"I'm sorry to hear that," Abhay murmured.

"Yeah, it's been scary, but at least the house is paid off, so we're not desperate for cash. Mom and Dad scout out estate sales, and Mom's even set up a little sideline where we help people clean out all the junk in their house, and organize things, and in exchange we get to keep anything we want to sell. And Dad's an expert about old tools. But I'm the brains of the operation. You'd be amazed how much difference it makes just to keep on top of things."

Abhay sat down on the bed. He remembered how Chris had trouble keeping his homework organized in high school. He'd dropped out of college after a semester; he just wasn't interested. And then he spent what seemed like years b.u.mming around, working here and there.

"My uncles give me a hard time because I'm still living at home." Chris sat down next to Abhay and peered at his fat hands. "But Mom and Dad don't mind. I take care of things around the house, and we have fun together."

"That's great, Chris," Abhay said. "You're being a good Indian son, living at home and taking care of your parents."

"Yeah. Too bad my uncles aren't Indian."

"So how'd you get into this?" Abhay waved his hand at all the boxes.

"I had a job for a while with an estate sale company. I got them started doing eBay sales, and then I went out on my own. Hey, what're you doing, Adios, now that you're home?"

Abhay wondered whether to ask Chris not to call him "Adios." He'd successfully left this nickname behind since he'd graduated from high school. He decided to let it pa.s.s.

"You looking for work?" Chris persisted.

"I'm temping now." Abhay didn't want to say that he'd just quit temping.

"I need someone to help take photos to post, and to pack stuff up to send out. You interested?"

"Um. Maybe." Abhay glanced at the shelf of figurines. "These are for sale?" Abhay picked up a little statue of a brown woman wearing a gold and blue sari blouse and loose pants, and sitting in lotus posture, palms in prayer position. "I had no idea there were yoga statues. What does this go for?"

"There's a whole set of them." Chris picked up another brown woman doing a backbend. "I'm selling them for $29.95 each, free shipping, but if you're interested I can make you a deal."

Abhay replaced the figurine. "No. That's okay. I'm good."

"Listen, now that you're home, you should come over to our weekly barbecues on Sat.u.r.day nights. I grill up a bunch of things, Mom makes salad, Dad makes his famous cherry cheesecake, and we invite the neighbors. Remember Emily Cross from high school? She's Emily Nuttman now. She and her husband and kids come over."

"She has kids?"

"Three. They're five, four, and one."

"G.o.d."

"That's what I thought at first, but she's happy. So, come on over this Sat.u.r.day. And on Sundays, a lot of times I get a group together to go bowling, or drive up to Cleveland to see a baseball game, or just go to a movie. Something to do. You have a standing invitation. You have a girlfriend or anything?" Chris was lying on his side, full length on the bed, his head propped up on his hand.

"Nah." Abhay crossed his legs on the bedspread. It was just like in high school, when they'd done their homework in Chris's room.

"Me neither, but I'm looking. Remember Mich.e.l.le Tully? That girl you had a crush on in high school?"

Abhay tried to laugh. He didn't want to be reminded of his foolishness around women.

"Anyway, I saw her the other day over at that new upscale grocery store in Hudson. She was wearing a business suit, heels, nails polished, hair perfect. She tried to ignore me, as usual. She was always so full of herself, but I went up and acted all friendly. I found out she's a commercial real estate agent in Cleveland. Making a ton of money, I'm sure."

"Good for her," Abhay murmured.

"I don't know if I want to get married and all that yet," Chris said, "but I would like someone to hang out with, you know?" Chris rolled onto his back and slipped his hands under his head. "I haven't found anyone yet. Seems like a lot of girls want a guy with a fancy job. I'm thinking of expanding into organizing estate sales. I think the business has potential, but a lot of girls don't want potential. They want hard cash. So, what're you doing now?"

"I'm just here to regroup and think things through."

"Well, help me out then, while you're thinking." Chris rolled off the bed onto his feet. "Come down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. I have so much stuff that needs organized. I'll pay you cash."

Abhay spent the rest of the evening sorting, labeling, and taking photos for Chris, and went home with thirty dollars in his pocket.

On Wednesday after work, instead of going straight home, Rasika headed toward the freeway and got onto I76. She'd received Abhay's phone message, and she knew she shouldn't call him. She didn't want to go home yet. She'd just drive around a bit. She loved driving. Being alone in her car was one of the few places, outside of her bedroom, where she felt safe and invisible.

She punched through the radio stations she had programmed. She didn't want news or DJ banter. With one hand, she fed a CD into the CD player. The car was filled with Frank Sinatra's deep, smooth voice. She turned up the volume. Frank persuaded her to come fly with him.

She continued past Akron, exited at state Route 43, and drove until the highway turned into Main Street. Her heart was pounding, and her hands were sweaty on the steering wheel. She reached the intersection of Main and Lincoln. The light was green, so she couldn't stop. As she followed the line of cars ahead of her, she glanced around at the Starbucks, at the Fox and Hound, at the entrance to the university.

She saw no one she knew. She exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath. Frank crooned, and the muted trumpets chirruped cheerily.

At the next light she stopped, turned right, and circled back around campus. She drove slowly, looking at everyone pa.s.sing on either side. She kept her eyes out for a slim, brown-skinned man. She knew it was crazy to be searching for Abhay on the streets when she wasn't willing to just pick up the phone and call him.

She'd been avoiding her parents since the fiasco with Viraj. She'd slept for the rest of Sat.u.r.day. On Sunday, her mother refused to speak to her. Her father was in bed with a stomachache. She had wanted to take him a cup of tea and sit with him, like she normally did when he was sick. Instead, she had left the house. She felt terrible for abandoning her father, but she suspected that she was the cause of his illness. Maybe he preferred not to see her. So she drove around aimlessly for a while. She didn't want to go to a mall, because that would only remind her of her bad behavior. Jill wasn't answering her phone. She didn't want to call any of her other friends because none of them knew about her situation. She ended up at her gym and for once did her entire routine thoroughly: elliptical trainer, weights, abs, stretching. Then she took a long shower and spent an hour in the hot tub.

On Monday after work, she arranged to meet Jill for dinner, and on Tuesday she accepted her colleague Estelle's invitation to go with her to a Pampered Chef party. Rasika spent the entire time listening to Estelle's friends talk about their grandchildren, and watching a demonstration of something called "breakfast lasagna" being made-a concoction of hash browns, mushroom soup, bacon, sour cream, and cheese. She couldn't bring herself to try it once it came out of the oven. She thought about Abhay's mother and the sales parties she was trying to host. To be polite, she ordered something called a "pineapple wedger," which was supposed to peel and core a pineapple at the same time.

Tonight she was reduced to driving around Kent. On the sidewalk she saw no one dusky-skinned at all: only young white college students, many of them wearing as little clothing as possible.

She drove up to the Starbucks intersection via Lincoln this time. She veered left onto Main and then stopped in the turn lane, opposite the Starbucks parking lot, with her left blinker on, waiting for the cars to pa.s.s. She'd get a cafe mocha with whipped cream. It was her comfort drink, and she really needed one now. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. The cars continued rolling past in the oncoming lane. She inched forward, hoping someone would let her through. She'd order her coffee, take it to the upstairs dining area, and sit at one of those tables by the window, where she could look down on the street.

As she watched the line of cars coming toward her, she thought she spotted a shiny blue Hyundai. Oh, c.r.a.p. Was that Subhash? She flicked her right blinker on and veered into traffic, causing the car behind her to brake. The driver honked and pa.s.sed her in the right lane. She could see his angry face shouting at her through his window, but fortunately she couldn't hear what he said: her windows were rolled up, and her music was too loud.

As she zoomed back down the road toward the freeway, she tried to laugh at her narrow escape. She was trembling, and her throat was dry. She wondered if Subhash had seen her car. Maybe it hadn't been Subhash at all. She turned off the CD player. The car was filled with an ominous silence. She turned it back on again. She really had to stop all this foolishness and get on with her life.

On Thursday evening, Abhay sat at his rickety desk with chipped corners, reading a book that advised him to allow his creative inner self to intuitively select his life's work. He wished the phone would ring. He vowed that if Rasika didn't call, he'd ask Shavonne out.

The book advised him to read one chapter every week and to do the exercises suggested, which involved things like breathing, writing, and asking specific questions of himself and others. He read this book like he read any other book: he inhaled it in one sitting with one part of his brain, the other part being occupied with taking off first Rasika's, and then Shavonne's, clothes. Did anyone actually limit themselves to one chapter per week?

By the time he finished skimming the book, he'd convinced himself that the advice in it was useless. The house was a jumble of low noises: faint drumming and wailing love songs from the radio in Seema's room, and from the family room, where his mother was reviewing one of her educational videos, a cheerful female voice asked, "What is the capital of Venezuela? Do you remember?" He felt hot and sticky in his bedroom, which was full of plastic: nylon carpeting, polyester curtains and bedspread, and the laminate top of his desk.

Why did he care about Rasika? Why was he bothering to pursue her? That was the question he couldn't quite answer. Yes, she was beautiful, but so were a lot of other women. He kept thinking about how she'd called his declarations "ridiculous" and "nonsense." Oddly, something about that appealed to him. She wasn't awed or struck dumb by his grand ideas. He liked the fact that she seemed to cut through all his words to the essence of-of something. Of course he didn't agree with her, but he wanted to keep talking to her. He was curious about what she'd say.

By Friday morning, Abhay's elation at almost being free from temping had dissipated. What was he doing with his life? He felt as if he were one big itch that couldn't be scratched. He called Rasika at lunchtime but hung up without leaving a message.

On Friday afternoon he told Shavonne it would be his last day at the office, and asked her to go out for a drink with him at the Fox and Hound after work. Her enthusiasm didn't lift his mood. Shavonne drove. Her car smelled of the pine air-freshener that hung over the rearview mirror.

He wasn't sure how to behave. She clearly liked him and hadn't acted put off by the fact that he had no car. They settled at a table near the door and ordered beers. He had no idea what to talk about. He looked at Shavonne's large silver hoop earrings, which tapped against her cheeks every time she turned her head. He looked at her long shiny nails, painted with tiny designs.

"What're you thinking about?" Shavonne leaned forward and reached out a hand, which jingled with bracelets, to stroke his hand lightly. Her fingers were cool and firm, her smile intimate.

"How did you decide to work in a dentists' office?" he asked.

"I just got the job." She shrugged and giggled. "Daloris is my aunt, and she told me there was an opening."

"So . . . you like working there?"

"For the most part. The benefits are good. Free dental care, too. Why are you leaving?"

"It's not right for me."

"What kind of job are you looking for?"

He didn't want to go over his whole life story with Shavonne. He wanted to escape from that for a while. "Tell me about yourself." A waitress came by and deposited a basket of happy-hour popcorn on their table. Abhay helped himself to a handful of kernels. "Did you grow up around here?"

"Akron," Shavonne said. "I'm a Tiger."

This must be a reference to her high school mascot. "What kinds of things do you like to do for fun?" He wanted to find some connection with her, even if for only one evening, to take his mind off himself.

"I love to cook. And play with my cats. I sew. I made this blouse." She sat up straighter to display her work, and smiled proudly.

The blouse was purple with a V-neck and a spattering of purple blossoms sewn between the b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Nice," he said. It did look good on her. "Did you make the flowers, too?" he asked.

She looked down and fingered one of the round posies. "You make them with the same fabric as the rest of the blouse. You cut out circles and gather them. I'd never done anything like this before."

"Cute." He couldn't care less. "So. What about your future? What are you thinking in that department?"

She laughed. "You sound like a job interviewer." She shrugged. "I guess I'll keep working. I want to get married, of course. And have kids eventually." She gave him a sly smile.

The waiter arrived with their beers. Abhay grasped the handle of his mug and concentrated on drinking.

"What about you?" Shavonne asked. "What do you want for your future?"

"I'm trying to decide what to do next. I want to make the right decision, and I keep getting tangled up in my thoughts."

"I've seen you reading those career books at work."

"Yeah, nothing seems to make sense. Everything's cloudy up here." He tapped his head.

"Maybe the problem is that you're trying to answer all your questions yourself. Do you believe in G.o.d?"

He stiffened. He didn't want to talk about G.o.d with Shavonne. "Have some popcorn." He pushed the basket closer to her.

"Maybe you need to let a higher power guide you."

"Thanks, but I'm not interested."

Her smile disappeared. "OK." She picked up a piece of popcorn and crushed it in her fingers. "I was only trying to help." Her lips trembled a little.

"I'm sorry." He felt terrible. As he tried to think of something more comforting to say, he became aware of Rasika at the doorway. He stood up so quickly that he upset the popcorn basket, spilling kernels over the table and floor. He waved, and Rasika saw him and Shavonne. Rasika turned and strolled out the door. He sat back down but couldn't take his eyes away from the door.

After several seconds, he realized Shavonne was staring at him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Where were we?"

"Who was that?" Shavonne asked.

"Just an old family friend."

Shavonne brushed popcorn off her lap and stood up. "I saw the way you looked at her. You've seemed distracted all evening, and now I know why. I think it's time for me to go."

"I'm just . . . I'm sorry."

She dug a jangling bunch of keys out of her enormous handbag. "I'd offer you a ride, but I think you can take care of yourself."

He nodded and looked at his shoes as she and her keys and her bracelets jingled away from him. There was popcorn all over the table and the floor. He hoped Rasika would come back. He drank his beer slowly. Rasika did not return. He looked at Shavonne's beer, untouched. He left enough money for the drinks and tip, and started walking home.

He was soaked in sweat by the time he walked the few miles from the bar to his house. He felt somewhat better, as though his exertions made up for the way he had treated Shavonne. The house was quiet. His parents had gone to dinner at a friend's house, and Seema had a regular Friday-night babysitting job.

Without taking his shoes or backpack off, he picked up the phone extension in the kitchen, looked up Rasika's home number in the little address and phone book Mom kept in a kitchen drawer, and dialed. She answered on the first ring.

"Rasika, it's Abhay."

"I know. We have caller ID."

"Sorry about this evening. That woman . . . she was just someone from work. No one special."

No answer from Rasika's end.

"Why didn't you call me before?" he asked.

"I couldn't call you at your house. Your parents might answer."

"So?"

"You know the rules, Abhay. I'm not supposed to call men."

"Rasika, you're an adult."

A moment of silence. And then, coldly, "Do you want to see me or not?"

"Sure. Where?"

"Are your parents . . . ?"

"They're out for the evening."

"I'll pick you up in half an hour."

Chapter 5.