12: Permission to Stay

Bharath stood in front of the mirror, fidgeting with the collar of his only clean button-down shirt. His hair was neatly combed, his shoes were shined, and there was a new, visible bandage peeking out under his sleeve — a reminder of both his recent heroics and his complete lack of sense.

Behind him, the room buzzed with chaotic support.

“You sure you don’t want to wear cologne?” Jorge asked, spraying something citrusy in the air. “Nothing strong. Just ... enough to say ‘I won’t knock up your daughter in the kitchen.’”

“I have Wild Stone, macha.”

“That ain’t cologne,” Ravi muttered.

“Better than showing up smelling like panic sweat.”

“I don’t smell like—” Bharath started.

“You smell fine, man,” Tyrel cut in, tossing a baseball cap aside. “But that”—he pointed dramatically at Bharath’s anxious pacing—”that’s what’s gonna get you eaten alive.”

Bharath turned to them, arms stiff at his sides. “She’s Cuban. She’s Catholic. She works three jobs. And Marisol disappeared for two days and came back saying I’m ‘the one.’ She’s going to hate me. I really hope my Wild Stone works for me.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Jorge deadpanned, “you’re deeply screwed.”

“Ayyo swamy, (Oh God!)” Bharath muttered under his breath.

Ravi stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Listen. This isn’t about impressing her mom. This is about showing her you’re the same Bharath that Marisol fell for. Which is to say: kind, respectful, brave, and apparently capable of satisfying a Latina woman who once said she’d rather die than date an engineering major.”

“Wait, what? When did she say that?”

“Long story. You broke her streak,” Jorge said. “We’re all proud.”

Tyrel stepped forward, jingling something in his hand.

“Here,” he said, dropping a pair of jangling keys into Bharath’s palm.

Bharath blinked. “What’s this?”

“My truck. Marisol can drive. If things go south, you two can bounce faster than her mama can light a votive candle.”

Jorge raised a brow. “You’re lending him the pickup?”

Tyrel nodded solemnly. “If he survives la jefa, he’s earned it.”

Bharath stared at the keys like they might self-destruct. “I don’t even know how to unlock your truck.”

“She does,” Tyrel grinned. “And it’s full of gas. Just don’t scratch her. That’s my main girl.”

“Thanks,” Bharath said faintly.

“You got this, man,” Ravi added. “Just remember: eye contact. Firm handshake. No nervous jokes about mango juice or Star Trek.”

Bharath groaned. “Why would you say that out loud?”

“Because I know you,” Ravi grinned. “And I’ve seen the way you look when you panic. It’s the same face you made when the cafeteria ran out of your favorite cereal.”

“Not helping.”

Jorge crossed his arms. “Final checklist. Shirt ironed?”

“Yep.”

“Teeth brushed?”

“Obviously.”

“Condoms not in your wallet?”

“What?!”

“Just checking.”

Tyrel laughed, slapping Bharath on the back. “Go getter, tiger. And if it goes bad—don’t come back. We can’t take your shame.”

Bharath gave them a withering look. Then inhaled deep.

He glanced at his reflection again, then at the keys in his hand. The girl he loved was waiting downstairs. Her mother was waiting on the other side of town.

He was going in.

“Wish me luck,” he muttered.

“Don’t need it,” Ravi said, smiling. “You’re Bharath. You’ve already won.”

The engine of Tyrel’s pickup growled low as they turned off the expressway onto the familiar neighborhood streets of Marisol’s part of town — the old brick ranch homes, the cracked sidewalks, the occasional whirr of a child’s bicycle wheel spinning out of sight.

Marisol gripped the wheel like it was trying to escape her.

Her hair was up in a high ponytail now, earrings swaying with every sharp turn, her tank top hidden under a light jacket — one she hadn’t stopped adjusting since they got in the truck.

“Okay,” she said, voice fast and tight. “First of all, don’t call her señora. That makes her feel old. Just call her ‘ma’am’ or maybe ‘Mrs. Rivera’—but not if she corrects you.”

Bharath opened his mouth.

“And don’t talk too much about India at first. She’ll ask, but don’t lead with it. She gets weird about cultural stuff—not racist, just ... cautious.”

“Okay—”

“And sit up straight. But not like ... robot straight. Like confident straight. But still humble. Like you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I did nothing wrong.”

“But she doesn’t know that!” Marisol snapped, eyes darting from the road to him and back again. “She thinks I’ve been holed up with a boy who could be a drug dealer or a pyramid scheme recruiter, and you’re just—so nice that it’s going to look fake.”

Bharath blinked. “A pyramid scheme—?”

“Also, if she offers cafecito, say yes. But don’t actually drink more than a sip unless you want to ascend to the astral plane. That shit is nuclear.”

“Should I bring up that I got stabbed—?”

“No! Absolutely not. Are you insane?! That makes you look reckless. Romantic, but reckless.”

“Right. Okay.”

“And she might talk to you in Spanish. Just nod if you don’t understand. Don’t try to speak back unless it’s an emergency or she starts praying out loud.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Do I nod like ... respectfully?”

“Oh my God, yes, but not like a bobblehead. Just—”

She slammed the brakes a little too hard at a red light. Bharath lurched forward and caught himself on the dashboard. He looked at her — really looked.

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, breathing too fast.

This wasn’t just nerves.

This was full-blown panic.

He reached over and gently took one of her hands off the steering wheel, lacing his fingers through hers. She resisted for a second, then let her hand rest in his.

“Marisol,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him.

He leaned closer.

“Chellam,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

Her eyes finally met his, uncertain and shimmering.

“You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” he said. “You fight for what you want. You protect who you love. You see people. And tonight, I get to show your family how much I love you. That’s all that matters.”

Her lips parted in a tremble.

Before she could overthink again, he leaned in and kissed her.

Not hungrily. Not teasingly.

Just soft. Present. Real.

A kiss meant to slow the world.

She melted into it like she was made for that moment — like her panic had been waiting for permission to dissolve.

When he pulled back, she was smiling.

“Goddamn,” she breathed. “You really do have a gift for shutting me up.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to be fine. We are going to be fine.”

She nodded, still dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

Then she blinked. “Wait — did you just call me chellam again?”

Bharath smirked, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “You remembered.”

Her voice dropped, flustered again. “I don’t know what it means, but it makes my knees weak.”

He grinned wider. “Good. It means darling or sweetheart.”

“Oh! I like that!”

As the light turned green, she squeezed his hand once more before letting go and returning both to the wheel — her breathing now steadier, her shoulders finally dropping.

“Okay,” she said, voice lighter. “But if she breaks out the rosary, we’re out. Deal?”

“Deal.”

They drove on — toward a meeting neither of them were quite ready for, but both were willing to face, for each other.

However, Marisol felt a rising dread as they neared her house. She wasn’t just worried about whether her mother would approve. She was terrified of what it would mean if she didn’t — not just for Bharath, but for everything they were building together. And for once, she didn’t feel like rebelling. She just wanted them to meet, to see what she saw.

The truck idled in the narrow driveway, tires crunching against gravel. Marisol sat behind the wheel, chewing her lower lip, her knee bouncing with nervous energy.

Bharath sat beside her in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly in his lap, heart pounding but face composed.

The house in front of them was painted a fading sky blue, the trim carefully whitewashed. A Virgin Mary statue peeked from between overgrown ferns on the porch, framed by sun-bleached wind chimes that barely stirred in the evening air. A tangle of ivy climbed up one side of the mailbox, which leaned slightly forward like it was tired too.

Marisol took a deep breath. “Okay. Ground rules.”

Bharath blinked. “Again? Didn’t you tell me a bunch of stuff already?”

She turned to him sharply, brown eyes wide. “Yes! Number one: Do not try to be charming. My mom’s immune. It’ll make her suspicious. Number two: don’t talk too much. She hates guys who ramble. And number three—”

“I won’t touch you unless she tells me I can,” Bharath said, voice completely serious.

Marisol blinked. “Wait, what?”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “I’ve seen enough Tamil movies. Angry mothers are worse than goons with knives.”

Despite herself, she laughed.

Then a beat passed. Her smile faded. Her hand crept toward his.

“I just ... I don’t want her to think I’m being reckless,” she said, suddenly small. “That you’re just some phase.”

Bharath reached over and took her hand in his.

“I’m not.”

For a moment, his mind flicked back — to Amma setting out mango thogayal on a steel plate, to Appa waiting to speak until everyone had been served. Love in his house had never been loud. But it had always been steady. Present. Earned.

He didn’t know if he could live up to that kind of dignity. But he was going to try.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then slowly nodded.

They stepped out of the truck, gravel crunching underfoot, and made their way up the porch stairs. Marisol’s hand found his again. Tightly, this time.

She rang the bell.

A few seconds passed. Then the door opened.

Maria Rivera stood there in the entryway, silhouetted against the warm yellow light of the hallway.

She looked tired. Like the kind of tired that never quite went away. Her eyes — sharp, dark, and skeptical — landed on Bharath first. He saw the subtle scan. Shoes. Shirt. Posture. Clean-shaven. Not a smirk in sight.

Her worry sat on her shoulders like armor.

Bharath’s mouth opened before his brain could fully intervene.

“You’re ... very beautiful, ma’am,” he said.

Marisol let out a tiny gasp, her fingers tightening around his.

But Bharath didn’t notice. Or rather, he did — but not the way most guys would.

He wasn’t flirting. Not even trying to impress.

His voice was soft. Sincere. Eyes wide with the same reverence he had the first time he saw a lit temple gopuram at dusk.

“It’s just ... when I saw Marisol for the first time, I thought she had the kind of face you don’t forget. I didn’t understand it then. But now I do. She looks like you.”

Maria blinked.

Once.

Then again.

The muscles around her mouth twitched — like something inside her had softened, uninvited — before her walls slammed back up behind her eyes.

“Come in,” she said curtly, stepping aside.

Bharath bowed slightly as he entered. “Thank you.”

Marisol followed him slowly, heart hammering, her brain reeling from what just happened.

Because that face. That exact stunned-not-stunned look on her mother’s face...

That was the same one Marisol herself had worn the night at the Hispanic mixer.

No game. No charm.

Just ... truth.

Just the way he saw the world.

She had been braced for awkwardness. For stiff introductions and muttered pleasantries. But somehow, Bharath had disarmed the fiercest woman she knew with a single sentence — not by being clever.

By being himself.

And just like that, she remembered why she fell so hard for him in the first place.

Not because he chased her.

But because when she stopped running ... he was already there, waiting. Seeing her. And now — somehow — her mother had caught a glimpse of that too.

She watched the boy walk past her, head slightly bowed, back straight, shoes still clean despite of Atlanta’s cracked sidewalks.

Indian. That’s what Marisol had said.

But if she didn’t already know? He could’ve passed for Cuban. Or Colombian. Maybe even Puerto Rican if he didn’t open his mouth.

Still — she could tell. Something about his eyes. Quiet. Watching. Too still for an eighteen-year-old.

No boy that polite wasn’t hiding something. Or had been broken.

That put her on edge.

She closed the door behind them and followed them into the living room, watching the way he stood by the sofa — like he was waiting for permission to sit. Like he’d been taught to show respect before assuming comfort.

That made her pause.

She’d seen boys that her dated her daughters or hoped to date them walk into her house with their chests puffed out, their words soaked in cologne and swagger, ready to perform. Smooth ones. Flashy ones. Empty ones.

This one?

He looked like he didn’t know how to perform. Although his cologne did smell funky and not in a good way.

And worse — he didn’t even look like he wanted to perform.

Maria crossed her arms and stayed by the archway, eyes flicking to Marisol.

Her daughter. Her first. Her miracle. Her lioness. The reason she pulled double shifts and ate cereal for dinner and still had the nerve to dream of a retirement she’d never afford.

Marisol — who once climbed the roof at age ten just to prove girls could fly.

Now standing next to this stranger with her fingers laced in his like they were made that way.

Maria’s stomach tightened.

She didn’t want her daughter to fall the way she had. To give her soul to someone who’d leave once the charm ran out. She didn’t raise her to become somebody’s “ride or die” when she was born to be somebody.

Still...

The boy’s words echoed in her ear:

“You’re very beautiful, ma’am ... When I saw Marisol for the first time, I thought she had the kind of face you don’t forget. I didn’t understand it then. But now I do. She looks like you.”

She’d been ready to shut him down. Had her polite smile and flat ‘gracias’ loaded and ready.

But he caught her off guard — not by being clever. By being honest.