Page 9 of Afterglow (Ottawa Regents #3)
You Have to Promise Not to Tell
Fletcher
Behraz Irani simultaneously and equally makes me nervous and at ease.
I’m genuinely surprised at how effortless it is to talk to her. There’s still a pitter-patter in my belly, but at least I can be somewhat normal, comfortable enough to share a little.
I don’t tell her about how Dad drinks. How out of control his gambling is.
How the rest of my family can’t cover my parents financially because they’re barely getting by on their own.
Or how I put Greer, Miller, Harper, and Hunter through university, though I couldn’t go myself.
And I’m too upset while piecing together her puzzle of woes to talk about why Parker and I fight.
Kicked out of her sublease. No money. No place to live. Living out of her suitcase.
I know I have no right to be, but I’m seething.
Not at Behraz, but at the situation. How unfair, how heartless the universe is to throw such an unselfish, generous soul— someone who’s clearly struggling and still gives a crap about someone she barely knows —basically out onto the street. And along with everything else?
I remember when Harper was diagnosed with ADHD after uni and how she struggled to manage it. She had a whole support system through work. All the siblings came through, even Park. Behraz doesn’t even have family in the country. She must be terrified.
“You can stay here,” I offer.
She glances away and winces. “I probably shouldn’t.”
Yeah, she doesn’t wanna live with you, you loser.
“But you can.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. This is a really nice place.”
“And it’s paid off.” The statement comes off more arrogant than I would have liked. “How long were you thinking?”
Her eyes go wide. “Maybe…two months? Only until I take my exam.”
Two months? She can stay as long as she wants.
“Yeah, cool.”
“I won’t be able to pay rent now, or even a few months…but I will pay back when I can.”
“It’s fine. No worries.”
It’s not fine . I am a knotted ball of worries. I just invited Behraz Irani to live with me for two more months.
Oh, Fletcher. You’re a sucker for punishment.
It might kill me to be around her so much.
“That’s settled,” I finalize, pushing myself off the sofa after clapping my knees. “Let’s go get your things.”
I should be paying attention to the road.
Instead, I’m watching Behraz across the cab of my truck chewing on the skin of her thumbnail and staring through the lazy rain rapping against the window.
The directions lead us to a strip shopping center on the other side of town, in Kanata, not far from the Regents home arena, the CTC.
We park next to the curb. The storefront signage is hidden by a white banner, the name and business hours half-scratched from the glass door, visibly closed in comparison to the lit-up neighboring Halal Butchers.
The rickety wheels in my brain turn. I assumed Behraz was of Indian ancestry, like Indi and Gabe.
Maybe she’s Pakistani? Or Arab? I’m too unworldly to know for sure and asking her outright is surely a crime.
She keys open both locks with a heavy series of clicks and ushers me in behind her. “This is Gulabi Sweets,” she explains, flicking on the lights. “My brother’s bakery. Or rather, it is until July 1st. The lease is almost up.”
The air is stale, and the space is bare except for an askew glass cooler. There are some cobwebs settling in the corners of the rose-colored walls. Alternating black and white tiles pattern the floor.
“There used to be wicker tables and chairs throughout this area,” she points out. “And that display was always filled. Trays of nan katai, soan papdi, baglu, butter biscuits, eeda pak, mawa ni boi, popatjee…all sorts of sweet and savory staples for a Parsi bakery.”
The woman is saying words, but I have no idea what they mean. I’ll have to do a Google deep dive of what a Parsi bakery is when we get home. I didn’t think I was that ignorant, but I definitely don’t know what Parsi means either.
“And the way it used to smell?” She inhales deeply and with content. “Parvez is a really good baker. He went to pastry school at Le Cordon Bleu.”
Behraz walks to the back and pushes through a black swinging door, the kind that you see in movie restaurants. I follow her. We pass the empty kitchen and turn right. She twists the knob of a wooden door to reveal an office piled with boxes and trash bags.
“Ta da! It’s mostly junk from over the years, but…”
Every single box is overflowing. Not a single one has been taped shut. Most of the giant garbage bags are overstuffed to the point they can’t be cinched or tied. She only has a bike. My stomach churns thinking about how she hauled all of this on her own.
“How…how did you get it here?”
“It’s not that much.”
“It’s more stuff than you could fit in your bike basket.”
Her arms toss up in resignation. “Fine! You caught me. But you have to promise not to tell.”
I rub a hand over my forehead. “Did you do something illegal?”
“Of course not! No,” she says through a dismissive chuckle. “Sorta. Technically…yes.”
Oh, boy.
“Promise,” she urges.
“I promise.”
“Swear to me.” Her pinky extends to me. The woman has me swearing loyalty to her. As if she doesn’t already have it. I hook my little finger into hers, cherishing the warm pressure of her tight hold.
“I pinky swear.”
“I borrowed Landon’s Range Rover.”
I suck in a long breath. “ Borrowed ?” That’s his most prized possession.
She hisses through her teeth in a cringe and releases our pinkies.
I zip my lips. “Yeah, that secret’s going with me to the grave.”
“It better, or” —she slices her thumb across her throat— “I can handle a knife. Plus, I’m notoriously prone to accidents.”
My groin tightens. No, no, Fletch. This is not the time to be having dark fantasies about Behraz and all the things she could do to you with the edge of a sharp blade. I grab a trash bag and knot the top, holding it in front of me to hide a rapidly growing problem. “I’ll start loading the truck.”
When I return, Behraz kicks the bottom of a clay-stained pottery wheel. “It’s too heavy.”
I peek into a box of painted mugs and bowls sitting next to it. “Did you make these?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.” Behraz shakes her head. “One whole summer, all I did was make and paint pottery. Thought it was gonna change my life or something.”
“I mean, it’s a cool hobby.”
“I have, like, half a dozen abandoned hobbies. They’re all ‘cool.’” She pores through a few boxes.
“I’ve got enough embroidery thread, cloth, and hoops to start a cross-stitching club.
Nearly twenty skeins of yarn and countless lines of finger-knitted strands that were supposed to, I don’t know, turn into sweaters or blankets, but I only made one blanket and didn’t get anywhere after.
” Her index finger jabs angrily at a box that has its flaps tucked into one another.
“This one has a collection of the New York Times’s crossword puzzles.
I only got through one book. Somewhere there’s fancy art markers and stress-relieving Mandala coloring books for adults, too. ”
“My sister crochets,” I offer, unprompted. “It helps her focus.”
“That’s why I started with this stuff. But I’m so unfocused.” She interrupts herself by moving the box of crossword books. “I can’t even focus on activities that are supposed to help me focus.”
I pull the truck to the rear door and prop it open while she loads a box into the truck, and she returns the favor when I carry out the pottery wheel.
She pauses after we’re done, catching her breath while resting her hands on her hips.
I struggle not to stare, but the dip of her waist and the swell of her chest under her oversized shirt have a vice grip around my attention.
When she turns…God help me, that ass. And don’t get me started on the dewy pink flush on her cheeks.
“Where will I put all this crap in your apartment? I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
My mind is far too dirty and well-versed in fictional romance to steer clear of the suggestive wording. Hopefully, my face is red enough from loading boxes that she can’t see me blush.
Don’t say it’ll fit. Don’t say we’ll make it fit.
“It can, uh , go in the spare room.” Sweat trickles down my back, seeping through the cotton of my tee as I lay a tarp over the truck bed. “There are only a couple of bookshelves in there.”