by Farah Heron
But Reena was trying very hard not to be as judgmental as her parents. Time to change the subject again. “What’s that?” She pointed to a glossy black bag on the sideboard.
“Oh, it’s for you.” Mum reached behind her to get the bag and handed it to Reena. “I was in Zipporah yesterday and they had these lovely rollerball perfumes. I bought you a langi langi one.” She handed the bag to Reena.
“Sephora, I’m assuming.” Reena took it and peeked at the small glass bottle in it. It was ylang-ylang essential oil fragrance. Langi langi was the name used for ylang-ylang flowers in Dar es Salaam, and Mum knew Reena had always loved the scent. It was a generous gesture…but Reena had to wonder…
“You know in the summertime all of Dar es Salaam smells like langi langi. There is even a big tree in the courtyard of the Jamatkhana in town. I’m sure the smell will remind Nadim of home.”
There it was. The gift was to lure the man in with a siren scent. Reena opened the bottle. It did smell amazing. She’d been to the Dar es Salaam Jamatkhana, the Ismaili Muslim place of worship, and the entire courtyard was filled with huge trees with fragrant blooms. This scent totally reminded her of the warm tropical breezes there. She sighed, closing it and putting it in her bag. “Thanks, Mum.”
“Now tell me, Reena,” Dad said, “is there any more news about your company hiring a director of finance? It’s high time you took a management role. If not at Railside, I am sure we can find a company with more growth opportunities.”
Reena finished chewing her channa before answering. “I’ll definitely inquire, Dad, but I have no interest in leaving Railside right now. I love it there,” she said, an enthusiastic smile plastered to her face. It was a lie. She hated her job. In fact, she hated working in finance altogether. But if Dad knew that, she’d once again get grief for insisting on this line of work instead of working in the family business. She wanted that like she wanted to lick a metal pole in January.
Reena had enough of a life outside of work that she didn’t care that she didn’t find her work fulfilling. But Dad would never ask her about that life—in his eyes, only work mattered. Not hobbies. Not bread. She couldn’t let on she’d been seriously thinking of enrolling in a night school program in artisan bread baking, hoping it would temper the monotony of the day job. That conversation would be weird—hey, Mum and Dad, my finance job is sucking out my soul every day, so I’m draining my savings to take an insanely expensive class to learn to make better baguettes and a really good pain de campagne.
“Well, I’d hate to hear that your career is stagnated,” Dad said. “You know, at your age I had—”
“Saira has news,” Mum interrupted as she passed the dish of channa to Reena to refill her plate.
Saira smiled. “Mum, I wasn’t going to tell Reena yet! It’s still not confirmed.”
Reena prepared herself to hear Saira’s fabulous news. It would be fabulous—in the Manji house bad news came whispered in hushed voices in darkened rooms, not told at the brunch table. If told at all. Maryam Aunty had been admitted to hospice before anyone told Reena she had cancer.
Straightening her spine, Reena took the bait. “What’s going on, Saira?”
Saira’s brows shot up as her smile widened. “Remember Janice? From high school? She works PR for publishers, now. She saw my posts on the Nourish blog and thought I should write a cookbook. She’s helping me with a book proposal!”
Reena blinked. Her sister was aiming to get published? A cookbook?
“Clean living is so big now, and Janice thinks I can sell my Indian take on it.”
Reena took another puri and squeezed the whole flatbread in her mouth at once, cheeks expanding like a hamster eating a burrito.
“Careful, Reena,” Saira said. “That’s how many puri now? You don’t need all that refined wheat.”
Sage advice from her sister. The puri was now a gummy, doughy ball in her mouth. She took a long gulp of lukewarm chai to wash down the bread before speaking. “That’s great, Saira. Good luck.”
“Yeah, isn’t it amazing! My therapist thinks it will be healing for me.”
Reena drained her chai, wishing for whiskey in it. Healing. That was why she couldn’t be angry at Saira. Saira needed this more than Reena did. And technically, no one in the family knew it was Reena’s almost lifelong fantasy to write her own cookbook. And they didn’t know just how close she’d come. That a small independent publisher had approached her and asked her to pitch a project when her cooking blog was still going strong. But the book deal fell through thanks, in part, to Saira. Reena wasn’t over her dream crashing and burning, and having the very person who lit the match now rub it in her face felt a bit much.
She ate another puri, chewing until the gummy mass almost choked her.
“Reena, you should be proud of your sister. Look how well her life has turned around,” Mum said.
After hitting some serious rock bottom, Reena was glad Saira had a job at Nourish, her favorite health food store. Was glad her depression was being managed with professional help. Even glad Saira had a new relationship. But being glad about her sister writing a cookbook? She tried to be a good person, but Reena wasn’t Mother Teresa.
“Reena, did you hear Khizar is being considered for junior partner in his firm?” Dad asked. No surprise he changed the subject—a cookbook project couldn’t come close to the prestige of his eldest child being promoted in one of the capital’s biggest accounting firms.
And that’s when Reena decided she had done her filial duty for the week. Time to get the hell out of this house. She had already heard about Khizar’s likely promotion—he’d texted her about it before he’d even told their parents. But any conversation with Mum and Dad about her brother’s success would very quickly delve into the type of firstborn hero worship that usually left Saira in tears and Reena wondering if a thirty-one-year-old could emancipate from her parents. True, Khizar always outshined his younger sisters, with a great job, a loving wife, and not one, but two babies on the way (trust Khizar to take overachievement way too far). But Khizar also had the distinction of being the nicest of the three of them. Reena tried to avoid the sibling rivalry her parents seemed to want to instill, lest she start to resent the only member of her family she really trusted. She knew her limits—she already felt mighty small because of Saira’s cookbook news. Khizar’s absolute winning at adulting might be a bit too much to pile on top of that heap of self-loathing.
Reena mopped up the final puddle of channa on her plate with the last bit of her puri. “I didn’t notice the time.” She took her plate to the kitchen, rinsed it, and placed it in the dishwasher. “I have to feed…Brian.” Crap. That was a terrible excuse.
“Brian? You got a dog?” Saira asked.
Mum snapped her head toward the kitchen. “Keeping dogs is haram in Islam. You can’t have a dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.” Reena sighed. “Brian is a sourdough starter. A rye bread one. Get it? Bri the rye?”
Mum’s nose wrinkled. Reena needed to get out of this house before Dad and Saira joined in voicing their displeasure about Reena’s obsession with bread.
Saira’s face puckered in the exact expression Mum had just sported. Uncanny, really. “I guess rye flour is better than all that refined wheat, but maybe you’re taking this little hobby too far?”
“Noted, Saira. Thanks for brunch, Mum and Dad. See ya later.” Reena rushed out before someone else could drag her through the mud. And she really did need to feed Brian.
CHAPTER THREE
Twenty minutes later Reena stood in her kitchen, thinking about how to save poor Brian. She lifted the jar and held it up to the midday sun. Some minuscule bubbles dotted his grayish surface, but those were probably just regular bacteria fermentation—not yeast development. Sue, her other starter, tripled last night, with large airy bubbles and a pleasant acidic smell when Reena lifted it to her nose. Sue always behaved. Brian had always been tricky. Her first rye starter, he preferred spring water
instead of filtered. Organic rye flour instead of regular bulk-store stuff. And even then, like this morning, sometimes he still refused to do what Reena expected of him. She wasn’t going to give up on him yet, though—she’d try increasing his feedings before taking drastic efforts.
After carefully weighing equal amounts of rye flour and spring water, she stirred them into the jar. As she fastened a rubber band around it, her phone rang and the screen lit up with the knowing scowl of her best friend holding a blackberry-lavender cupcake. Reena had snapped the picture months ago, when Amira had been ranting about sexism in cupcake shops. Her expression had been so quintessentially Amira that Reena wanted to preserve it for eternity.
“Meer,” Reena said instead of hello, “remind me again why distancing myself from my toxic family means still going to family brunch?”
“You’re supposed to distance yourself emotionally, Ree. We’re Indian, it’s impossible to distance physically. What’d they do this time?”
“The usual. Dad found me yet another husband prospect. I left as they started their ode: Khizar the Perfect and His Auspicious Promotion.”
“Khizar’s not really perfect, you know. Remember the time he tried to make a salad and burned the lettuce?”
Reena snorted. She’d forgotten that one. Smiling, she closed the jar of sourdough.
Amira had been Reena’s best friend since grade two, and their friendship lasted through tween drama and high school fights over cute boys and loaned makeup. Amira had left town a few times over the years, twice for university, and again about two months ago for a job and to live with her boyfriend, and Reena had not forgiven her friend for abandoning her yet again. They still spoke daily, though, and probably always would.
“How was Saira?” Amira asked.
Reena sighed. “She’s pitching a cookbook to publishers.”
“She’s not.”
“She is. A clean-eating cookbook.” Reena cringed as she placed Brian on his perch on the windowsill.
“The woman who wrote a manifesto against gluttony in food blogs that directly attacked her own sister’s livelihood shouldn’t get to make money writing recipes.”
Reena didn’t want to get into this again with Amira—who would no doubt use it as proof that it was time for Reena to revive her old blog. Uncharacteristically, though, Amira did what Reena usually did—she changed the subject. “Who’d your dad try to set you up with this time?”
“Actually, this is pretty funny. He’s my new neighbor.” Reena told her friend about the brown Captain America (Captain Tanzania?).
“So, your dad moves a buff Tanzanian guy with a British accent and a love of bread next door, and this is a problem for you?” She paused. “Your parents would never force you to marry this guy, would they?”
“No. Not force, but yes, strongly encourage. And then I’d never hear the end of it from them. Mum still claims she found Nafissa for Khizar, remember?”
“Yes, and Khizar and Nafissa have a beautiful love that transcends time and space! Why wouldn’t you want that?”
Reena rolled her eyes as she put away the rye flour. Her previously cynical friend had gone all rainbows and butterflies since she fell in love with a small-town lumberjack-type musician.
“I don’t want what Khizar and Nafissa have,” Reena said. “They had to leave town to get away from the gloating and intrusion from Mum and Dad. I know my parents will intrude no matter who I’m with, but I’d like to minimize their role in my relationships.” Reena shuddered. “They’ve been looking for a suitable match for me for years. Clearly, they have no faith I’m capable of finding someone on my own. Believe me, it’s for their best interests, not mine.”
“What’s a suitable match? Someone in your tax bracket?”
“No. Someone in theirs.”
“Okay maybe giving in to your parents’ matchmaking isn’t the best idea, but I do think it’s time you got back on the dating horse. In fact, that’s why I called. Duncan and I have decided to have a housewarming party two Saturdays from now. It will be full of sexy male musicians.”
Reena groaned. Not her best friend, too? Why the hell did everyone insist on throwing men her way lately? Amira knew Reena was on a dating break.
Reena’s twelve ex-boyfriends and countless hookups and casual dates were not a source of shame for her. But her sister’s engagement implosion had felt like a wake-up call.
In the last three months, Reena had been there to watch several friends fall stupidly in love with men who were so perfect for them that bluebirds practically followed the happy couples wherever they went. One friend was even proposed to by his boyfriend in a tearful serenade in front of an audience of hundreds. Reena wanted that. All of that. Not necessarily the huge, singing spectacle or to be followed by woodland creatures, but she wanted the certainty that their feelings were real. And real feelings could not start with meddling parents, or friends, for that matter.
Unwanted man-buffet aside, a weekend with her best friend did sound lovely. “Can I come early?”
“Yeah, come Friday. You can help cook.”
Reena finished the call with a smile. She loved having something to look forward to, and a weekend in the country sounded perfect. The fact that she could use it as a reason to skip Sunday brunch also helped. She’d play her deflect-and-distract game with any matchmaking attempts, and just engage in a bit of light flirting and admiring of Duncan’s friends. Because although she knew her Amira meant well, Reena felt positive she was not ready to ride any horses anytime soon.
* * *
Reena’s heavy limbs and pounding head slowed her as she walked up to her building Monday evening. It had been yet another brutal day at the office. All day, just numbers. Reports. Spreadsheets. Sales data. Numbers, Numbers, Numbers.
Letting herself into the building, she noticed her friend Shayne on the stairs heading to the second floor. A Black man with the most enviable sense of style of all Reena’s friends, he was wearing a stunning purple brocade vest with ripped jeans and a T-shirt today. An outfit only Shayne could pull off.
“Reena! Haven’t seen you in a bit.” He stepped back down and hugged her. “Come catch up at Marley’s. I picked up this amazing barrel-aged saison beer and triple crème Brie. We’re celebrating.” Marley, aka Mahreen, was Reena’s cousin, and Shayne was Marley’s best friend. Marley lived in one of the top-floor units, and Shayne officially lived in a nearby basement apartment with roommates, but he preferred Marley’s couch most nights.
Reena smiled. “What are we celebrating?”
He raised one manicured eyebrow. “That Monday is over? I don’t even know. Today felt like a day and a half, and I need a drink. Plus, it’s always a good time for cheese.”
Good point. “Let me change and I’ll come up. I have some bread and plums I can contribute.”
Ten minutes later, Reena was curled up on Marley’s oversize white couch with a glass of craft beer in one hand and a slice of her own sourdough topped with Brie, thinly sliced golden plums, and a light drizzle of honey in the other. Heaven. Like Shayne, she needed this drink.
“Reena, who is the new haircut on your floor?” Marley asked from her perch on a massive round armchair.
“Nadim. He’s working for my dad.”
Marley sipped her beer. Reena had spent most of her life intimidated by the beautiful cousin with the Victoria Beckham smile. Tall, with large brown eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and thick, long, straight brown hair, she looked polar opposite to Reena’s short-and-cute vibe. Marley worked in the fashion industry, selling high-end designer clothes to desperate city-wives, and she’d mastered aspirational flawlessness. But Reena had learned that beneath Marley’s cool perfection lay a sweet shyness with people she didn’t know too well.
Shayne also worked in the fashion industry—as a part-time menswear sales associate, while he built up his portfolio as a fashion photographer. He had been a huge help to Reena with her blog and taught her how to capture and edit the pictures t
hat took it to the next level.
“Shayne’s been stalking the guy since he first heard him speak. He has a thing for accents,” Marley said, narrowing her eyes at Shayne.
Shayne nodded. “He’s quite striking. Very intense eyes. And that voice…I wonder if he’d let me take his picture. Do you know if he’s into men?”
Reena curled her legs under her. “Shayne, did you invite me up here to get me to dish up on the new neighbor?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “But I brought beer and cheese, so I know you’re fine with it.”
Reena laughed. Her friends knew her well. She took another slice of bread and topped it with the cheese and plums. “I don’t know if Nadim is into men. I hope he’s not only into men. It would be a bit of an issue, since he’s supposed to marry me.”
“What?” Marley said, laughing.
“Yep. My father and his father are hoping we’ll marry and combine the families and business interests. I’m assuming my hand in marriage was a bargaining chip in their deal.”
“Jesus, Reena!” Shayne said, his expressive eyebrows reaching unparalleled heights. “An arranged marriage!”
“No,” Reena said. “A facilitated marriage. They won’t force me to marry him, but they will lean on me heavily. Mum may have already bought a mother-of-the-bride sari.”
“Still, though…” Shayne shook his head. “But it could be worse. Maybe you should take one for the team? Can you imagine that voice in the bedroom?”
Reena rolled her eyes. “I’m not marrying anyone my parents choose, no matter how sexy his accent. They’re already way too involved in my life as is! I’d very much like to pick my own husband. Plus, the man’s a mystery! He’s not even from England, but only went to university there. I think he’s a player. All flirty and charming—”
“You have an issue with him flirting with the woman he is supposed to marry?” Marley asked.
“Yes, because he didn’t know who I was then. He practically cheated on me. With me!”