Chapter 16

Text exchange—Layli Khoury & Iseul Park, 11:58 P.M., New York

Iseul: can I ask you something

Layli: yes

Iseul: do you think Roman is actually going to let herself have it

Layli: …I think she dropped a pencil

Iseul: I keep coming back to the pencil

Layli: me too

Iseul: someone who carries fox spray and three knives doesn’t just drop things

Layli: no. she doesn’t.

Iseul: so

Layli: so I think she’s terrified. and I think Kaalia terrifies her more than anything else has. and I think those are related.

Iseul: that could go either way

Layli: I know. goodnight Iseul. Love u

Iseul: love you way more. goodnight. changing my bet again

Layli: I know. I’m changing mine too

***

I followed Roman to the house, wondering what had just happened. We mounted the porch steps. Priya stared at us, eyebrows raised high. 

“Monsoon storms are more dangerous than you think, foolish Americans.” 

Roman didn’t say anything. She only opened the door to the house and stepped inside. When she noticed I hadn’t moved, she said, “Kaalia, are you coming?” 

I didn’t look away from Priya. “Go on without me. I’ll come in five minutes.” 

“What? You want to—” 

“Go,” I repeated. “I have something I want to say to Priya.” 

Roman hesitated, searching my face. The look in my eyes must have convinced her because she eventually, slowly, closed the door. Alone with Priya on the porch, I sat down on her swinging chair. It was big enough to fit around three people. The swing creaked. The rain continued falling, relentlessly.

“What you said to Roman this morning wasn’t right.”

Priya turned to me. She was even more beautiful up close: brown skin, wrinkles soft as gently folded origami paper. Her eyes were big, dark, expressive. Silver, curly baby hairs floated at her temples.

“Do not tell me—” 

I cut her off swiftly. “What you said to Roman this morning,” I repeated, “was fucked up. You fucked up.”

“You would swear in front of an old lady? Disgraceful American.”

I switched from English to Tamil, certain she would understand me. Considering how well she spoke English, I had no doubt she knew South Asian languages far better. And I wanted her to feel the impact of my words in a non-colonial language. 

“There is likely nobody who knows more about Roman’s career than I do, besides Roman herself.” I hadn’t spent countless late hours obsessively tracking her career history for nothing. “Roman is doing her best in this awful, contradictory world. Do you know how much she pays me every hour?” I had done the calculations earlier. “Almost seven thousand rupees an hour. That’s how much she pays me and I just started working for her two months ago. You made her sound exploitative, or—or extractive. You were talking to the wrong woman. Roman is the best person I have ever met in my life. Nobody is like her. She changed my life. She changed the lives of all of us at Bloom. Yeah, the world is fucked up. But she’s doing something about it. As much as I agree with you, as much as she agrees with you, too, you had no fucking right to talk down to her like that. And before we leave tomorrow morning, you should apologize to her.” 

Priya didn’t say anything; she only stared at the heavily falling rain, which had blurred into what looked like a sheet of glass, a pearlescent curtain blocking us from the rest of the world. It was just us, alone, in this bubble of time and space. Had I made a mistake in guessing she could speak Tamil? 

After a minute, she glanced at me. Her eyes gleamed, as if wet.

“I haven’t apologized to someone in sixty-four years,” she answered in Tamil. “I won’t start now. Not for some gullible American who doesn’t understand how the world works.” 

“You are a dark-skinned woman yourself,” I said, my teeth chattering, not with fear but adrenaline. I needed her to understand. “You understand colourism. But you have no idea how bad it is in the West. For women like us, but especially for a dark-skinned Black woman like Roman. She deals with the worst of racism and colourism every single day and still she believes she can do something about it. That’s not fucking naive. She is doing something about it. She . . . she’s . . .” Perfect. Beautiful, in every sense of the word.  

Even if she doesn’t want to kiss me. Even if she thinks of me as just an employee. A colleague.

Panting and breathless, I found myself unable to finish the sentence. I waited for Priya’s response, but it never came; she only continued staring at the rain beyond the porch. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else to her. We swung there in silence. After what must have been nearly an hour, I stood, squeezed the leftover water out of my hair, and went inside without looking at her. Though, through my peripheral vision, I thought I might have seen the long rivulet of a tear sliding down her cheek. 

I found Roman in her makeshift bedroom space. She had peeled off her wet clothes and was now wrapped in a pink and green towel. Her braids were completely soaked; she had already showered.

We stared at each other for a moment. It seemed neither of us knew what to say. We had nearly kissed. It was undeniable. And then she had pulled away. Had she decided she didn’t want me after all? Had she thought of it as a mistake, a vulnerable but regrettable moment with a colleague? 

“What did you end up saying to Priya?” said Roman at last.

I shook my head. “Just . . . told her we were going to leave tomorrow.”

“It took you that long to say that? I did my whole hair routine in the shower.” 

I only shrugged. “Do you want to use my bathroom to dry your hair?” 

The other bathroom, I had learned, was a few hallways away. Roman had used it without complaint so far. It was Aadhya who told me I could share my bathroom with Roman, so it was easier for her, though she had winked several times, purred, and bit her lip while doing so. I wasn’t offering my bathroom to Roman in that way. She had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me romantically. I just wanted to be polite.

“I’m sure you have to shower. I don’t want to intrude.” 

“I’ll just close the curtain and you can dry your hair in the meantime. It’s easier with a mirror and I like long showers.” 

“Kaalia, I couldn’t possibly—” 

“You’ve travelled with other people, haven’t you?” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure there have been other situations like this.” She probably hadn’t kissed me because she thought of me as just a person from work. So there couldn’t be any harm in us using the bathroom at the same time.

“I’ll just use the other bathroom—”

“My bathroom is right there. I know you’re tired. Please. I feel bad for taking the bedroom anyway. It’ll be fastest.”

“Okay,” Roman said finally. “Fine.” 

We ended up in the bathroom five minutes later. Roman patiently waited, facing the door, as I undressed and stepped into the steaming water. There were two shower faucets: one positioned purposefully low, around collarbone level, and the other higher. I assumed one was for washing hair and body, and the other simply for body. This morning I had used only the former. I decided now I wanted both. After what had just happened, the relaxing pressure of hot water from two spouts would be heavenly. 

The water sprayed me all at once. I sighed, louder than I needed to. 

Through the shower curtain, I saw the hazy shadow of Roman’s silhouette move towards the counter. She had brought a few microfiber towels with her, meant for gently drying her braids. She would be right outside while I stood naked in the shower. Why had I offered this again? 

“Did you book our tickets home already?” I called. 

“No. Not yet. I will after my hair is dry.” 

I lathered my hands with shampoo and began scrubbing it deeply into my roots. My sighs became moans. 

“You tried so hard not to get your hair wet in the ocean. Why’d you make us run in the rain?” 

“I don’t know. Just . . . felt right.” 

Roman started playing what could only be Malayalam music from a speaker. I finished washing my hair and scrubbing myself to squeaky cleanliness. It felt nice to exist without thoughts. Just steam and water and soap.

“Can you pass me my towel?” I said, turning the shower off.

Wordlessly, Roman threw my towel above the shower curtain. I dried myself, then wrapped it around my body like a dress. But I wasn’t prepared for what I saw once I stepped outside of the shower. Roman had changed into an old T-shirt and shorts. Her long hair seemed nearly dry, though a few strands still dripped at the ends. Water had soaked her shirt, making it obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. I forcefully dragged my eyes to her face. Her skin glowed, smooth and bare. Without mascara and lashes, her eyes seemed bigger, liquid bright. She stared at me through the mirror with a slight smile. As beautiful as ever.

“What?”

“You were humming to the music,” she said. “During your shower. It was cute.”

I started applying products to my hair. A few drops of oil, some mousse, leave-in conditioner. 

“And if I had known the lyrics to the songs, I would have been singing them instead,” I said. “Is that a problem?” 

The threat fell flat. We both began laughing.

“I don’t sing in the shower,” Roman said. “I’m paranoid someone will hear. Even though I live alone. I’m terrible at it.” 

“I’m terrible at it, too. You have to embrace the terribleness. Just let it out, you know?” 

We worked our way through our hair routines. The bathroom suddenly became very small. Too small to fit both of us. Our elbows knocked into each other, our products tipping over like dominoes. I kept bumping into Roman’s back; she had turned around while I changed into the oversized pyjama shirt I had left on the counter. Laughter and teasing punctuated the lulls in the music. We were flirting as if Roman hadn’t deliberately pushed me away when we’d come close to kissing. I spotted one of the Kerastase elixirs I’d always wanted to try but couldn’t afford. My eyes met Roman’s in the mirror. Wordlessly, she passed it to me, fingers brushing against mine. Then she asked for my Camille Rose hair mousse. Her hands were full, so I pressed it into her chest. This exchange moved quickly, seamlessly, as naturally as if we had gotten ready together for years. We borrowed each other’s leave-ins and swapped diffuser handles. I wanted to try her pink one.

This had to be terrible for my health. Clearly, the moment of the near-kiss hadn’t meant as much to Roman; she had recovered quickly enough to be nonchalant, lighthearted. If I had been left to my own devices, I would have FaceTimed Akila, Khajee, and Louise and started crying trying to explain what had happened. But here I was pretending to be just as nonchalant.

“It’s safe now,” I said, forcing my voice to remain light. I had made her look at the wall again, realizing I had forgotten to put on pyjama shorts beneath my oversized tee. “You can turn around.”

Roman spun. But I must have dripped water onto the floor exiting the shower, or maybe one of our products had spilled, because the squeak of Roman’s bare foot sliding on the floor was followed by a crash as she fell. I reached for her hand. She yanked at my wrist. The only thing I could think of was that I didn’t want Roman to hit her head. So I cradled the back of her hair while we toppled. My hand slammed into the floor. Her head slammed into my palm. My face slammed into hers. Within an instant, I registered several sharp, simultaneous pains: my knees and elbows on the floor, my nose. But also many soft things: her breasts beneath mine, neither of us wearing bras; her bare stomach.

I pushed myself up on my elbows. Tears welling in my eyes from the pain in my nose. 

Roman scrunched her nose. Tears seemed to be welling in her eyes, too. “I’m so sorry I took you down with me,” she gasped. 

“I let you,” I admitted. “I didn’t want—I put my hand so you wouldn’t hit your head.” 

Roman blinked a few tears. A drop of blood slid out of her nose, pooling in the crease where her gold nose hoop met skin. “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.” 

Neither of us moved. 

“Roman.” Why didn’t you kiss me? “Roman.” The word left my lips, breathless, like gospel. I asked her that and more, silently, with her name only. Why did you push me away? Do you understand what I’m trying to say?

She seemed to understand. “Kaal. We can’t. I can’t.”

“Why?”

She shook her head; my fingers became even more hopelessly threaded within her hair. “Because I’m your boss. You work for me. And I’m—older than you. You know that.”

“I don’t care. Roman. I want—”

“No. I’m sorry. We just can’t.” 

Still, neither of us moved. A sudden, short knock burst on the wooden door. And then we heard Aadhya’s worried voice: 

“The door was open. I came in to tell you—but then I heard a crash—are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” I said, unable to tear my eyes away from Roman.

“I’m okay, too,” Roman said, gazing at me.

“Well, I came in anyway—I wanted to tell you—Dadi—Priya changed her mind.”

“What?” Roman yelped.

“She wants you to stay!” Aadhya shrieked. I could feel the vibrations of her jumping up and down through the floor in my palms. “Please cancel your flights! Oh, I am so happy you two are staying. That is all. Goodnight!” 

Roman’s giddy laughter wisped against my face. I slowly got up, then lent Roman a hand to help her stand. Braced against me, she squeezed my shoulders. “We’re staying?” she asked.

“We’re staying,” I confirmed.

Roman clapped her hands over her mouth. Possibly from a mix of both her nosebleed and her excitement, she began crying.

“Kaalia, whatever you must have said to her—” 

“It wasn’t me.” I swore at her and threatened her to apologize to you. Then invaded her alone-time for an hour. In complete silence. It had to be something else. “I don’t know. Maybe she grew to care for our well-being while we were out in the storm?”

“Whatever it is you did. I don’t care. Thank you.” Roman threw her arms around me. We had gone back to being boss-and-employee. Colleague-and-colleague. This was celebration in the way CEO-and-assistant-editor celebrated: friendly but professional. A mid-back hug, a hand’s worth of space between faces, and a quick pull-away. “You are the best assistant editor I could have hired.”

Assistant editor. The words struck me like she had pried open my chest and squeezed my heart, again. Assistant editor. She grabbed her towels and ran out of the room, yelling something about updates for HR and emails she needed to send to Cambridge.

I knelt and picked up my towel, staring at the space where she had vanished. I was half in love with Roman—maybe even more so after today. If we were going to spend weeks here together after all, I didn’t think I’d be able to survive falling completely in love with her.

***

Thoughts?

Love,
Meera