Page 52

Another girl. Lucky didn’t answer, and after thanking his mother for the delicious meal, slipped outside into the velvety darkness. He lifted his head to the sky, the light of the half-moon illuminating his face, and tried not to think of another girl, the one he couldn’t get out of his mind. He wondered what Dina was doing right now.

He had been harsh with her when they last spoke. She had asked what they were, and his answer had been biting, the result of frustration and jealousy, combined with an instinct to protect himself. After all, she was staying at Samir’s family estate with her husband while he was back to his regular life, living in a retrofitted garage that was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter.

He had thought he was being honest with her when he called the last few days a fantasy, but the truth was he had been a willing participant. The more time he spent with her, the more greedy he became for her company. And that was dangerous. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

This will pass, he told himself. Move on.

He had moved on last time. Family catastrophe had a way of forcing you to focus on the present, and he had become used to planning for the short term—a few days or a few weeks at a time—after his father was diagnosed. It was only in the past year or so that he had started to think about the future again.

Taken as a whole, he was proud of what he had built. Dina’s return didn’t change that, but it did reveal what he had been ignoring—that he didn’t have anyone to share his life. Samir was right; over the years, he had fallen into relationships that were easy, that hadn’t asked too much of him, ones that didn’t require him to be vulnerable or share his heart.

Because the only person he had ever wanted to do that with was already married. Even six years later, everything felt dim without her.

He took a deep breath and went inside his small, empty house, so much lonelier now that he knew she was in the same city, but not with him.

Lucky slept badly and forced himself out of bed early to take advantage of the day. He intended to send a few reminders for outstanding invoices, then make calls to his suppliers, maybe chase a few leads on future projects. He was already behind on work after taking last week off to travel to Toronto. He had been surprised, when he first started contracting, how much paperwork and people management were involved in the job.

When Lucky checked his phone, he noticed a message from Samir, sent late last night. He read the message while brushing his teeth: ​​Hey man, I need those twinkle lights after all. I’m sending someone to pick them up this morning.​​

Lucky wasn’t sure what his friend was talking about, and he wrote back. ​​You mean that old box of Christmas lights from my last job? Why the hell do you want those?​​

He took a quick shower in his compact bathroom and shaved. He didn’t spend too much time looking at himself in the mirror. It had been a long time since he had worried about the way he looked, the awkward self-consciousness of youth burned off by the realities of a busy life. His apartment was spare and utilitarian but well designed. It wasn’t where he had thought he would end up, but it was good enough for now.

When they had first moved to Chicago, they had lived with his uncle for a few weeks before moving to this home. It was a rental, but soon after they moved in, the owner had offered to sell it to them, hoping for a quick sale and to skip realtor fees. His mother had thought it prudent to accept after his father passed away.

Lucky had never liked the house—it was squat and ugly, a bungalow with three cramped bedrooms, a small kitchen with little storage, only one and a half bathrooms, and an unfinished basement. The walls still had seventies-style fake wood wall paneling on the main floor, and the ceilings were low, as if the home had been built with people five foot eight and under in mind. But it was close to the highway and located in a safe working-class neighborhood near the city, set on a generous parcel of land. Plus, it was near Devon Avenue, the “little India” of Chicago, close to his father’s restaurant, which meant his mother couldn’t quite bear to give it up yet. And so they had stayed, and fixed the house up, and made it their home.

In a way, the house had become his salvation too. Lucky got his start in contracting by finishing the basement, a project he started to get his mind off his father’s deteriorating health and the reality of their financial situation. Back then, there was no money for law school, not with bills and a mortgage to pay. By the time he finished renovating the basement, a year and a half later, and six months after his father’s death, he realized that he enjoyed the work and that he was good at it. Moreover, it was a means to an end. The first time one of his mother’s friends asked him to change a faucet in her kitchen and then pressed a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill into his hands, a light bulb went off in his head. He signed up for an eight-week course the next day to get his contractor’s license and opened a loan-out company. Becoming a general contractor and working on people’s renovations wasn’t his first dream, but the hours were flexible, he got to work with his hands and meet interesting people, and he had been able to start working right away.

Five years later, he had a waiting list for his services, and now that he had started working with Crescent Construction, he would make even more money. Maybe even enough to get his own place. Or help set up Saleem and Jiya in a home of their own. Or maybe build his mother a brand-new house, with a large kitchen filled with high-end appliances. Of course, she would protest that she didn’t need the space, but he could probably talk her into it.

He mulled over these thoughts and how good it felt to plan for the future on his short walk to the main house. He let himself in the back door after punching in the code. Huma was already stationed in front of the stove, frying eggs and brewing chai.

“Mom, I told you not to make me breakfast. I can do that,” Lucky said.

“But then you would not eat breakfast,” Huma protested. Lucky knew better than to answer; his mother’s love language was feeding people. He grabbed a fork and started to dig in, smiling at her when she placed a cup of her famous masala chai by his elbow, flavored with cardamom and cinnamon and sweetened the way he liked it.

When she took a seat the table, however, he realized that this particular breakfast came with strings attached.

“I wanted to talk to you about what I said yesterday,” she said. “I think I got scared, thinking about you being alone. I want you to be happy, Luqman.”

His mother was the only person who bothered to use his full name. Her words caused a knot to form in his throat. “It’s all right, Mom,” he said, swallowing past it. “I am happy.”

The skeptical look she threw him made his face heat. “If you say so.”

“All right, I’m . . . content. I’ve started to make plans for the future. Which may or may not include a wife. Okay?” he tried.

She nodded, thoughtful. “You will let me know if there’s something, or someone, on your mind, Luqman? Even if they are not . . . suitable, for whatever reason.” She didn’t meet his gaze, and Lucky flushed. His mother had obviously noticed his slipup yesterday and was concerned, even if she didn’t want to come out and ask about Dina.

“I’ll let you know,” he said.

Silence descended between them again, and Lucky stood, swallowing the last of his chai. “I have a full day,” he announced. “I won’t be home for dinner.”

His mother nodded, when suddenly she wrinkled her forehead. “Did you hear that? I think Nisa opened the front door again.”

His four-year-old niece had recently learned how to unlock doors and thought it good fun to give her family regular heart attacks by opening the front door. Saleem had been promising to buy child-resistant doorknob covers but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. It was fortunate that they had a large lawn so Nisa never got beyond the porch before she was apprehended.

“I’ll grab her,” Lucky said.