Page 99 of More For Me

He’s not kidding. Our waitress brings over tray after tray of some of the most delicious food I’ve ever had. I’ve eaten Indian food plenty of times, but I’ve never tasted a meal as good as this. Crispy samosas; tender, spiced chicken; chunks of cheese and vegetables in delicate sauces.

“I might die,” I say, then groan when Bodhi holds out a plate of spicy lentil fritters.

He grins when I grab two more. “But it will be so worth it,” he says.

Kaira checks on us a few times, and for all his talk about not being fluent, Bodhi speaks to her in Hindi each time. At the end of our meal, she stops by once more to bring chai. They speak again, the language seeming to slip effortlessly off Bodhi’s tongue. Once she’s gone, I put down my teaspoon and eye him.

“You know more than a few phrases.”

He just shrugs, again looking uncomfortable, which I don’t understand. “Do your parents speak Hindi at home? I’ve never heard them say more than a few words.”

“Not very often. My mom more than my dad.” He picks up his tea, watching the glass as he swirls the liquid. “My dad’s parents immigrated to England before he was born.” I knew this—his dad has a beautifully posh English accent, though he’s generally pretty taciturn whenever I’ve been around him.

“My dad’s family…they were very invested in being English,” he says. “They weren’t real big on keeping any of their traditions alive. They were all about assimilating.”

“Was your mom’s family like that?”

“Not at all. They were eager to come to America, eager to be Americans and raise their kids as Americans, but they still held onto their roots. My grandparents here lived in a heavily Indian neighborhood, were friends with other immigrants, stayed very involved in their temple. That’s how my mom grew up.”

He seems to be struggling somewhat and I wait for him to go on, because I know there’s more to this. “When my dad moved here and married my mom, he was pretty adamant about having a more Anglo-centric household. And being a doctor—a scientist—he was always ambivalent toward religion.”

“Your dad was a doctor?”

“He left his practice and went to work for a drug company after Ari died.”

Something twists in Bodhi’s face. “A lot changed, after that. Before, he was ambivalent about Hinduism but he didn’t openly criticize it. My mom wasn’t terribly devout, but she would go to temple with her family, observe holidays, things like that. He didn’t participate, but he didn’t try to stop her.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “After Ari died, they went in different directions. Mom wanted to lean on her family’s faith and Dad refused to hear any talk of religion in our house. And it wasn’t just religion—it was like anything that reminded her of India annoyed him. They used to fight about it all the time.”

I reach over to take his hand, hating the expression on his face. “That must have been hard for your mom,” I say carefully, not wanting to criticize his dad—even though this story makes him sound like a total asshole. “If she took comfort from her culture or her faith, I would imagine that would have been the worst time to have to step back from it.” I study his clenched jaw. “It was probably a loss for you, too.”

Anger flashes in Bodhi’s eyes but he’s quick to dampen it. “It didn’t affect me that much. I was too young to really notice.” He gives me a smile that looks more bitter than anything. “Honestly, I was glad to be raised more Anglo than my cousins,” he says, sounding anything but glad. “I mean, I was a kid, right? I just wanted to fit in.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, every second making my heart break just a little bit more. “Have you missed those things more as you’ve gotten older?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

His smile turns self-deprecating. “I took a few Hindi language classes and an Indian culture seminar in college,” he admits. “Isn’t that stupid? I could have just asked an aunt or uncle about anything I wanted to know.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid at all.” For all his talk about being happy as a kid to not be raised like his cousins, I would bet good money that he feels like he lost more than only a brother when Ari died.

“I’m really sorry, Bodhi.”

He looks up at me, eyes filled with so much pain my breath catches. But then he gives himself a little shake and that pain recedes, replaced with his usual Bodhi sparkle.

“I’m the one who’s sorry. We’re on a date and I’ve been sitting here talking about maudlin shit all night.”

“You don’t have to put on a show for me, you know? I want to know these things about you.”

But from the set of his jaw, I can tell that he’s done talking about this. He quickly changes the subject to a conversation he had with Cecelia about hitting up Six Flags soon to ride the new inverted coaster. I try to push back the disquieted feeling in my chest. If he wants to talk about happier things, I’m not going to stop him.

So we drink our chai and chat and when Kaira comes over to say goodbye, I try not to notice the way her eyes darken with sadness and how she hugs him just a little bit longer than I’d expect.

“Thank you so much for the most amazing dinner,” I tell her.

“You are welcome here anytime,” she says. “So long as you treat our Bodhi very well and don’t break his heart.”

“Auntie,” he snaps, and I laugh at the mortified expression on his face.

“I promise,” I tell her. Bodhi gives her an exasperated look as he leads me away, and I hear the cackle of her laughter behind our backs.

“Are we going to the house?” I ask once we’re outside. “I feel like I need to lay flat for a minute or my stomach might explode.”

He drops his arm over my shoulder, the way he has a million times before, but this time he pulls my body closer to his side and it most definitely doesn’t feel like a friendly gesture.

“You’re going to have to recover in the car, love,” he says, and my whole chest lights up at the endearment. He said that last night, too, when he was kissing me, and it affected me the same way. Bodhi usually calls me basic pet names—babe or hon or whatever—but love feels different. I like the sound of it on his lips. I like that he’s the one saying it. Like that he feels the need to call me something new, something he’s never called me in all our many days of friendship.

“Why?” I ask, trying not to let on that I’m basically swooning in the middle of the sidewalk. “Where are we going.”

He just grins at me. “You’ll see.”