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“Do you really want to know? Because you don’t have to be polite with me. I don’t need that.”
Is that how he sees me? As always feigning interest? A big fake.
“No, I need to know,” I insist.
With Huan, the gaps gleam openly before me. There is a lot I don’t know that I want to know.Like, how about your dad? You mentioned your dad treated your sister in a treasured way. How about you? How did he treat you? And what about the mom you said left you for the States?
“Please,” I say. “I really want to know.”
“Okay. In Beijing, I did security analytics. But after Becca, it wasn’t enough. We needed to pay the leftover medical bills, and I needed my brain distracted, so I emailed one of our clients and applied to be a private security contractor. They were looking for new bodies, so I was hired.”
“Bodies? Like forwar?”
“Places with heightened tensions or logistical nightmares. Guarding trucks with supplies through a jungle. Embassy work. Rebuilding after a monsoon.”
“You must have been young.”
“Young, angry, and heavily motivated to run from my old life.”
I lean closer. “How was your dad with all this?”
Huan readjusts his watch, moving it slightly side to side. There is a faint smile on his lips. “After a few years, he faked a heart attack to get me home. Then he yelled at me, saying I’m disappointing him with my recklessness. That if I don’t stop pushing myself to the edge, he’ll have an actual heart attack.”
His dad loves him. I wonder how that feels. Since I’ve never had an official birth certificate, I’ve got no idea who mybiological dad is. There are no records of my life before I became Shreya Chahal’s daughter. Not having a dad or having lost a sibling or having to run away from painful grief, I can’t relate to Huan. What I’ve done in life is translucent in depth compared to his experiences.
All I can say, inadequately, is, “Your dad has mastered emotional blackmail.”
“He’s crazy good at it,” says Huan. “And I’m mostly glad because it knocked a bit of sense into me. Not a lot because I found I loved being in the field and not behind a computer—but enough that I diversified. Took smaller, safer jobs.”
“Why India?”
“My dad met a Punjabi divorcee who sells crochet work online. They moved in together, and I went along.”
“How long until you decided the relationship was real, and he wasn’t being taken advantage of?”
His eyes widen.
Yes, I see you.
Mr. Responsible and Caring.
“Almost immediately, but I wanted to be sure, so I watched for a few months.”
“How about after?”
“A firm that handles VIP security sent me an interview request. Apparently, my dad was applying on my behalf. I got annoyed, but he rolled his eyes and pretended to have chest pains when I complained. Told me I needed to stick around, just in case.”
There’s no holding back my laugh. “I think I like your dad.”
“To be fair, he was winking during the performance.”
“A real actor.”
“You can't ever encourage him. He would get so much worse if you reacted the way you do.”
I don't know what to say to that, for it implies wewillmeet, and that Huan’s life and mine intersect beyond professional capacity.
“Then you got us,” I say. “Going from spies and assassins and saving the world to babysitting Pollywood actors.”
