“He was a scientist, right? A professor, like my dad.”

“Oh my, look at that lightning!” she said, a second or two before a boom of thunder shook the house.

“What do you want to do with your life?” she asked many hours later as we lay on the bed in each other’s arms. I think it was morning.

“When I grow up, I want to be a journalist. A real one. A good one. What about you?”

She seemed to reflect on it for a long time before finally answering that all she wanted was to be good.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Later still, after we’d had our baths, I wrapped my arms around her waist and asked if she wanted me to start the dinner preparations. She smiled gently and said there were plenty of leftovers.

“There’s still some more potatoes and rice,” I said. “Shall I make both?”

“Fuck the batate,” she said, and I choked.

“What?”

“What what?” she asked, confused by my confusion.

“You just said ‘fuck the potatoes,’ that’s what.”

She covered her mouth and nearly fell to the floor in a fit of laughter. When she finally composed herself, she apologized and explained that what she’d said was Marathi.

“Phuckte batate, Danny,” she said, still red in the face. “It means ‘just potatoes.’ ‘Only potatoes.’”

This became the joke of the evening, as we both came up with imaginative examples for the next hour. “Phuckte rain,” “phuckte chair,” “phuckte government,” “phuckte pillow.” Each was more immature than the last and, eventually, we decided it wasn’t really that funny after all.

I peeled the last of the potatoes, consulted our handy cookbook, and decided to parboil them in water with a little vinegar and then roast them. That plan never got off the ground. There was no oven in the house. And no vinegar. Instead, I fried the batate in a little oil with paprika and salt.

I was doing my best impression of a chef, trying to wow Sush with my culinary talents, when a pair of warm lips kissed my neck from behind. I nearly burned my hand on the hot pan. She laughed a healthy, beautiful laugh. Light and playful, unconcerned with anything except our little household. Standing beside me, she watched adoringly—at least that was how it felt—as I finished heating dinner and placed it on the table. When everything was ready, she took me by the hand and dragged me into the bedroom. Dinner waited and got cold. We ate it anyway, an hour and a half later.

“Damn,” I mumbled.

“What is it?” she asked, stretching and rolling over to lay her head on my chest.

“It’s Sunday. What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to plan for the next time. What else can we do?”

“What if we could escape? What if it could be just you and me? Always.”

“Danny …”