A Billionaire for Christmas
Her tablet was propped against a stack of medical school textbooks. She had been reviewing a biochemical pathway involved in muscle contraction, which concerned calcium concentration and ionic dynamics.
It was just a video chat. It was just an informative exchange with an option. It wasn’t the final conversation they would have. No one needed to make a decision right away.
The lighting fixture glowed above her, the only source of light in the whole apartment. Somewhere in the darkness, her couch and the television sat in the living room.
A text message blinked into the side panel. Ready whenever you are.
Raji sighed and tapped the button to open the call.
On the screen, the video camera focused on a young woman wearing a traditional, wrap-around Indian sari and a whole lot of gold jewelry. The vibrant turquoise silk of the sari reminded Raji of Peyton’s eyes. “Hey, Aarthi.”
“Hi, Raji-ma. It’s good to talk to you after so long, cousin. How are you?” On the screen, sunlight streamed around Aarthi. It was almost midnight in California, but it was a bright, sunny morning in India.
Raji said, “Fine. I’m fine. How’s the baby problem going?”
Aarthi pressed her voluptuous lips together, and her hands extended forward like she was trying to reach through the laptop and strangle Raji.
Raji sat back in her chair to avoid Aarthi’s grasping hands, but the image on the screen blurred and froze as Aarthi carried the computer or tablet to another room.
The image steadied, and Aarthi’s face and large eyes, lined with black eyeliner, were much closer as she whispered, “Who put you up to asking this? Lalita-auntie?”
“No one.”
“Then why you are asking?”
“I’m pregnant. It was an accident, and I was kind of wondering if you would want—”
“Yes,” Aarthi said, her gaze intent on Raji’s face through the cameras and screens.
“But you don’t even know—”
“Yes,” Aarthi said again. “Thank the gods, yes. I will bless your name a thousand and one times and do archana puja every day for you for twenty and one years.”
Raji leaned closer as if someone could overhear her. “You should know, though. The father is white.”
“I don’t care,” Aarthi said.
“I mean, he’s really, really white. His eyes are blue-green. He’s blond. This kid could be the lightest half-Indian you’ve ever seen. It might have brown hair. Maybe even lighter.”
“I don’t care.” Aarthi emphasized every word.
“He is tall. He’s one hundred ninety-three centimeters.”
“Wonderful. Not necessary, but wonderful. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“It’s way too early to tell. Is that a problem?”
“No. It is no problem. I don’t care, one way or the other. I don’t care if the baby has physical or mental problems or is half-white or what gender they are or if there are two of them or if they have three heads or flippers or anything. I would like to know whether to buy little tiny salvar kameez or little tiny dhoti, but I don’t care which one I will buy. I mean it, though. I will bless your name a thousand and one times and do archana for you every day for twenty and one years if you give us a child.”
It would be kind of gratifying to help Aarthi, who so desperately wanted a child. It was going to be a tough sevenish months, but at least at the end, Aarthi would get the baby for which she had been praying for years.
Aarthi continued, “Thank you so much, Raji-ma. You will never know how terrible this has been for years, now.” Tears wobbled in her large, dark eyes. “You have made me so happy. This is everything to me.”
Raji’s heart dropped, and her arms wrapped around her still-flat stomach. “I’m so happy for you.”
Aarthi clutched the screen to her chest, sobbing, which meant that Raji’s screen showed darkness and occasional flashes of blue silk, gold jewelry, and boobs.
Raji got it, though.
She felt the hug.Chapter Thirty-FiveSecond ProposalA week later, Peyton held his phone to his ear, cupping his hand around the speaker so that no one walking down the hallway or in the apartments would overhear him.
He asked Raji, “Will you marry me?”
Over the phone, Raji said, “Peyton—”
The way she said it, drawn-out and sighing with regret, made his heart clench. He said quickly, “I’m sorry I just blurted it out in bed last time. That wasn’t the proposal you deserve.” Peyton chuckled. “It certainly wasn’t a story we could tell our kids or friends.”
This was the story they could tell their friends and kids: that when she said yes to him over the phone, she would open her apartment door and find him right there on one knee, holding a ring.
“That’s not it,” she said.
He rushed to say, “We’ve been dating for over two years. Every time I see you, it breathes life into me. When I’m touring, the first thing I do every morning, before I even get out of bed, is check our shared doc to see if you’ve updated your schedule so we can find some time to be together. When we video chat—”