Unwanted Girl. MK Schiller
of the Fall, but that’s my final offer.”
“Sold!” Nick said, clapping his hand on the table. “You’re always negotiating, aren’t you?”
“I am an agent.” She slathered butter on her bread.
He rubbed his chin. “You don’t like the beard I’ve had for over a year now?”
“I miss your face. You have such a nice one. I bet you could sell bibles in Babylonia.”
“I have a feeling you’re buttering up more than bread.”
“I still have eyes, despite not being interested.”
“Your disinterest is a fact that I have mourned for a great many years. Along with all the other men in the five boroughs.”
Carrie shook a well-manicured finger at him. “You want me to tell them no?”
“Emphatically. Also, while you’re at it, inform them there won’t be any more books. My character and I have irreconcilable differences. He’s giving me the silent treatment.”
“You’re still blocked?”
“Like an iceberg. The kind that halted the Titanic.”
“It happens.”
“It’s been a long time, Carrie.” It felt good to admit things to her, to say his troubles aloud and relieve himself of the secrets, much in the same way he admitted to being an addict now. The last two books he’d given her were trunk books, squirreled away from an earlier time when writing was as natural as breathing. Now his trunk lay open, bare of any contents.
“You’ve had a lot going on in that time. You’re not under contract, and I’ll let them know there are no plans for a new book.”
“Thank you, Carrie.” Her quick agreement meant a great deal. After all, it wasn’t only his paycheck they were discussing. “How’s Maya?”
“She’s good. She misses her Uncle Nick, although Tara’s pretty pissed at you right now.”
“Why is Tara mad? She should be happy. She got the girl after all.”
Carrie shot him a reproachful glance, but her mouth quirked, fighting her grin. “She’s still upset about your Christmas present. Who sends a puppy to another person’s kid?”
Nick shrugged innocently. “I have a reputation to protect. I’m cool Uncle Nick. Besides, Maya asked for a puppy.”
“Maybe next time ask her mom…either mom.”
“Are you suggesting I should hold off on the pet snake?”
He expected her to laugh, but her expression was serious. “If you want to do something for her, get your butt to Brooklyn sometime. She misses her Uncle Nick.”
“I’m not the most sociable guy right now.” He dropped his voice, leaning into the table. “Besides, do you really want a meth addict around your daughter?”
“Are you ready?” the waiter asked, interrupting them once more.
“A few more minutes, please,” she said.
He gave them a reproachful glance before heading back toward the kitchen.
“Jesus, Carrie, what does a man have to do to get a meal around you?”
She straightened in her seat, a gesture that fell between intimidation and consideration. “I have a few more things to say. You are in recovery, and she loves you. I won’t lie. We were all shocked when it came out, but you were part of our lives when you were using even though we didn’t know. I don’t throw people I love away even when they make stupid mistakes.”
“It’s more than a mistake.” He slugged back his drink, searching for the courage to confront his internal conflicts. “I was in denial for a long time…longer than you know. But I swear I never used around your family, Carrie.”
“I believe you, but that’s my point. Why are you ignoring us now when you need your friends the most?”
“Because I’m not in denial anymore.” He couldn’t explain the shame he felt for the person he was…is.
“You’re living like a recluse.” She waved her hands dramatically. “I don’t even know how that’s possible in this city, but you’re managing it.”
“I don’t own enough luggage to pack for the all-expenses paid guilt trip you’re taking me on. Now, can we table this and enjoy a steak or whatever fancy fusion name they call it in this place?”
“Watch it, or I’ll downgrade that beard to Grizzly Adam status.”
Chapter 3
Shyla checked over the notes from her morning classes. Every day was the same. She went to school, learned first world techniques, and mentally applied them to the third world classroom she’d be teaching. She had worked hard, so hard that in this last semester of her senior year, she had a very light load and little schoolwork left to distract her.
She started preparing for work. She twisted her long hair into a tight knot and changed into one of her black T-shirts, the uniform she wore at the deli. Each movement set at a precise pace that came with practice.
“I’m leaving for work,” she told her dorm mate, Elaine, who’d had her nose in a book all afternoon.
“Oh, okay,” Elaine muttered, running her hands through the purple strand of hair that broke up her natural honey coloring.
“Must be a good book.”
“It’s the new Keegan Moon.” Elaine nodded rapidly as if that simple statement spoke volumes.
Shyla smiled, not because she agreed, but she knew better than to argue with Elaine when it came to her favorite author.
“Do you want to come out with us tonight? Everyone’s coming over here, and then we’ll probably go to a club or something.”
Shyla had gone to a club with Elaine before. She didn’t enjoy the experience. Men grabbed her as if they had some claim to her. The other girls fit in with their skimpy outfits and wild laughter. She felt out of place and wondered if the aftermath of her culture shock would ever wear off.
Elaine wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Joel will be there, and he’s been asking about you.”
“Maybe some other night.”
She had gone out with Joel three times. He had seemed like a nice boy until he told her he loved Indian literature. Unfortunately, he wasn’t referring to the Bhagavad Gita, but rather the Kama Sutra.
She considered Elaine a friend, but they weren’t exactly close. They conversed, but they didn’t have much in common. Elaine wanted to talk about television shows, designer outfits, and boys. Shyla didn’t have insights, much less contributions, on those subjects. It wasn’t Elaine’s fault. She’d made many attempts to socialize with Shyla, but Shyla’s introverted personality presented barriers. Perhaps she wasn’t even capable of forming a true friendship.
* * * *
Her shift at the deli bordered on hectic, keeping her mind focused and free of Nick Dorsey, the man who made her toes curl without her consent. Geet Dhillon bustled around the kitchen, her long braid flopping around her as she floated through the space like a passenger on Aladdin’s magic carpet. She’d been like this since her engagement to a successful lawyer.
“He’s a nice Indian boy with a bright future,” her mother had said. “He will make a fine son-in-law, and they will give me beautiful grandchildren.” Her father had beamed. “He’s Sikh,” her brother, Adesh, had added, perhaps his only criteria in his sister’s arranged nuptials. “He’s hot,” Geet had countered much to her brother’s annoyance.
Geet sang as she worked with