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“Yes.” I banged my fist on the computer table.
The guy two seats over shot me a strange look. I didn’t care.
Morgan won. My heart was full for her. She deserved to celebrate, and not with mushy macaroni for dinner. I would get her something real to eat, something special.
I popped out my flash drive and headed out of the library feeling lighter.
Without knowing how I knew, I was certain the best deals in the city were in the regional areas. The food was better there, too. Authentic and full of soul. I headed straight for Little Asia.
The rich fragrance of warm cinnamon and cumin filled the air, along with hints of turmeric and coriander. A ghost of a memory sparked along the edges of my awareness.
Had I been here before? An itch in the back of my mind said I had.
I walked past storefront after storefront with colorful awnings and signs, each proclaiming their fare to be the best in the city. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but hope and a vague sense of familiarity propelled me forward.
The tiniest building in the row caught my eye. It was made of brick and the only signage was an open glass door and a window with an elephant decal on the front.
Above the door were two words formed of yellow plastic letters—Tandoori Spice.
This was the place I’d been looking for.
The scent of curry wafted through the open door, a spicy, slightly sweet fragrance that drew me in and made my mouth water.
I’d been here before, many times, long ago. I used to come with my mother.
The influx of memories bubbled up in my chest, nearly overwhelming me. Images flashed through my head—a woman with wavy black hair and a loving smile. That was my mother. The sound of remembered laughter filled my heart.
I went inside and stared at the menu until I found an item I recognized. Paneer tikka masala.
I hadn’t eaten it when I was little, but my mother always had. She’d give me both our shares of the bread, plus I’d pick out a few pieces of her cheese.
I ordered the paneer dish, plus the vegetable samosas based on their description, and headed back to the hotel. The memories ran through my head over and over again.
I focused on the image of her face, trying to capture more and more of the details I’d lost. She had freckles on her cheeks. I liked to pull gently on her curls and watch them bounce back up toward her face. She’d pluck the coriander leaf garnish from her dish and set them out like tiny decorations on the side of her bowl.
All of these new old moments and sensations belonged not only to the enigma that was Tristan No-last-name. They belonged tome.I couldn’t wait to share my discovery with Morgan.
When I reached our hotel room, I was surprised to see she was already there, busy setting something up at the little table with her back turned to me.
“Hey,” she called without turning. “I brought home sandwiches from craft services. All that was left was egg salad. I hope you don’t hate egg salad.”
I searched my recently expanding memory and found nothing on the subject.
“I’m not sure if I’ve had it before or not. I brought food, too.” I lifted the white bag with a little elephant on it for her to see.
She stopped what she was doing and turned to me.
She was wearing different clothes than she had worn on the show, trading a blouse and shorts for an oversized tee and leggings. Her hair was up in a big puffy knot and her face had a dewy glow. She looked comfortable and relaxed. She looked happy.
Her eyes lit up when she spotted the bag. “That smells amazing. IloveIndian food. What did you get?”
Before I could answer, she snatched the bag from my hand and set the packages on the table. She opened the bread, then the samosas, and finally the paneer dish.
“Samosas? How’d you know they’re my favorite?” she beamed at me. “Did Layana tell you?”
Her smile was so bright, her excitement so contagious, I felt like I was watching the sunrise after a lifetime in darkness.
“No. I hoped you’d like it, but I didn’t know,” I said, ignoring the ache in my chest. “I was walking by and I recognized the restaurant.”
