Max is in the lounge with my father and Tariq talking football. At least that’s what I hope they’re talking about. I can’t actually hear them since I’m in the kitchen helping my mother with dinner.
When I asked her if Max could come to dinner, she raised an eyebrow but gave her okay. I’ve never had a guy over for dinner before. Truthfully, the only person who ever comes over for dinner is Rina. We all work different hours and Saturday night is usually the only night the family is all together. So it feels like a big deal to invite someone to join us for our one family meal in the week.
It feels like a bigger deal to have invited Max, but I can’t think about that too much or I’ll freak out.
“Is the rice almost done?” Mum asks. “The dahl is ready.”
I lift the lid on the pot and poke the rice with a fork. Mum doesn’t believe in rice cookers, unfortunately. She says they’re lazy. I say they’re efficient. I also say if we had a rice cooker I could be in the lounge with Max, making sure he’s not getting grilled by my father.
“Five more minutes, I think.” I lift a lid of one of the pots bubbling away and inhale. My mum’s lamb bhuna is my favorite and I’m betting Max will love it, too.
“So, your friend Max?” Mum raises an eyebrow. “He likes curry?”
“Yeah, he loves it.” Truthfully, I didn’t ask, but who doesn’t like curry? Besides, I have a feeling if he hates it, no one will ever know. Including me.
Proof comes when we’re all sitting around the dining room table and he takes a huge dollop of hot lime pickle on his dahl, following Tariq’s lead. Lime pickle is a traditional Indian accompaniment, kind of like chutney. But my mum’s version is crazy spicy because that’s the way Tariq and my dad like it. I won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole because every time I try it, I end up coughing and sputtering because it’s so hot.
I try to catch Max’s eye to warn him, but my mother gets his attention first by saying, “Max, Tara says you are quite a football player. What position do you play?”
“I’m a striker, but I’ve been spending some time in mid-field lately, too. I don’t mind where I am on the field, as long as I get to play.” Max sounds so earnest and I’m so caught up in looking at my mum’s nod of approval, I miss the minute Max takes a massive forkful of dahl heaped with the pickle.
His face gets red and his eyes water a little. I tense to jump up to get him more water, but he takes a big gulp from the glass in front of him and then laughs, saying, “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”
Then he reaches over and takes another heaping spoonful. The difference is that this time he catches my eye. And winks.
I can’t help smiling back, although I bury it by taking a mouthful of food. But I do catch my mum’s smile. Again. And my dad’s. Even Tariq looks grudgingly impressed.
Still, I’m slightly on edge for the rest of the dinner, even though conversation flows easily, and Max is so obviously making a good impression. I don’t really relax until we’re clearing plates from the table. Max is helping – at his insistence – and we’re piling up dishes in the sink when he slips an arm around my waist and leans down to whisper in my ear. “See? I told you this would be fun.”
I grin up at him. “You were right. It was fun watching you trying not to die eating the pickle.”
“I’m going to pay for that, aren’t I?” Max grins back at me.
I’m so lost in that smile that I don’t hear my mother come into the kitchen until she sets a bowl down on the counter with a clunk. Then I veer away from Max faster than if he pinched me.
“Mum. Hey.” My voice is too high and I take a deep breath to see if it will help.
“Tara.” Mum slides her gaze over to Max and says, “I think Tariq has gotten out the sesame sweets in the lounge. You’ll like them.”
Max nods, although he looks between me and my mum and I can tell he’s weighing up what to say or do. I plead to him silently with my eyes to please go and thank God he does. Although not without a backwards worried glance.
Mum waits until she hears his voice in the dining room before turning to me and saying, “You said this boy was your friend.”
“He is my friend.” This is one hundred percent true and I will my voice not to sound defensive or strained.
“But he’s also more.” Mum doesn’t phrase this as a question.
“We’ve been friends for a long time. The more part is recent.”
“You like him.” Again, not a question.
Maybe it’s Mum’s certainty that sounds like acceptance. Maybe it’s the fact that I couldn’t deny it if I tried. I nod. “I like him a lot. He’s great.”
“He seems lovely.” Mum allows a slight smile as she continues. “Your brother is suspicious, though.”
“He’s suspicious of everyone. Remember Akil?” Akil was a kid I was friends with in Year Seven. He was a total dork and perfectly harmless, but Tariq got it in his head that Akil fancied me. He didn’t, but Tariq is intimidating. Akil told me one day that the glares from my brother were aggravating his IBS and that was the end of our friendship.
“He wants to look out for you.” Mum shakes her head, then says, “That said, you’re more than capable of making your own decisions.”
“Thank you.” This means a lot coming from my mum. She not-so-secretly hopes I decide on the arranged marriage route someday.
“Be a good girl and always remember who you are, yes?” Mum gives me a stern look and I nod.
“You don’t have to worry, Mum.”
I’ve just gotten used to the idea of kissing Max. I can’t exactly imagine more. But even though I can’t picture it, I feel a little zing in my stomach at the prospect of an undefined “more.”
“That’s not an answer.” Mum’s eyebrows are raised. She’s prepared to stare me down if she needs to.
“I’ll remember who I am.” I roll my eyes. “Is that better?”
“Much.” Mum smiles a little, then her face turns serious. She says, “You are too young to have big regrets. That’s all.”
I nod like I’m agreeing but Mum’s warnings are a waste of breath. I can’t imagine regretting Max. Or anything that happens between us.