“One more word out of you,” I seethe, standing tall to make myself seem more menacing than I feel, “and I’ll be calling Rohan. You remember meeting him, don’t you?”
My threat works when he scoffs and stalks off, leaving me with shaking hands and an intense need to empty my stomach somewhere, just to rid myself of the acid he’s stirred within me. Tears blur the edge of my vision as I turn toward Irsia. She looks broken.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t believe he spoke about Samar that way.”
Guilt gnaws at me, the swirling discomfort in my belly rising yet again. Even if I’m not the one who said those words, Namik spewed poison because Irsia tried to defend me. My dismay transforms into surprise when her gaze sharpens, her expression twisting in fury.
“Don’t you dare apologize for that swine. If you want to do something for me, move on and live the best life you possibly can. He’s a gutter rat and it would give me utmost pleasure to see him choking from jealousy because you’re euphorically happy without his toxic presence.”
Maybe it is her fierce support of me that does it, or the remnant frustration from meeting Namik, but I blurt out, “I need your help.”
Confusion colors her face at the abrupt change in topic.
“With what?” she asks, her tone laced with caution. I motion for her to sit again, sliding into my seat. A few of the customers throw us annoyed looks. I don’t want to give them a show when Irsia inevitably freaks out.
“I need to go.”
“Go where?”
“Out of the city.” I pause, waving one hand in the air as I desperately search for a way to put this nicely. “I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“For. . .” I flounder, eventually making a circle with the forefinger and thumb of my left hand. I raise my right pointer and poke it through the finger loop, thrusting in and out in a move that isself-explanatory. If my actions aren’t awkward enough, I know my sheepish expression makes it clear I’m not kidding.
She blinks once. Twice. Thrice.
I drop my hands and hold my breath as understanding floods her features. Her nostrils flare, her own throat working hard to swallow what, I’m sure, are questions I really don’t want to answer. Don’t knowhowto answer.
“Will you be disappointed if I tell you it’s for a hook-up?” I mumble, needing to break the silence that is stretching past my tolerance.
My heart clenches as my gut burns uncomfortably. I don’t want Irsia to think this is a silly idea. Or be worried for me. Or believe I’m a fool for thinking sexual liberation will somehow help me liberate myself in other ways as well.
She reaches over to pick up her glass of water and downs it in one go, slamming the cup back down decisively. “A few years ago,” she says, watching me with a curious look I can’t decipher, “I would’ve told you to rethink this. I would’ve said that this doesn’t sound like you.”
“But now?” I prod, holding my breath.
“But now, I’ve seen that life is too short to live with regrets. If a casual hook-up is what you need to feel like you’re happy, to find some control in all the shit life has thrown your way, then that’s that. It’s nobody’s business except your own what you do with your body, Aloo. But, using protection and being certain you can trust your partner to treat you right in the intimacy of your bedroom—those are the only two things I will insist on. I worry for you, but I will not stop or judge you for however you choose to move on.”
“I’ll be safe,” I promise, relief flooding me.
“And the person you are considering hooking up with is—?”
“One of the nicest men I’ve ever known.” Until Callum is okay with me revealing this information, I will respect his privacy. “He’s kind, respectful, and he’s my friend.”
Irsia nods and picks up her phone, scrolling through it quickly. She sits back and hums, like she’s pondering something.
“I assume you’ll be heading to Vegas?” she asks with a single raised brow. “Their game is in a couple hours. You’ll miss it, but you can meet him after. As for the flight and hotel, I know someone who can help.”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just watches me in that way mothers sometimes do. It’s a powerful trick—one I hope to learn someday—that pulls the truth from my unwilling lips.
“I guess I’m going to Vegas.”To see Cal.I don’t even have to say it. I know she knows.
“Yeah, you are!” she exclaims, slamming one palm atop the table for emphasis, startling me with her enthusiasm. She raises her hand and waves our waitress over, asking for the check. Tossing a couple bills to cover the cost of our meal plus tip, she pulls me away from our table and marches with one-pointed attention toward her parked car.
“No dessert?” I’m shocked. Usually, Irsia and dessert go together like peanut butter and jelly, like jalebi and rabri, like open-toed sandals and cherry red nail polish.
“Revenge is the best dessert,” she announces with a smirk I haven’t seen on her in a very long time. “We’re going shopping, little cuz. Put on your seatbelt,” she commands, snapping her fingers at me to hurry up.