Total pages in book: 186
Estimated words: 176552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 883(@200wpm)___ 706(@250wpm)___ 589(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 883(@200wpm)___ 706(@250wpm)___ 589(@300wpm)
“There she is,” he murmured into my hair. “My girl.”
“Hi, Papà,” I mumbled into his chest, squeezing him back.
Before I could fully exhale, I was passed off into another set of strong arms—my Nonno, who smelled like espresso and old cologne ever after working out. His bristly cheek scratched mine as he pulled me in.
“My sunshine,” he said warmly, patting my back before holding me at arm’s length. His blue eyes narrowed in mock judgment. “Still too thin. You don’t eat enough in that dorm.”
“I live in a house,” I reminded him with a laugh.
He waved that off like it didn’t matter.
Once the table was finished and the laughter mellowed into a quiet conversation, I offered to go wake Shakira. My dad and Nonno had gone to wash up, Sugarmama was pouring herself a mimosa, muttering her go-to motto, “light on the juice, heavy on the spirit.” Mom was sliding a tray of naan into the warming drawer with that focused hum she always made when she cooked.
I slipped out of the kitchen and padded through the main hallway. The house always felt like a museum when it was quiet—grand and gilded, but it had been home my entire life, and I loved it.
The staircase curved like something out of a palace, black and gold railings catching flecks of morning light from the crystal chandelier above. I took the steps two at a time, fingers brushing the cool metal rail.
At the landing, sunlight poured through the tall arched window, casting warmth across the glossy floors. I turned left, toward the wing my sister’s room was in, passing a gallery wall of framed memories. Birthdays, vacations, my parents over the years, a funny Halloween shot they refused to take down, and Diwali nights where everyone dressed in silk and ended up barefoot on the terrace eating Laddu.
Shakira’s door was closed. I paused in front of it and knocked gently, then cracked it open when I got no reply. The room was dim, blackout curtains drawn tight like always. I stepped inside quietly, the door clicking shut behind me, and crossed the soft rug to the bed that looked like it had swallowed her whole.
“Shakira,” I said softly.
No answer.
I leaned closer. “Ki, breakfast is ready. And Sugarmama already made two wildly inappropriate comments, so you’re missing the show.”
Still nothing.
I sighed and tugged the blanket down just enough to reveal a mass of curls and a pretty face mashed into the pillow.
Her eyes cracked open. At first, all I got was sleepy confusion, then came the recognition.
“Sanj!” she squealed.
Before I could brace myself, she launched. Like a spider-monkey, she latched onto me. Her arms were around my neck; her legs cinched around my waist. I stumbled back, laughing, holding her tight so we didn’t both crash to the floor.
“I knew you were coming, but nobody said you were already here!” she babbled into my hair. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”
“Because you were snoring through the second coming,” I wheezed, trying not to topple.
“I do not snore,” she objected, scandalized. “Do I?”
“You absolutely do.”
She gasped. “Liar!” She hugged me tighter. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too, baby,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her curls and holding her just as fiercely.
Eventually, she slid down, yawning through her grin. “Okay. Give me ten minutes to get all the parts in working order, and I’ll be downstairs.”
“Clock’s ticking,” I teased, nudging her toward her bathroom.
The table was nearly full by the time I made it back downstairs, the smell of chai and cumin-heavy eggs warming the air. I slid into my usual seat. Across from me sat Nonno. Most people would find it odd that my paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother shared a roof, but we weren’t most people.
Our family had never separated.
My other grandparents were long gone. One to illness, the other to a silence that had never left room for answers. These two were best friends. Bickering, scheming, laughing like overgrown children with decades of loyalty between them.
“You’re late,” Nonno said, wagging his fork at me in mock disapproval.
“Give the girl a break,” Sugarmama drawled from beside him. “She just got back from a night at the Voss estate. Let her soak in her sins a little.”
My mom made a quiet noise of protest from the other end of the table.
“Ma,” she sighed, slicing a mango. “Why does everything have to be a scandal?”
“Scandals keep breakfast from being boring,” Sugarmama replied, lifting her glass. “Especially when it’s this good.”
I shook my head, reaching for a slice of warm, buttered focaccia, already bracing for the next volley.
“Rye and I are just—.”
“Friends,” my father cut in flatly, his tone as dry as the toast on his plate. “We’ve heard the story, Stellina.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, but before I could fire back with something even halfway convincing, Nonno stepped in. “That boy hasn’t seen you as a friend since you ran him over with your unicorn bike in the second grade.”