I shoot her a get real look. "After three years?"
"You didn't make much apprenticing."
"What do I spend on?"
"Uh, Daisy's birthday? Top-shelf bourbon? Friday and Saturday night?"
Those are fair points. They don't fit into my recent life, but my past… I have spent a lot of money on booze.
She holds up four fingers.
I shake my head.
Five fingers.
I nod.
"Not bad."
"Not bad. But not great either."
But, right now, I don't want to leave. I want to stay in the room across from hers. Close to the hum of her pop music, and the warmth of her smile, and the joy of her laugh.
I like her way too much.
It's going to be the end of me.
Chapter Seventeen
Luna
At home, Oliver builds furniture while I make lunch.
(Tragically, we compromised on buying frozen veggie meatballs. I mix them with a veggie curry. Which does a lot to enhance the bland flavor).
This is a riff off Divya's favorite recipe. One we've cooked together a million times.
It's strange, making it here, without her.
When I haven't talked to her in days.
Is she as hurt as I am?
Or is she conspiring with Allison? Was she lying to me all this time? Is she going to try to convince me to forgive her?
I don't know. So I don't reach out.
But if she is hurting…
She's losing her family and her marriage.
I swallow the thought as I finish, plate the food, call Oliver to lunch.
He steps into the hallway, stretching his arms over his head as he pulls on a shirt.
Fuck, the way the afternoon light hits him—
He's tall and broad and handsome. And those tattoos. The only insight into his head and his heart. And it's there. It's mine.
I shouldn't want that so badly.
But I do.
I really do.
"Water?" My tongue slides over my lips. God, he's so yummy. There's no better word. Just yummy.
He nods thanks. "It's hot today."
"Yeah." I move into the kitchen. Fill two glasses with ice and water. Bring them to the table.
"This looks good," he says.
"Does it?"
He chuckles as he steps off the stairs. Closes the distance between us. "Smells good."
"We'll see."
"Didn't you make it?"
"I have no faith." I motion to a particularly round veggie ball.
His laugh deepens. He shakes his head you're ridiculous. Pulls out his chair. Motions after you.
I sit.
He follows.
His eyes meet mine for a second, then they're on the food. He studies it carefully. Like it's a mock-up he's trying to memorize. "We had all this?"
"Yeah. I had to make a few substitutions. But it tastes good to me."
"What's the dish called?"
"Ikea is disturbing."
He laughs harder. "It's got a real ring to it." He pretends as if he's talking to a waiter. "I'll have the Ikea is Disturbing with naan please."
"You have naan?"
He shakes his head. "We could go to the place in Culver City—"
"We have rice."
"You prefer one or the other?"
"Rice. But I won't turn down extra carbs."
His lips curl into a half-smile. "It looks like veggie curry."
"More or less."
"Your mom taught you?"
I nod.
"She's a good cook."
"Hey!"
He laughs again. "You are too. Since you need the compliment." He picks up his fork. Stabs a veggie meatball.
"Rude."
"Uh-huh." He shakes his head you're ridiculous.
Maybe I am.
This is just strange. The day, the week, the month.
Everything since my parents sat me down and told me they were getting a divorce.
The familiarity of ginger and cardamom—
I need it.
Even with the strange veggie meatballs.
I pick up my fork. Taste a carrot. It's good—soft but not too soft, creamy, well-spiced.
Then half a ball.
It's actually… decent.
And it's mine. "We were supposed to go to India a few years ago. Most of our family is in London, but a few aunts and uncles live in Delhi. Only we canceled last minute."
"Who did?"
"Mom. I'm not sure which, actually. They presented a united front. I didn't think much of it at the time, but now…"
"You keep wondering," he says. "If that was the start of it."
"Yeah." I mix my curry and rice together until it's a big mess of brown, orange, green.
Oliver brings a spoonful to his mouth. Chews. Swallows. "This is good, Luna. Thanks."
"Sure, yeah."
His gaze shifts to the window. He stares at the quiet street outside for a moment, then he looks to me. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"Would you tell me if you weren't?"
Maybe. We're friends, but I’m not sure we're that kind of friend. "Would you tell me? If you weren't."
He doesn't make an excuse about how he can't, how it's different, how he's the big strong man who has to handle things on his own… but he doesn't agree either.
He just takes another bite.
Swallows another sip of water.
Changes the subject. "Is it weird? Not looking like your mom?"
"Sometimes." I stab another carrot. "When we're out, just me and Divya, sometimes people look at us funny, like they're not sure why we're together. Less so now that I'm older. But when I was a kid… I didn't really get it then. The way people would look at her like she didn't belong. Or like she was the help."