She nodded and toyed with the roughened edge of her cast. She tuned in as they chatted about painting, robots, and video games. They teased each other and shared embarrassing stories of their past adventures. Sam was in the middle of it all. Meena on the edge. Without her camera, the aloneness of the life she’d built around her became stark. She’d been at similar tables with other photographers, but they usually talked about work, gossiped about who was good to work with and who was sleeping with whom.
These five weren’t colleagues. Each had a different career. What connected them was their relationships to one another, their friendship and loyalty. She could see that they were close enough to have shared vulnerabilities, that they gave each other support, a comforting shoulder. She’d had opportunities to build friendships like these, even on the road. Her work was inherently collaborative. But she hadn’t.
They spent another hour in the bar before putting their jackets on and wrapping up in scarves. They said their goodbyes out front, each group heading in different directions.
“Want to walk? It’s about twenty minutes, and it’s a nice night,” Sam suggested.
Meena shoved her hand in the pocket of her jacket. She was cold but she agreed. She turned her face up to let the air caress her skin.
As they passed various landmarks, Sam added historical sound bites. “The Old State House is the oldest surviving building in Boston.”
Meena took in the brick facade and the white roof as they walked on a cobblestone path away from the busy Downtown Crossing shopping district.
“Will you be expecting tips in cash after this personal tour?”
“Yes. And I hope you’re generous,” Sam said. “Between Neha’s Freedom Trail lectures and the pub trivia league with Ava, I’m an excellent personal tour guide—at least for Boston.”
Meena laughed. “Your friends are great.”
“Yeah. I’m lucky.”
“It must be nice, with your family so far away.”
He was quiet for a while as they crossed Boston Common.
“I have the aunties,” Sam said.
There was something in his tone that piqued her curiosity. Instead of prodding, she stayed silent as they walked.
The path to the stairs of the Engineer’s House was lit with little electric votive candles on metal posts stuck into the ground. The stairs had twinkling white fairy lights wrapped around the iron railings.
“Festive,” Meena commented.
Sam unlocked the front door. “Are you coming to Sabina’s for Diwali dinner on Sunday?”
“Tanvi mentioned it.” But Sabina hadn’t extended an invite.
“You know, there’s been talk.”
Her back against the closed door of Neha’s apartment, Meena raised her brows. “Talk?”
“More like intensified curiosity.” Sam closed the distance between them. Faced her. “You keep to yourself. Is it because you don’t like us?”
The hall was silent. She focused on his face, his lips. They were full and well moisturized. She pursed hers and ran her tongue over them to make sure they weren’t dry, that her reapplied gloss was still in place.
“I like you,” she said.
“You do?”
“Plural.” Meena smiled. “All of you.”
She would never have believed that the faint scent of cinnamon and pine from the potpourri would be arousing, yet here she was, locked in on Sam. She saw the rise and fall of his chest. Relieved that the tension wasn’t all hers, she raised her free hand to his chest.
He’d unbuttoned his black peacoat, a gray scarf hung around his neck, and the pale-blue sweater he wore underneath was soft cashmere. Maybe it was the two pints, maybe it was his kind eyes, his open expression, the prominent chin dimple. She let impulse take over. Meena stepped closer.