He tapped his fingers on the lid of his Tupperware. “This is a long way of saying one of our customs is to feed our loved ones. If I give you food, it’s because I am showing my appreciation of you. To not accept is a slight—if you were Rom and rejecting my food, you could be suggesting I’m mochadi. While I know you, Sara, aren’t accusing me of being mochadi by refusing, I always wince. It’s how I was brought up. I mean no offense.”

“No, I totally get it. Well, I mean, not totally because that was an abbreviated version but I can see why you’d flinch.” I paused. “Do you want me to go wash my hands? I did a little while ago, before lunch. I don’t want you to get mochadi cooties from me.”

“No! No, oh. Oh, Sara. I don’t mean to say—” He frowned and shook his head, reaching for my hand. He looked at it, then up at me. “Look at this hand. It’s wonderful. Exactly as God intended it to be. I don’t think you’re impure, or that you can make me impure. Truly, I don’t. I just wanted to give context. I know I act different sometimes, but you are perfect as you are.” As if to prove his point, he lifted my hand and proceeded to press his soft, dry lips to the pad of my pointer finger. And then my middle finger. And then my pinky. His eyes fixed on mine, and for a moment, my heart stopped. He had a beautiful mouth, truly, with the delicate arch in his upper lip, and that flurry of kisses—to show how mochadi he thought I wasn’t—pretty much destroyed me.

Aaaaand maybe destroyed that resolve I had about not screwing around again.

I’m a slut, maybe.

Totally okay with it.

“Yeah,” I said, because a poet I am not. “Yeah, totally. I get it.”

He let go of my hand, albeit reluctantly, before going back to his meal.

“Good. I am glad.”

So was I.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Devi texted me Thursday night just before nine, when I was deep in my evening PJ sprawl. There was a half-eaten jar of Nutella beside me and no knife. That’s right, I finger-swipe ate half a jar of Nutella and there were no regrets.

I was living my best life. Even if that much Nutella translated to never pooping again.

Hey, got permission from Mom btws, she sent.

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

For?

To go with you tomorrow. She’s dismissing me at one.