The Matchmaker's List

by Sonya Lalli

  I gestured toward Serena. “Why don’t we talk about you two, then?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You two seem pretty cozy.”

  “So?”

  “So when are you getting married?”

  “Funny, Raina.” His eyes glinted. “That’s what everyone here wants to know about you.”

  At the front of the hall, Shay and Julien stood up in front of their audience, waving and holding hands—the most public display of affection they were allowed in front of this sort of crowd. It was the first time I’d seen them that evening. She was wearing a harvest gold sari. Her eyes were painted, her black hair winding into a bow at the back of her neck, and Julien, dressed up in an embroidered kurta pajama, smiled down at her.

  “She looks wonderful, doesn’t she, Raina?” Serena asked me.

  “Yes,” I said, wineglass in hand. I surveyed the room: everyone paired off and smiling. “Absolutely wonderful.”

  * * *

  An hour later, the speeches continued as the backlog of Shay’s extended family were still toasting her and Julien at the podium. I was restless, my feet vibrating, and finally, I couldn’t take it. With a quick excuse to Zoey, I found my heels beneath the table and then snuck outside of the main hall.

  My throat was parched, and outside in the foyer I grabbed another drink and wandered around. Others had gathered outside, too, perhaps sick of the frills and gimmicks, the insincere congratulations and tears from everyone fighting over a chance at the microphone. The wedding was still eight months away, yet everyone inside was acting like they were already married, as if something was about to change. Everyone thought that Shay and I still lived together—that she rented my spare room, but the only thing in there was a rack of my winter coats, a few boxes of junk, and a treadmill. Shay and Julien already lived together. They had a mortgage together. They had stupid things like a butter dish and a garlic press. Matching bureaus they’d picked out together and bought on their joint credit card.

  And what did I have? Dates with men who told me to lose weight. A Nani who acted like she was disappointed in me because I refused to settle for a partner she’d arranged for me.

  I wanted to fall in love; who didn’t? But I wanted it on my terms. With a guy I got to choose. A man who accepted me for me, and wouldn’t expect me to raise our children on my own, or have a three-course Indian dinner prepared for him when he waltzed through the door.

  I wanted something real. A real partner. Not some random Indian guy who would look handsome standing next to me in a wedding photo. Was that too much to ask?

  From inside the main hall, I could hear Auntie Sarla speaking into the microphone, making a rambling speech about family and community and marriage. What gave her the right to stand up and tell people what was right and what was wrong?

  I moved farther away from earshot and examined the desserts. Carts of fruit, meringue and lemon pie; custards and salted caramel cheesecakes. Another cart full of Indian sweets. Lassi and gulab jamun and rasmalaii. My stomach felt unsettled just looking at all of it, and I grabbed a fistful of green grapes and walked onward. Just behind the dessert spread, I saw three long tables full of small sandalwood boxes, each hand carved with the name of a guest. Auntie Sarla had spent months organizing the shipment from India—delaying the engagement party for their arrival, even though surely everyone would be too drunk to remember to take one home, or would throw it in the trash as soon as it started to collect dust.

  I weaved through the tables, looking for my box, and just as I found it, something fierce blew in like a foghorn. She was singing. Auntie Sarla’s voice crescendoed, a throaty hum traversing the scales of a traditional Indian bhajan, and I couldn’t help myself. I snorted, needing to reach up to wipe my nose, as I tried to stifle my laughter.

  “I saw that.”

  I covered my face and whipped around. He was tall, much taller than me, his honey brown hair clumped behind his ears, a thick beard dripping down like moss. He smirked at me and rocked back and forth on his heels.

  “What? I sneezed.”

  “You sneezed.”

  “Yes, I sneezed.”

  “Well,” he said, rubbing his large hands together. “Then bless you.”

  Auntie Sarla was still singing, her voice blaring through the speakers. I pressed my lips together and started to turn away.

  “Wait,” he said. “You’re Raina. Shaylee’s best friend.”

  “I might be. And who are you?”

  He chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” His eyebrows arched high. “Although I wouldn’t have thought you were that kind of bridesmaid.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It just makes sense. Laughing at Sarla’s singing”—he motioned around the room with his hand—“pretending that this entire thing is funny.”

  I crossed my arms, my cheeks flushing. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying that while that sari looks beautiful on you, Raina, envy does not.”

  “I am incredibly happy for Shay, okay?”

  “Jealousy and being happy for a friend aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “What are you, a bumper sticker?” I moved to brush past him, and as I did, I caught hold of his scent. Like pepper and musk. Blackened greens and burned aluminum. Like Mom’s winter coat, or the sixth-floor fire escape in my and Shay’s old apartment.

  I stopped. “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “Are you high?”

  His idiot grin gave him away.

  “You can’t just come to an engagement party high, okay? Have you no respect?”

  “I wasn’t the one ‘sneezing’ at my best friend’s mom.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  He turned away from me, eyes laughing, and picked a box up off the table. Klein. Asher Klein.

  “Oh. Well that makes sense.”

  “Seems like you’ve heard of me.”

  I uncrossed my arms.

  “Come on now. What have you heard?”

  That he was Julien’s oldest friend from Montreal and, after years abroad, had just moved to Toronto. That he’d dropped out of teachers’ college a semester away from graduation. That he’d just gotten back from Southeast Asia after ten years of traveling and doing whatever it was that his type—the drifter—seemed to do.

  “That you existed,” I said flatly.

  “And does my existence”—he paused—“interest you?”

  “I’ll buy your story when it comes out in paperback.”

  “And in this story—am I the hero?” He smiled. “Do I get the girl in the end?”

  “You wrote it. You tell me.”

  “I think I do.” He nodded to himself. “Adventure. Thriller. Romance. It’ll be a bestseller.”

  “A regular Jack Kerouac.”

  “I’m handsome like Jack, aren’t I?”

  “You know he died from alcoholism?”

  He knocked his glass against mine. “He died a happy man.”

  I crossed my arms again. “So—Jack—what did you do while on the road? Bit of a drifter, were you? Bounced from hostel to hooker?” I touched his elbow. “Tell me. Have you gotten yourself checked lately?”

  “Gossip is a powerful thing, Raina.”

  I leaned up on my tiptoes, and whispered close to his ear, “So is herpes.”

  Asher laughed, and the creases around his eyes deepened. I could feel him looking at me, and my cheeks burned. Seconds passed, and he was still laughing, like I was the funniest thing in the world.

  “Done?” I asked after a moment.

  He nodded. “You’re—”

  “Hilarious, I know. But it’s
so easy to be funny around you,” I said, gritting my teeth. “A thirtysomething with nothing to show for himself—”

  “Better than being a thirtysomething drunk bridesmaid, don’t you think?”

  “I’m twenty-nine—”

  “Always the bridesmaid, never the—”

  But then I shoved him. Hard. He wobbled, nearly regaining his balance before toppling behind him and straight into a dessert cart. The metal trays clanged together as they spilled onto the ground and all over Asher. A few people standing nearby turned to look, and he picked himself up off the floor, his shirt a soppy swell of mango lassi and graham cracker crust.

  “Shit.” I covered my hands with my mouth. Had I just pushed him? I wasn’t sure I’d ever pushed anyone in my life. Asher slowly pulled himself onto his knees, and I stretched out my hand toward him. He took it, pulling on me lightly as he stood back up. I had to concentrate not to fall over, too, and I realized that Asher was right. I was drunk.

  * * *

  I ran toward the restroom. It was all too much. Everything—Nani and Auntie Sarla, Shay’s preoccupation with the wedding, work—it was boiling up and out, and I didn’t want any of it. I locked myself in a stall, the seafoam green walls spinning, and I flicked down the toilet seat lid. Sitting down, I took three deep breaths, and then opened my eyes.

  What was happening to me? What was I letting happen?

  I thought I might cry, but the tears refused to form. I wanted, I needed something—but I didn’t know what. I reached into my purse and found my BlackBerry. It was dead, and I resigned myself to the fact that I’d have to leave without telling Zoey. I couldn’t face going back inside that hall again. I would make it up to her.

  Outside, I slipped away from the main area and found a service staircase. I took off my heels, and toed my way down step-by-step, trying not to trip on my sari, my hand dragging behind me on the banister. I got to the last step and was about to push my way through the fire exit door when I heard a rustling behind me. I whipped around, thinking Asher had followed me. But instead, I saw a young, muscular blond, who I found vaguely familiar, rolling a cigarette on the landing behind me.

  He held my eyes as he licked the rolling paper. Then he slid the cigarette through his fingers, and stashed it behind his left ear.

  “It’s Raina, right?” he said, still holding my gaze. “I remember you.”

  I pressed my lips together, and shook my head.

  “I used to bartend at Eldorado. You came in a few months back with that jerk. Sachin.”

  Slowly, it came to me. The bartender who had given me the eyes and made me a stiff gin and tonic. I nodded in recognition. “What’s your name again?”

  “Josh.”

  I nodded. “Sorry.”

  “You should be. You ran away before I could steal you away.” He took a few more steps toward me, and suddenly, I felt self-conscious. Woozy. I put my arm back on the rail.

  “I just got off my shift. You leaving already?” Josh opened his jacket, and motioned to a bottle of gin wedged into his inside pocket. “I nicked this from the bar upstairs.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t rat you out.”

  He smirked. “Looked like a great party.”

  I shrugged. “It wasn’t so great.”

  “Oh?” He took another step down. He was inches away, and I could smell the cigarettes, the stench of beer and wine and detergent, his breath from whatever he’d had for dinner. “Then maybe we should start another one.”

  He seemed like such a cliché, but then again, wasn’t I? I held his gaze as he moved toward me, as he touched my neck with the very tips of his fingers. “Come home with me.”

  Josh up close was surreal. He was beyond attractive: blond, with a cheeky boyish grin and sculpted arms. He could have been a model. I would never be able to trust a man that handsome, but what he was suggesting wouldn’t require that kind of trust.

  My head pounded at the thought that, after only a few months of dating, I’d just crossed off the last name on Nani’s stupid list. Now what would happen? Now what would she make me do? I didn’t want to date. I didn’t want to get married. And right then, exhausted and overwhelmed, I wanted something else. I hadn’t ever been with anyone except Dev, and just looking at Josh, I thought about letting that change.

  Josh leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine. For a moment, I just watched him kiss me. Hungrily, the muscles expanding and contracting on his cheeks and forehead as he moved his mouth—and I, in turn, moved mine. He put his hands on my waist, and a second later, I felt them slide down to my ass as he pinned me against the rail. His stubble ground coarsely against me, his tongue prodded and his hands pulled, and eventually, I closed my eyes and surrendered.

  Josh—hotter than Nani’s chicken vindaloo (BUT ONLY 23!)

  * * *

  I was already standing by the door when he woke up. He lifted his face an inch off the pillow and squinted at me.

  “You’re leaving?”

  I nodded, and his head fell back on the pillow. I was sober now, filled with heavy guilt at having left Zoey at the party, and I noticed how his bedroom smelled like the inside of a hockey bag—how the walls were covered in creased Lord of the Rings posters. I vaguely remembered seeing them from just hours before—dim lighting, the bottle of expensive gin—teasing him for being a dork, while admitting that I, too, used to have those same posters. Later, falling back onto the bed, laughing so hard that one of his roommates banged on the wall and told us to shut up. Josh had smothered our faces beneath a thin pillow, and in a muffled voice, told me I was the most entertaining girl he’d ever had over.

  Most entertaining woman, I’d reminded him.

  He made a sleepy noise—a yawn, whimpering like a hungry puppy—and I sat back down on the bed. The flannel sheet crunched beneath my weight, and I wondered how long it’d been since its last wash. He rubbed his eyes, and then looked up at me smiling.

  “My phone’s dead. Could you call me a cab?”

  He propped himself up on one elbow, and I resisted the urge to rub the sleep out of his eyes. “I can drive you,” he said, kissing me on the lips. His mouth had crusted white overnight, and when I pulled away, I could still taste his morning breath.

  He drove me home, the late summer wind blowing in through the windows, a strange voice singing at me through the dashboard, a random wool sock hanging from the rearview mirror. The passenger seat belt was missing, and I tried not to grip the seat as we sped east on Queen Street. Outside my building, he asked me for my phone number, and I gave it to him, knowing he’d never use it—and surely, Josh knew I didn’t want him to. After one more dry kiss, he left.

  I took the elevator up, and sighed as I unlocked the door. My sari stuck to me, and I felt the grime on my teeth, my hair in greased pieces behind my ears. I found an extra charger in the kitchen and plugged in my BlackBerry, left a trail of clothing down the hall, and stepped into the shower. Standing beneath the pressure, I opened my mouth and drank until my stomach hurt.

  I closed my eyes, and tried to decide how I felt about what just had, and hadn’t, happened. Damp sheets. Josh’s eyelashes. Falling asleep with my head on his shoulder, both of his hands secured around my waist. The heat of a body at rest next to mine.

  I lathered, and then rinsed it all away. I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a fresh towel around my body, walked around the apartment and opened all of the curtains. The light flooded in. My phone had powered on, and it lit up in beeps and flashes. I grabbed it and scrolled through the alerts. I had missed calls from Zoey, Shay, and Nani—surely, each of them wondering where I’d disappeared to the evening before. I made a mental note to call them all back and then kept scrolling. Surprisingly, Depesh had texted, wondering if I was also at the engagement party. Feeling bad that I’d missed seeing him, I texted him back asking if he enjoyed his first week at university,
and then opened my work e-mails.

  I’d received seventeen since my phone had died the evening before. Not bad for a Saturday night. Two were from Bill, another six from other analysts on my team. Five were from clients. Another three were spam. And then, I saw it.

  My Raina,

  It’s been too long. There’s so much to say, but I suppose now isn’t the right time to say it. I’m not sure London is right for me anymore . . . if it ever was. There’s been some rearranging, and the transfer paperwork was filed today . . . Will start shortly at the Toronto office. I’ll see you then, darling.

  Dev xo

  EIGHT

  Autumn set in, but Nani’s hot stove kept out the cold. The countertops overflowed with baking sheets of raw chicken cut into cubes marinating in the masala she had taught me how to make. Onions, ginger, cumin, turmeric. Just the right amount of fresh coriander. Standing beside me, she guided me as I stirred the biryani and marinated the chicken, fried two vegetable subjis side by side on the back burners. It had been over a month since Dev told me he was moving to Toronto, and every weekend since, I’d come home to watch movies with Nani, or get cooking lessons to keep myself preoccupied.

  I still hadn’t figured out what it might mean. In the e-mail, he’d called me darling, and he hadn’t called me that since the weekend before I left London—while we made spinach and goat cheese omelets, and he’d said, sipping his espresso, “Darling, you take the one that hasn’t flopped over.”

  That morning had only just reappeared in my mind. Others, too—the ones I had been pushing away for two years. Mere flashes of our life in London. Kissing after hours at the office with the curtains drawn. Brunch with his friends in Covent Garden, his hand sliding up my thigh beneath the table. After months of begging, going on an afternoon date to the Victoria and Albert Museum because I’d never been; licking scoops of gelato and rolling our eyes at wedding dresses from the Renaissance. Standing next to him in a crowded elevator; Dev leaning into my neck, and whispering, “You know that I love you, right?”