“What about your business? Your friends, your life, it’s all in Atlanta,” Sameera said.
Tom shook his head. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but none of that matters to him, not the way a serious relationship does. It’s complicated, and I know I’m asking a lot of you, but I don’t think I have it in me to have that conversation with them. At least, not right now. Please, Sameera?”
She wanted to refuse. To tell Tom that he was being a coward and that he needed to have the hard conversation with his father, instead of reaching for the easy lie. But wouldn’t she be a hypocrite? She couldn’t talk to her parents, either. So she just nodded. There was no way he could make the Kashmiri chai anyway.
Tom set up the camera, and they started filming. He gathered the ingredients for the three types of chai—whole milk, cream, condensed milk, black tea, green tea, nuts, and baking soda—while she explained the techniques for the three different tea varieties, how they differed, and the unique properties of each tea. She even shared anecdotes about the role chai played in her life. Once they started brewing, they bantered and joked for the camera, and it all felt so easy, their chemistry palpable. If anything, their connection had grown stronger over the past few days, a result of all the time they had spent together.
It was all so fun and such a good distraction that when Tom’s careful brewing and steady hand managed to coax the first telltale pink bloom in the Kashmiri chai, even Sameera cheered.
Afterward, as comments and heart emojis piled up on his feed, and they sampled the trio of chai and joked about not being able to sleep that night from all the caffeine, Tom slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close in a friendly hug. Sameera had to school her features to make sure she didn’t melt into a warm puddle.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot and sweet against her skin.
“Anytime,” she said. “This was good for me, too.” She felt calmer, somehow, after brewing the chai and spending time with Tom. He had that effect on her, she realized.
She started to tidy up the countertop. Only an hour had passed, but it felt like no time at all, and as she worked, whatever spell they had woven while they cooked together—though Tom would never refer to making tea as “cooking,” she recalled with a smile—broke, and all her worries rushed back: her work, her parents, Esa, Nadiya. Tom.
“I hope my parents aren’t terrorizing Rob and Barb,” Sameera said.
“They just got back. I heard the truck in the driveway a few minutes ago. I can finish cleaning up here, if you wanted to check on them.”
She didn’t, actually, but she probably should. Tom stopped her with a hand on her arm. His casual touches were becoming more frequent, but the electrical jolts didn’t seem to be going away. Maybe it was the Alaskan chill.
“I mean it, Sameera. Thank you for agreeing to go along with our ruse”—he quirked a brow—“in front of Rob and Barb. I’ll make you my three favorite meals anyway. I’m grateful.”
“I lost the bet,” Sameera said. “Though I still think you cheated. Admit it, you’ve got a bottle of red food coloring in your pocket.”
“You’re welcome to give me a pat-down, beautiful,” he drawled, throwing his hands wide.
Sameera laughed and, after pulling on her boots and jacket, went to face her parents.
To no one’s surprise, her mother had taken full command of the kitchen. The counter was lined with shopping bags full of groceries, and Tahsin was rooting inside the Cookes’ large fridge while Naveed, Rob, and Barb watched.
“Where do you keep the ghee?” Tahsin asked, her voice muffled by the heavy fridge door.
“Do you mean butter?” Rob asked, googling the term on his phone.
“Certainly not,” Tahsin said, affronted.
“I think I have some from when I tried to cook an Indian curry last year,” Barb said, peering in the pantry. Naveed noticed Sameera hovering by the doorway and beckoned for her to join him at the kitchen table. Swallowing her resentment and embarrassment, she entered the kitchen and took a seat beside him. Her father was always the peacemaker, the first one who wanted to make up and sweep any unpleasantness under the rug. It used to annoy her, but right now, she appreciated his willingness to make space for her without admonishment. They had to keep up appearances, at least for the Cookes. It wouldn’t be fair to drag Tom’s family into their issues, especially not when Tahsin had sprung a last-minute dinner party on them all.
Naveed set up the Cookes’ coffee grinder alongside packages of whole spices—cardamom, cumin, cloves, cinnamon, coriander, and fennel seeds—which Sameera knew he would use to prepare a fresh garam masala spice mix used in almost every dish. Sameera clocked Barb’s wince as he started grinding and made a note to send her a brand-new coffee grinder once this was over.
“It looks like you have everything under control,” Sameera said.
Tahsin, finished plundering the refrigerator, pierced her with a look.
“You can start chopping onions since you’re here,” her mother said gruffly. It was more of an order than an acknowledgment or apology, but at least Tahsin wasn’t ignoring her. Wordlessly, Sameera moved to the ten-pound bag of onions on the counter and started sorting.
“I know inviting people over for dinner is a huge imposition,” Sameera said, not looking at her mother, but Rob waved her protests away.
“Nonsense. I like Abu Isra. Makes the best hummus in the state. Should have had him and his family over for dinner years ago. The more the merrier, especially at this time of year.” In that moment, Sameeracould see Tom in his father: the same generous spirit and can-do attitude that made his son so much fun to be around, at least when he was acting like himself in Atlanta.
To Sameera’s pleasant surprise, it didn’t take long for both the Cookes and the Maliks to relax and let their guard down. They were soon laughing over potent spices, and then Rob offered to make a batch of his latest eggnog flavor, green tea and licorice—minus the alcohol, of course.
“I started the yearly eggnog experiment because of Tom,” Rob explained after his second cup. Sameera suspected he had spiked his own drink. “He loved to mix up ingredients and experiment. I thought he was going to become a scientist when he got older.” The older man seemed wistful. “We would make a batch and have his mother try it. She pretended to like all the flavors, of course, and Tom was so pleased.”
“He still likes to experiment,” Sameera said. “When my mom showed him how to make samosas, he made a whole batch with different fillings, each inspired by different cuisines, from Hakka to vegetarian options.”
