“Great. I need your help getting my parents something classy for their fortieth anniversary this September.”
Charlie lets himself be hauled off the bench. “I’ll need to know more about Sunil and Shameem to be of any help in this regard.”
Dev does not fixate on the fact that Charlie remembers his parents’ names from one casual reference. “Well, imagine two Indian kids, coming to the US in the sixties, growing up in super traditional households, meeting freshman year at Cornell in the premed program. Then picture them getting arrested at various protests, becoming art history professors instead of doctors, and smoking a ton of weed, and you pretty much have my parents. Now they spend most of their time running a Raleigh art co-op and going on weekend yoga retreats run by white people.”
Charlie stares at him, unblinking. “That all tracks.”
They wander toward a stall selling gorgeous ceramics—very Shameem, very not in Dev’s price range. A little plaque at the stand explains that half of all proceeds go toward a community school in a nearby township. “What about your parents?” Dev can’t resist reverting back to their old dynamic, with Dev trying to weasel his way behind Charlie’s layers.
Only Dev doesn’t have to weasel. Charlie opens right up. “There’s not much to say about my parents. My dad is a construction foreman. My mom stayed home to raise me and my brothers, who all played football and loved beating the shit out of me. No one in my house had the slightest idea what to do with a little neurodivergent kid who feared contamination and loved taking apart household appliances to learn how they worked. There is a reason I wanted to leave at sixteen.”
It takes what little willpower Dev has not to reach out and kiss Charlie on his face in the middle of the market, and thankfully the artist steps out from behind the register at that exact moment.
“Can I help you find anything?” she asks.
“Your work is lovely,” Charlie says. Dev studies a beautiful bowl and serving platter set, imagines the look on his parents’ face when they discover he bought them something other than a cheap tea towel from his travels.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“A gift for my parents,” Dev answers. “They would love your pieces.”
“Those ones were made by my wife, actually.”
Charlie tugs on the edge of Dev’s jean jacket. “You should buy them.”
Dev subtly tilts the bowl so he can see the price tag on the bottom. He’s fuzzy on the rand-to-US-dollar exchange rate, but he’s not that fuzzy. “I think—sorry, I think we’re going to keep looking.”
Dev tries to slide around the end of the stall, but Charlie doesn’t move. “Do you ship items to the United States?”
“Yes, although it usually takes three to four weeks.”
“That’s perfect. We’ll take the bowl and the serving platter.”
“Charlie, no. I can’t.…” Dev leans in so the artist won’t overhear. “I can’t afford them.”
“But I can. What’s your parents’ address?”
“You don’t have to do this for me.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he says plainly. “I want to.”
Their shoulders press together for a second, but only a second, before Charlie pulls out his wallet to pay. Dev watches Charlie hand over his credit card and doesn’t let himself fixate on Charlie’s profound kindness, either.
* * *
By the time they get back outside, the clouds have melted away into a warm afternoon, and Charlie produces a pair of Fendi sunglasses from some unknown pocket and pulls off his sweater. He begins tying it around his waist.