Blake leaned close, and his breath was sour in her face. “We both know I don’t have to worry,Samantha.”
When he walked away to make nice with one of the named partners, Bee had to remind her not to grind her teeth. Sameera sipped on her cranberry ginger ale instead, the one festive drink she looked forward to every year. But not even the sugary soda could put her in a good mood now.
Blake was right. Not only was he guaranteed a job by the power of nepotism, but he was also considered a future rainmaker because of his many finance-bro friends, who seemed to be in constant need of legal representation. If there was one thing law firms coveted more than billable hours, it was a stream of well-heeled clients with plenty of legal trouble.
Sameera’s superpower had always been her work ethic. She had been at the top of the leaderboard in billable hours for the past ten quarters. But for the past six months, she had trailed the pack.
“Are you sure you don’t know any obscenely wealthy people in need of commercial litigation advice?” Bee asked.
Sameera shook her head. She had grown up squarely middle class. Her family circle was upwardly mobile, but the only lawyerly services they ever needed were when they were buying a house or making a will—sadly, neither one her specialty.
“What about that Andy Shaikh guy? He’s rich as God. If you wrangled that whale, they’d make you a partner,” Bee said, and Sameera nearly choked on her drink.
“Not every Brown or Muslim person in Atlanta knows each other,” Sameera said. While she did not know Andy Shaikh personally, she definitely knewofhim. Sometimes described as the Warren Buffett of the trendy-food industry, Andy was a local legend for a chain of bubble tea stores that could now be found in every major city in the country.
“Mynonnadefinitely knows every Italian family in Georgia. These appetizers areamazing.Do you think your cater-waiter will bring us more?”
Sameera’s phone started to buzz, interrupting Bee’s ramble. Somehow, Sameera knew it was her mother before she glanced at thescreen. She considered her options: If she sent the call to voicemail, Tahsin would hit redial until her daughter picked up. If she did answer, Sameera would have to sit through a lecture about still being at work—and yes, holiday parties counted as work, in her mother’s estimation. Just last week, Tahsin had suggested Sameera give up the mortgage on her one-bedroom condo in Alpharetta and invest in a pull-out couch for her office instead.
It was true that she often didn’t return home until after midnight, but that was the life of an associate. Besides, the criticism was ironic coming from her mother. Tahsin had spent the bulk of her career in education—first as an elementary school teacher, then as a principal—and had worked all the time. However, Tahsin had retired last year, and now spent her time alternately bemoaning her lack of grandchildren and dropping unsubtle hints about at least one of her children completing their desi duty by getting married.
“Nadiya should get married first. She’s the eldest,” Sameera had countered more than once. Studious, serious Nadiya, two years older at thirty, was the golden child who never put a foot wrong. She was currently finishing up her PhD at Oxford, which she had decided to pursue after working at a nonprofit in Pakistan after undergrad. Every time they talked about Nadiya, her parents practically inflated with pride.
Sameera had a feeling their shoulders drooped a little when they spoke of her. But she would not dwell on what she had taken to calling “the lost years” in her mind: the three years in her life when she hadn’t spoken to her family at all. Things were better now. Her parents tried hard to mend the breach, and so did Sameera ... when she could find the time.
By the time this had all gone through her mind, her phone had stopped ringing. After a moment, it started buzzing again, and with a roll of her eyes at Bee, Sameera answered.
“Hi, Mom. I’m at the office. I can’t talk now.”
“Assalamu alaikum, Sameera. I thought we agreed you would start to leave work early. It’s nearly seven. Have you eaten dinner?”
Sameera looked at the wonton samosa in her hand, which definitely counted. “Yup.”
“What is that music? Are you at a party? I can barely hear you.” Her mother sounded suspicious. Ever since their uneasy reconciliation a few months ago, Tahsin couldn’t seem to stop probing Sameera for details about her life. As happy as she was to be back in touch with her family, she had not missed these intrusive questions.
Bee didn’t really get it; she had a great relationship with her mother and told her everything, including details about her sex life. If Sameera admitted to evenhavinga sex life to her Muslim mother, she was pretty sure they would both spontaneously combust from embarrassment.
Not that she would have much to report lately. She hadn’t felt any desire or interest in dating in over a year—not since Hunter had left. She hoped he was lying in a ditch somewhere.
“I’m at the office Christmas party,” Sameera said, but her mother again repeated that she couldn’t hear her, before telling her to call back once she found a quieter spot. Sameera looked around the crowded foyer, and briefly contemplated taking the elevator to her office on the sixteenth floor before deciding to duck into the kitchen instead.
The abrupt silence as the kitchen door closed behind her felt like a jolt of cold water, and Sameera breathed deeply, staring at her phone. How mad would Tahsin be, on a scale of one to pissed-off-aunty, if she “forgot” to call her back?
“Did you need a refill?”
The question caused Sameera to glance up guiltily. Cute Server stood by a long table, hovering over half a dozen trays of appetizers. He held a piping bag expertly, squeezing a bright-green garnish on the tops of delectable morsels. Her stomach rumbled, betraying her hunger.
“I was going to bring you some more samosas as soon as I was done with this. You and your friend are the only ones who seem to appreciate the spicy stuff,” he said.
“Firstly, those aren’t real samosas. And if you consider this spicy, you need to try my mother’s recipe,” Sameera teased.
“I’m always on the hunt for new recipes,” Cute Server said. “If you don’t need a refill, why did you follow me into the kitchen?”
“I wasn’t following you,” Sameera said, flushing.
He flashed her another smile, and her stomach gave a traitorous lurch. She was not here to flirt with handsome “cater-waiters,” she reminded herself. Still, at his beckoning look, she approached the table and admired his quick, efficient movements.
“What is all this?” she asked.
