by Alisha Rai
She hadn’t confessed what had really caused her the most pain, though. He’d ignored her.
Rage and hurt swirled inside her. She’d loved him so, and she thought he’d loved her. But in the end, she’d been easy to ignore and delete.
She hugged the anger close to her. It was good and honest, and quite frankly, she’d rather be mad than think about how many hours she’d spent imagining his hands on her body when he’d been some anonymous hot person in her bar.
Nope, nuh-uh. She slammed that door shut. She could only hope he hadn’t realized she was flirting with him. That would be mortifying.
She glanced at her phone again. Her two minutes were over. There was nothing she wanted more than to pull the covers over her head like she had when she was a child dreading school, but she was an adult now, and had to be an adult.
It was the worst.
Reluctantly, she rolled out of bed and stripped her leggings and T-shirt off, dropping them into the laundry basket on her way to the bathroom. Crack of dawn wasn’t her specialty—especially after a sleepless night—but until she found someone as trustworthy and reliable as Chef Rick, who had been employed at Kane’s since its opening, she’d be making this early morning trek.
Her shower was brief and barely long enough to wash the sleepiness or her disquiet away. Paul had always intended to install a larger water heater in this home, but they’d always been short on time and energy, and she balked on spending the money on it now. There was enough hot water to fill Kareem’s bath at night. Good enough.
Her hands slowed as she ran the soap over her breasts. She looked critically at her body. Jackson had gotten jacked over the years. Like, muscles on top of muscles and then another layer of muscles. His arms might have their own zip code. She’d never been completely svelte, but having a child had only made her softer. She poked at her squishy belly and frowned.
What are you doing?
She shook her head and finished soaping up. That’s right. She’d already used her two minutes to think about Jackson, and this snap of insecurity was not like her. Her body was healthy and capable, and, as she’d discovered time and again, capable of giving and receiving pleasure. She was happy to have it, squish and all.
She barely paid attention to what clothes she put on. Her wardrobe had slowly evolved to clothes she could wash and wear and could be easily mixed and matched. It was more efficient, and she had tried to become as efficient as humanly possible. She wielded lists and journals and pens the way other people might wield swords.
If she had to organize her life down to the last minute, she’d do it. It was one of the many tools she used in her never-ending quest to prove to herself and the world that she was Sadia Ahmed, Official Non-Failure of a Person.
Once she was dressed, she opened the small box she kept on her vanity. This time, too, was scheduled in her morning routine. Inside the top lid was a picture of her and Paul from their senior prom. Paul was handsome and looked smug in that carelessly arrogant way he’d had. She was beaming in a silver sparkly dress. Kareem loved this picture, and she did too. They were madly in love and secure in their places in the world: her, the middle child of successful, doting physicians; him, the heir to a fortune and the future co-CEO of a national corporation.
Three years after this, they’d eloped. Still madly in love but their roles in the world turned upside down.
She caressed the only other object in the box: his and her wedding rings. She and Paul might not have had the picture-perfect marriage, but his death had left a hole in her life. She’d been told more than once by well-meaning people that she needed to grieve, and she smiled and nodded. They didn’t understand. She didn’t have uninterrupted time to grieve. Just minutes here or there. “I miss you. I’m doing my best,” she whispered. After a beat, she put the box down, snapping the lid shut.
She was putting on her socks when she heard a door open down the hall. She quickly grabbed the backpack that held her stuff for the day and her clothes for the night. If she was very lucky, she’d have time to run home after school so she could help Kareem with his homework and feed him a snack. In case she couldn’t, she needed to be able to transition into her bartending uniform, like Wonder Woman spinning into her crime-fighting outfit. Only the tired, single mom version of the superhero.
She jogged downstairs and raised an eyebrow to find Ayesha reading at the breakfast table and Jia popping a pod into her coffee maker. When she worked at the bar at night one of her younger sisters stayed at her house. Lately, since she’d been heading out to the café before Kareem even woke up, they’d also been coming by or staying in the morning, until he got on the bus.
They were lifesavers. “Hey,” she whispered. “Jia, when did you come over?” When she’d left last night, Ayesha had been the one ensconced on her couch, quietly studying and eating chips. Jia and Ayesha’s medical school wasn’t far from Sadia’s house, so they were the ones who usually slept over.
Ayesha closed her textbook, rolled her eyes and answered in a similarly quiet tone. “This one”—she pointed a finger at her twin sister—“killed her car battery. She just got here. Took a cab so I wouldn’t have to go get her.”
“I don’t understand why the trunk has a light inside it. It’s so easy to forget to close it.” Jia glanced up from the coffee maker. Her kohl-lined eyes widened. “Whoa, rough night?”
Sadia’s eyes narrowed on the twenty-four-year-old’s guileless, smooth face.
Ayesha blew out her breath. “You can’t say that. That’s rude.”
Jia blinked at them both. “But she normally doesn’t look like that. So it’s kind of a compliment, I thought.”
“Nope,” Sadia said. “Definitely rude.”
“It’s mostly the bags under your eyes,” Jia added helpfully.
Ayesha rose. “Jia, stop talking.”
Sadia rubbed her finger under her eye. “Had a bit of insomnia.”
“I can help you with that. I got my makeup kit with me.”
Sadia hesitated. Normally she’d demur, but then she thought about her flash of insecurity in the shower. A tiny boost in confidence might be in order. She glanced at her phone. “Can you do it in three minutes?”
Jia scoffed. Most med students probably didn’t look like fashion plates at five in the morning, but her little sister could have stepped off a magazine cover in her pretty, long blue-and-white dress and black faux-leather jacket. Her hijab matched her dress, two scarves wrapped to create a zigzag pattern over her scalp. “I can do a full face in two and a half.”
Sadia didn’t doubt that claim. In college Jia had started a blog with makeup and fashion tips, and it had grown into videos and podcasts. She dropped into a chair at the counter while Jia rummaged through her designer backpack.
Ayesha went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk, then grabbed the Raisin Bran Sadia kept in stock for her younger sisters. “So, listen,” Ayesha started. “We need the dirt on the Chandlers. Everyone at school has been asking us about it.”
Jia approached with a small makeup pouch. “And we have to say we didn’t know, even though our sister is related to them.” She dabbed a hefty amount of concealer under each of Sadia’s eyes, then carefully smoothed it into her skin.
“I’m not related to the Chandlers.” She closed her eyes when Jia pulled out her black eyeliner.
“You’re related to Livvy, and Livvy is apparently with Nicholas again, so it’s basically the same.” Ayesha clinked two bowls on the island.
“Don said—”
“Ugh, I hate that guy. He can’t even tell us apart yet.” Sadia didn’t have to open her eyes to feel Jia’s sneer. Though the twins were identical, they were perpetually baffled anyone could ever mistake them for each other. Ayesha was quiet and contained where Jia was brash and loud, Ayesha cautious where Jia was impulsive. Jia favored brightly colored clothes and vivid makeup while Ayesha tended to choose more neutral garments and rarely wore makeup or jewelry. Today, Ayesha wore a beige
sweater and dark jeans, a simple black scarf covering her hair.
“Anyway, Don said Nicholas closed the Chandler’s out on Main, put up a huge banner announcing he was in love with Livvy, and asked her to marry him with a Super Bowl ring he won in a poker game.”
Jia stepped away and Sadia blinked her eyes open, the eyeliner foreign on her usually naked lids. “Why a poker game? He’s a CEO, not a poker player.”
“Because all rich manly men play poker?” Jia guessed.
“And happen to possess Super Bowl rings?”
Jia shrugged. “I’m just passing the rumors on, I’m not saying they make sense.”
Sadia relented. “I can confirm the first of those two things is true.”
“But they did fly to a private island in the Caribbean, right?” Jia whisked a brush in powder.
“They’re off somewhere. I don’t know where.”
“Are they together then?” Ayesha asked.
“Guys, I don’t know. Tell Don and all your other friends you’re clueless. We’re not gossips, and we’re certainly not talking about Livvy behind her back.”
“Sadia—” Jia began in a cajoling tone.
Sadia shook her head firmly, forestalling her. “Nope. You’re right, Livvy’s my family. And your family, by extension.”
As she’d expected, that quieted both of her sisters. Family was everything.
Sadia softened her tone. “Are you done yet?” she asked Jia, hoping to distract her sister. “I don’t want anything heavy.”
Jia pursed her bright red lips at her. “I wouldn’t give you heavy makeup. You need something light, which won’t wear off during the day. A touch of eyeliner and some of my super long-wearing lipstick . . .” She rummaged through her backpack and pulled out a tube of mauve liquid lipstick. “Hold still.” She carefully lined and filled in Sadia’s lips, then stepped back. “Et voila.”
Sadia ducked her head and glanced at her reflection in the toaster. “Oh. Not bad.”
Ayesha grinned. “You’re the prettiest of all of us, MashAllah.”
It had been so long since she’d put any makeup on, Sadia wanted to steal another second to admire her face, but she was already over the three minutes Jia had promised her. “Pshaw. It’s Jia’s skills.”
Jia winked. “My skills are good, huh? But this time I had solid source material.”
“You are a pro.”
“I know. I should do this full-time.”
Sadia gave a distracted smile. “Ha, yeah. Okay, I have to go.” She came to her feet. “Kareem ate all his vegetables last night, so he gets a bag of chips in his lunch today.”
Ayesha’s lips twitched. “Seems like a good balance.”
Sadia checked her phone and shoved it in her pocket, mentally calculating this delay into her schedule. “Thanks, both of you. I swear, I’m going to hire someone any day now.” Mentally, she crossed her fingers. She had to find a chef soon. She simply couldn’t afford a nanny or daycare. Since Paul had died, between her four sisters, her parents, Aunt Maile, and Paul’s mother, Tani, she’d somehow managed to cover most every gap when she couldn’t be with her son, but this early morning business was a bit of a challenge.
“No problem. We’re up. I gotta do some reading anyway.” Jia replaced her makeup pouch in her bag and pulled out a textbook. All four of her sisters were conscientious to a fault when it came to homework. Not Sadia, for whom school had been a constant form of torture.
“Thanks. I’ll see you both tomorrow night?” Her family tried to get together once a week or so for dinner. With the five sisters and her parents’ own busy life, it wasn’t always easy.
Ayesha shoved one bowl toward her twin and dug into her cereal. “Yup. See you then.”
The road was empty for her drive to the café. She turned on public radio, her favorite. Kareem always whined when she put it on, so she took advantage of the times he wasn’t in the car.
She relaxed, listening to the segment on baseball players. She’d never cared much for sports, but she liked looking at baseball players. And their butts.
Her fingers twitched on the wheel, and she overcorrected, swerving back to the road. Maybe she should just not think about sex or butts or hands for the indefinite future. Her libido was clearly a problem lately.
She parked in her spot behind the café, then pulled her journal out of her bag. She liked to make a quick outline of her day, carrying over the tasks from the day before she hadn’t had a chance to get to.
She surveyed the list, then added one more item. Only think about Jackson for a cumulative one hour today. Do not email him or read your past emails to him. This was the first time Jackson had ever made her official to-do list. He’d traditionally been reserved for times she’d been playing hooky from her actual responsibilities.
At the very bottom, she wrote the words she wrote on every day’s to-do list. You can do this, and if you can’t do it today, you’ll do it tomorrow. You are not a failure.
She made sure no one in her family ever saw her journal. They wouldn’t be cruel about her affirmations, but self-care wasn’t a concept her parents were hugely familiar with.
Sadia was so focused on running through her mental to-do list it took her a moment after she entered the café to realize that the lights were on in the kitchen. Had she not shut them off the night before? That was weird, for her. She didn’t like to waste a dime more on electricity than she had to.
A pot clanged against metal and her eyes widened. The scent of cinnamon and carbs teased her nostrils. She readjusted her keys in her hands so the metal poked through her knuckles. She doubted many attackers crept into a closed café and cooked, but she’d watched enough television to know serial killers came in all shapes. She pushed open the door of the kitchen, ready to attack.
Then she stopped. Oh damn. This was arguably worse than a serial killer. A serial killer would just try to kill her. Jackson, she might kill.
Jackson had swapped out his long-sleeved shirt for a white T-shirt, which left his deliciously muscular forearms bare. A black tattoo peeked out from under his sleeve, thick, swirling geometric lines following the dips and curves of his biceps.
She tore her gaze away from that perfect golden flesh to stare at the stained apron wrapped around his narrow waist. “What the hell?” She wasn’t sure if her words were directed at her or him.
He cast her a quick, sidelong look out of those beautiful black eyes. “Hi, Sadia.” He went back to kneading a large lump of dough, like they’d said everything they needed to say to each other.
Not even. “Uh, what are you doing here?”
“Baking.” He nodded at the cooling racks, which held trays of croissants and muffins, golden and luscious, the scent making her mouth water. They were all things that had been on the Kane’s menu from before she’d been tapped to run the place, but they somehow looked better than anything that had ever graced their display cases.
You just think that because you didn’t have to make them.
“I can see that.” She put her keys away and stepped into the room fully, letting the door swing shut behind her. “The question is, why are you here, baking?” She was kind of proud of how rational and calm that question sounded, given that she’d thrown a cocktail in this man’s face a few hours ago.
Because she was calm and rational. She rarely lost her temper.
“You need help.”
She waited, but he just kept working the dough. She gritted her teeth, having forgotten this aspect of Jackson’s personality, his brevity with words. He’d never understood everyone couldn’t see into his brain. “No. I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I can assure you, I’m doing fine.”
He pounded his fist into the dough. “You’ve gotten bad reviews since Rick left. You’re coming in here at the crack of dawn and working shifts at a bar to supplement your income.” Another glance, and she straightened her shoulders defensively. “You’re clearly exhausted.”
Her
eyes narrowed. Well thank God Jia had dabbed some concealer on her, or he might have been really moved to pity at her haggard appearance. “I’m not exhausted.” Yes she was. “Wait, we have bad reviews?”
Paul wouldn’t have gotten bad reviews.
The richest people in this town had sided with the Chandlers following Robert Kane and Maria Chandler’s deaths and the C&O’s subsequent explosion, but Kane’s had catered to the average folk, and they’d been sympathetic—if curious—about the Kanes’ fall. Paul had been charming and magnetic. The café had never been a big moneymaker, but it had done okay. If Paul hadn’t passed away, the loans wouldn’t have been such a big deal.
She didn’t have Paul’s proprietor personality, and she definitely wasn’t a chef. No wonder their reviews sucked now.
Jackson turned the dough over. “A few. People can tell Rick is gone.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so discouraged.”
She automatically squared her shoulders. “I’m not discouraged.”
“I can help.”
“Are you a baker now?” Her question was serious, not sarcastic. She’d googled Jackson more than once over the years, but the top hits remained the C&O fire and his subsequent arrest. Jackson had been in culinary school when everything had gone down and his family was torn apart.
“I’m a chef. I can bake adequately.”
“Wait, really?”
He grunted.
That wasn’t any kind of answer. “Do you work at a restaurant somewhere?”
“I work in a lot of places.”
“Like a personal chef?”
He dipped his head. “I have gigs. Got one in about a month. I can help you until then.”
She took a deep breath, feeling the situation spinning out of control. Spinning out of control was not on today’s to-do list. She opened her mouth to firmly make it clear that she didn’t need him right now, but he had to go and distract her by bending and peering into the oven, his shirt riding up enough to reveal the base of his spine. She almost swallowed her tongue at the twin dimples there.
Whoa, had those always been there?