crime.
She keys open both locks with a heavy series of clicks and ushers me in behind her. “This is Gulabi Sweets,” she explains, flicking on the lights. “My brother’s bakery. Or rather, it is until July 1st. The lease is almost up.”
The air is stale, and the space is bare except for an askew glass cooler. There are some cobwebs settling in the corners of the rose-colored walls. Alternating black and white tiles pattern the floor.
“There used to be wicker tables and chairs throughout this area,” she points out. “And that display was always filled. Trays of nan katai, soan papdi, baglu, butter biscuits, eeda pak, mawa ni boi, popatjee…all sorts of sweet and savory staples for a Parsi bakery.”
The woman is saying words, but I have no idea what they mean. I’ll have to do a Google deep dive of what a Parsi bakeryis when we get home. I didn’t think I was that ignorant, but I definitely don’t know what Parsi means either.
“And the way it used to smell?” She inhales deeply and with content. “Parvez is areallygood baker. He went to pastry school at Le Cordon Bleu.”
Behraz walks to the back and pushes through a black swinging door, the kind that you see in movie restaurants. I follow her. We pass the empty kitchen and turn right. She twists the knob of a wooden door to reveal an office piled with boxes and trash bags.
“Ta da! It’s mostly junk from over the years, but…”
Every single box is overflowing. Not a single one has been taped shut. Most of the giant garbage bags are overstuffed to the point they can’t be cinched or tied. She only has a bike. My stomach churns thinking about how she hauled all of this on her own.
“How…how did you get it here?”
“It’s not that much.”
“It’s more stuff than you could fit in your bike basket.”
Her arms toss up in resignation. “Fine! You caught me. But you have to promise not to tell.”
