Invisible Lives by Anjali Banerjee Read Free Book Online Page A

unnecessary information.
    “Oh, Mr. Basu!” My face heats.
    “Let me take a look,” Nick says.
    “No need,” I say.
    “Yes, look, look!” Mr. Basu turns, and Nick follows him into the back office. I’m right behind them, my heart fluttering in funny, fast beats. “It’s really not necessary—”
    But he’s already moving through the office, his bulk incongruous in the small space. Mr. Basu is leading him past the piles of paper on my desk, the pictures of family, the half-eaten sandwiches, the dirty coffee machine, and into the bathroom, which also needs to be cleaned, my lotion sitting on the sink, a box of tampons on the toilet tank. It’s like having a stranger in your house when you haven’t had time to tidy up.
    “Got tools?” Nick asks. How can he be so calm when there’s a steady but thin stream of water pouring from the cabinet below the sink?
    “Tools?” Mr. Basu and I say in unison.
    “Yeah, tools. You know, wrenches and screwdrivers.”
    “Tools in janitor’s closet,” Mr. Basu says.
    “We’ll call our handyman,” I say. “No need to—”
    “I can handle it,” Nick says.
    Mr. Basu disappears and returns with a red metal box, the tools clanking around inside, weighing down his arm. Nick takes the box and holds it with ease, as if it’s a loaf of bread. Ma rushes in, and her eyes widen. “Oh, no! What’s happened in here, Bibu?” She looks at me, then at Nick, and her brows furrow with disapproval. “What’s he doing here?”
    “He’s offered to help, Ma.”
    “What have you done, Bibu?” Her voice has a serrated edge.
    “I didn’t do it!” I shout.
    Ma’s eyes narrow at me. “Call the plumber.”
    Mr. Basu gives her the spiel, while Nick gives me a half smile, those blue eyes amused. I’m wearing glasses and a ponytail, like a schoolgirl, and my mother is calling me Bibu, and we’re standing in a lake in our messy bathroom. Well, Mr. Nick, see how much time you have for house-cleaning when you have to balance the books, stock saris, measure customers for custom-made outfits, and grin at the Mrs. Dasguptas of the world all day. Never mind trying to find a perfect Bengali husband and catapult the shop into the Fortune 500 in the next three months.
    “I can fix it, ma’am,” Nick says, shifting his gaze to my mother.
    “Thank you,” Ma breathes, and then her gaze dismisses him. “We’ll pay you appropriately.”
    I’m thrown back to India, where Ma renders rickshaw drivers invisible with a wave of her hand.
    Nick puts the toolbox on the toilet seat, whips off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves to reveal muscular arms with a hint of blue tattoos beginning above both elbows. Tattoos? What kind of man is this?
    Mr. Basu brings a pile of towels and we mop the floor.
    Nick gets down on his back on a towel, easing himself into the cabinet.
    The phone rings shrilly, drilling through my ears.
    “I’ll get it.” Ma waves an arm at Mr. Basu, and they both disappear into the shop.
    “Do you always fix plumbing wherever you go?” I ask Nick.
    “If the pipes break,” he says in a muffled voice. “Hand me that screwdriver.”
    I kneel and peer into the cabinet. As he messes with the pipes, his sleeves ride up his arms, revealing muscles and more of the tattoos—one barbed wire, the other a dream catcher.
    Did the tattoos hurt? Did he show off to his girlfriend? He must lift weights with those muscular arms.
    Translucent suds of emotion fizz in the air, but they’re not coming from Nick.
    They’re coming from me!
    What’s going on? What does this mean? I’ve never seen bubbles like this. For a crazy moment, I’m sure he can see the pink foam surrounding me.
    “Pass me that wrench,” he says. “Ms. Sen?”
    “Oh, sorry!” I fumble in the toolbox.
    “That one on the left.”
    I hand him the wrench.
    He finishes screwing something on and the water stops flowing from the pipe, just like that. He slides out of the cabinet and stands, looking bigger than he did