Meera blinks. “Relax,” she says. “Not even Baba cares if you go over your break. You’re his favorite.” She squeezes into the space where Grace is hiding. “Whatcha doing?” she asks again.

Grace exhales. She still has to tell Meera and Raj. Soon. But she wants to call Yuki first.

“I have to make a phone call,” she says. “It’s mildly terrifying, and not for the normal ‘I have to talk on the phone’ reasons.”

Meera frowns. “Is it for a job?”

Grace sighs. “Don’t tell anyone this,” she says. “But I got an email from a recruiter. He said my research seemed impressive.” Grace’s initial joy at the interest had quickly turned sour as she kept reading. She deleted the email as soon as she was done, but it still leaves her bitter and angry. “He also had some questions about my listed membership with the Black STEM Group and the queer group I started in the astronomy doctorate program.” She shakes her head. “I’m trying not to think about jobs right now.”

“You know they’re full of shit, right?” Meera asks. She wraps an arm around Grace. “You deserve better than some place that doesn’t want you in all your glory.”

Grace turns her head so she can fully wrap herself in Meera’s hug. “Thank you,” she mutters into her kurti. Today the fabric is sun yellow and orange with stripes of green. It makes her look like summer. “Same goes for you. You’re going to be a dope-ass psychologist one day.”

“I know,” Meera says, smiling. “Okay, so it’s not a job that has you anxious right now.” She traces the inflamed nail imprints in Grace’s palms. “What is it?”

Sirens, Grace thinks. Girls who stand below the surface to sing you a song. They have flowers behind their ears. Their eyes are dark. They know you, the deepest part of you.

She doesn’t get to answer before her phone buzzes with a text.

Agnes
12:47 p.m.
did you do it
Agnes
12:47 p.m.
who am i kidding
of course you didn’t
Agnes
12:48 p.m.
DO IT
“Supportive as ever,” Meera says, reading the texts. She untangles herself, tidying up the errant strands loose from her braid. “I’ll cover for you, okay? Do the scary phone thing.”

“You don’t even know what it is,” Grace says. She frowns as Meera moves to leave. Maybe it would be easier with someone here, someone to hold her hand and coax the words up from the pit of her stomach.

“I have tact sometimes.” Meera shrugs. “Besides, the Grace Porter I know isn’t afraid of anything. I’m giving you some time to get your shit together before I bombard you with more questions. See how nice I am?”

“A saint,” Grace tells her, only kidding a little. “Thanks, M.”

Meera sticks her tongue out, and the kitchen door swings shut behind her.

The Grace Porter I know isn’t afraid of anything.

The Grace Porter Grace knows is afraid of many things. She is afraid of disappointing people. She is afraid of straying from her carefully curated life plan. She is afraid of being a brown, gold, bee-honey lesbian in an academic industry all too willing to overlook the parts of her that don’t make sense to them. She is afraid of hearing her rosebud girl on the other end of her phone.

But she is a Porter, and Porters do what needs to be done. She dials.

Someone answers, first with an unsure breath and then with a hesitant, “Hello?” and Grace is tongue-tied.

“Hello?” Yuki’s voice turns wary and impatient and she says, “Anybody there?”

Grace takes a deep breath, like one does before jumping into the water. “Hello,” she says. “This is Grace Porter.”

A silence. “Hi, Grace Porter. Do I know you?”

“You do,” Grace says. Her fingers clench around her phone. “We, um. We got married in Las Vegas?”

“Fuck,” Yuki says under her breath. “Hold on, okay? Jesus, just hold on. I thought you were a fucking bill collector, and I was ready to scam my way into debt forgiveness. I’m at work. Hold on.”

Grace holds on and hears the background noise of what sounds like a restaurant. There’s the faint buzz of a crowd, the clink of dishes and kitchen timers that remind Grace of the ones at the tea room.

“Can you cover for me?” Yuki says to someone. “For like fifteen minutes. Yeah, I need that long, Christ.” A door creaks, and there’s the noise from outside. Wind and car horns and foot traffic. “New Yorkers,” Yuki mutters. “You don’t live here, right?”

Grace blinks. “No,” she says, settling into the crook of her little corner. “I live in Portland. I don’t really think it’s the same.”

“It sounds like a dream,” Yuki says, a little laugh catching over the line. “So, Grace Porter. I’m guessing you know my name?”

Grace nods and remembers Yuki can’t actually see her. “Yeah. Yes. I, um, I looked up your show. Your radio show.”

Yuki whines. “That’s humiliating,” she says. “I left you that note and my business card like a total asshole. I don’t even know why I have business cards. I think there might have been a discount.”

Out front, Meera and Baba Vihaan laugh. There’s the faint clank of teacups against saucers, and for a moment it’s like Grace and Yuki are in the same space. They are in the same kitchen with the same plates clinking against each other.