by Sonya Lalli
“Yeah,” he said, “I know.” He plucked a Cheeto from the bowl and stared at it. “We started a family so young and had to grow up so quickly, sometimes I think we didn’t have time to grow up at all.”
Wasn’t that the truth? While he looked away, she considered his face. His kind eyes and perfect smile. His slight, rather charming double chin, the way his head was pointing down.
“I don’t want you to beat yourself up over what happened,” he said. “It’s in the past.”
“Still,” she said, “I shouldn’t have just left like that—”
“Really, it was OK. It was only a week, Anush. And anyone who asked, like Kanika’s teacher, Sara, I said you were away visiting family. I knew you were coming back. Kanu knew you were coming back.”
Her stomach curdled. They’d had faith she would come back, even though, fleetingly, Anu hadn’t had that faith in herself. “Didn’t Kanika wonder why I didn’t even call?”
He sipped his drink again, and her cheeks burned. He wasn’t answering because he didn’t want to hurt her. Of course Kanika had asked about Anu and profoundly felt her absence.
Anu was her mother. Her mother. Anu considered how paralyzing it felt—often, it still felt—to be so far away from Lakshmi. She was thirty. What must Kanika have felt? Anu wanted to cry just thinking about it: How much pain must she have caused?
“Anyway,” Neil started, pushing his glass to the side. He flicked through the pile of papers in front of him, a stack of business card templates, the neon green class schedule of a rival studio Monica had surreptitiously plucked from its front desk.
“Anyway,” she repeated.
Now he would ask for the divorce. Now one hard conversation was out of the way, and another one was about to begin. She kept waiting for him to say something, but he seemed to be distracted, fixated on the schedule.
“What is it?”
He rubbed his hand along his jaw, squinting at the page. “I was just thinking. . . . Those nights when Monica and Jenny were busy, after Kanika went to bed, when I was”—he shook his head—“doing whatever I was doing . . . you never went to a yoga class, did you?”
She shook her head, unsure what he was getting at. “No. Most studios don’t have have classes later in the evenings on Fridays and Saturdays.”
He leaned forward, nodding now, spreading his palms and fingers wide on the table. “You want to distinguish yourself, don’t you? Anush, that’s exactly my point.”
* * *
• • •
He poured them another whiskey, and then one more after that. Neil’s point had struck a chord in her, and pretty soon the ideas wouldn’t stop coming.
Why couldn’t she hold classes on weekend nights, just because nobody else seemed to? She could brand them “Ladies’ Nights In.” Charge double and throw in a glass of wine or coconut water at the end, a mindfulness session, leave the space open afterward for women to socialize. Weren’t her adult friends always complaining to her how hard it was to meet other like-minded women outside of work? It was exactly what they needed.
She asked Neil aloud why her business had to conform to the same old yuppie demographic at all; they had enough studios pandering to them. She could hire wellness professionals and use the room to run courses on mindfulness, meditation, and breathing for any age group. Or even family-friendly beginner yoga classes, maybe weekday afternoons when the usual yoga crowd was at work or in class.
And what about yoga classes just for kids? Neil asked. On her laptop, he pulled up an article he’d found on Twitter a few months back on the benefits of yoga and mindfulness for children, how some more progressive schools were even implementing them as a form of detention. What if Anu held kids’ yoga classes in the late afternoon, those few hours right after school? She could market them to schools in the area directly.
Neil logged in to the admin page of the website Imogen had created, and in a few clicks, he linked everything to the studio’s social media accounts to increase SEO—which, Neil explained, would increase traffic to the website. She was in awe. With a little paint and a fresh idea, this studio could really work. She didn’t have to try to build something better than her competition.
Without breaking down the old, Anu could create something new.
“Whoever did this did a good job,” Neil said, clicking away on the back end of the website.
“My friend,” Anu said quietly, thinking again of Imogen. “Imogen. She did do a great job.”
“The only suggestion I have is”—he pointed to a text box—“that we integrate the payments systems with the online-booking tool. What do you think?”
She leaned forward. Half the screen was black, covered in green HTML code like in The Matrix.
“It sounds great, but you have so much on your plate already. . . .”
“It’s easy. Don’t worry. It’ll only take me a minute.” He leaned back suddenly, and his shoulder briefly rested against her forearm. She recoiled. When had the kitchen gotten so hot?
“Do you want dinner?” she asked, rushing to the fridge. Suddenly, she was starving and aware of how many whiskey and Cokes she’d drunk. “It’s the least I could do after all this.”
“I didn’t do much, Anush. It was all you.”
“It was a team effort. . . .” She trailed off, saddened. She and Neil had never been a team.
“See, done already.” He smiled, standing up.
“Thank you.” Her hand gripped the handle on the fridge door for balance. “Now what can I make you? Is saag paneer still your favorite?” Of course it remained his favorite. It was both their favorites.
“With rice or roti?”
“You may have just saved my business, so you can have it with whichever you like.”
“Mom always serves it with roti.” He walked over to her. “She taught you how to make it, didn’t she?”
“That she did.”
“Well, instead of cooking for me, would you teach me?” He shrugged. “I think it’s about time I learned how to make it, too.”
* * *
• • •
They’d never used to cook together. The rare day she was away in the evening, and neither of their mothers had dropped by, Neil had made do with frozen pizzas or a preroasted chicken from the local supermarket.
Now he was chopping coriander like a pro and taking notes on his phone, jotting down the ratio of cumin to spinach and broccoli, and the exact point at which to add the tomatoes. When her hands were sticky from the soft cheese, he held up the whiskey to her mouth—straight whiskey now; they’d run out of Coke—so she could take a sip, teasing her. Laughing with her.
Had it ever really been like this between them? Surely, it must have been. In university, those first sweet weeks of summer when exams were over and before they started their summer jobs, and there was nothing better to do than fan themselves out on an itchy polyester blanket in Stanley Park and drink warm beer from brown paper bags. Make out behind the girth of the red oak trees, in case any Indian bystanders were looking. Stare into each other’s eyes and know, without a shadow of a doubt, that both of them wouldn’t rather be anywhere else than right there.
The sudden intimacy of the situation startled her, and she went to the sink and washed her hands. When she turned around, Neil was stirring the saag as it simmered on the stove.
What would Paula think if she knew he was cooking with his ex? That he was acting this way with his ex?
Her cheeks were flushed, and the whiskey had made the whole room warm. Her hands shook as she reached for a tea towel to dry her hands.
The moment waxed and waned, and when he looked over at her, she knew it needed to stop. Why was she doing this to herself? And how could he do this to Paula?
She cleared her throat, gesturing him to step aside as she opened the oven so she could take out the roti.
&n
bsp; “Everything all right?” he asked, as if sensing her shift in mood, her desperate attempt to neutralize the situation.
“Yep.” She turned off the stove. “Plates?”
He grabbed two plates, and they served up the food. Her heart was beating fast. She wished they hadn’t drunk so much.
“Where are you off to after this?” she asked as they took their plates to the table.
“Nowhere. Just home. I’m not in a rush, though. Auntie Jayani is home with Mom tonight.”
“You don’t have plans with . . .” She trailed off, incapable of saying her name. She hadn’t had to say her name out loud before.
“No.” Gently, expertly, he tore off a piece of roti with one hand. “Paula and I broke up.”
They broke up?
Her heart dropped into her stomach as she tried her best to keep her face calm, her nerves calm. “Oh?” Where was her drink? Why had she finished her stupid drink?
“Yeah,” he continued, “a few days ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
She could tell he was staring at her now, and she wished she was sitting another chair length away from him.
“I wasn’t ready to . . . commit . . . I suppose. Not in the way she wanted.”
Anu stood up because at that moment she needed to move, pump the oxygen through her body. She fetched a jar of mango pickle from the fridge, even though neither of them particularly liked achar with this meal, and then she sat back down. “I guess,” she said, finally, twisting off its lid, “that’s a very mature thing to do.”
“I know.” He laughed. “Who would have thought that word was in my vocabulary?”
“Neil, I didn’t mean—”
“But you know it’s true.” He shrugged, dipping the torn piece of roti into the saag. He brought the first bite to his lips. “Wow. Anush, it tastes just like Mom’s.”
“Well, it is her recipe—” She stopped short. Was he crying? His empty fork poised midair, she couldn’t read his face the way he was bent away from her. She reached for his hand, and without looking up, he grabbed hers.
“Mom’s doing just fine. She’s getting through this.” Anu squeezed his fingers. “I’ve never met someone so tough.”
Neil nodded, wiped his face. “You have no idea.”
Anu glanced out the window. It was darker now, and with the fog like that, she could only see the faint glow of the streetlight in the alley opposite.
He laughed. “Sorry. I must have had one drink too many.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without her. It’s been . . .” He trailed off, because there was no need to finish. Of course, she of all people understood how close Priya and Neil were, how before Anu they’d had no one but each other.
Wasn’t that the reason he never traveled for longer than a few weeks at a time, why he had turned down a life in Silicon Valley when the job offers used to pour in? Why they’d bought a house a ten-minute drive away from her and done everything she’d ever asked of them?
Only now did she understand more than ever.
“I know, Neil.” She could feel him watching her face as she lowered her eyes. “I know about your dad.”
“What do you know?”
“She told me the truth.” Anu flicked her eyes back up. “She told me your dad left.”
He stood up in a rush and marched into the guest room, closed the door behind him. Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t follow him. Instead, she tried to steady them with her breath, tearing a piece of roti with her fingers.
Was he coming back? She watched the clock, and five minutes later, she couldn’t wait any longer. Opening the door, she found Neil sitting on the foot of the bed, his head in his hands.
“Can I come in?”
He nodded, drying his face with his sleeves. She didn’t bother flicking on the light before going to sit next to him.
“She asked me not to,” he said finally. His hands were on his lap, rigid, fingers clasped tightly. “When I was just a kid, she told me what really happened, and I promised her. We promised each other.”
She loved their bond, and then she resented it. Was it because she and Lakshmi weren’t as close, or was she jealous of Priya because Neil was never completely hers? That Anu would always have to share?
“The worst thing is, my grandparents made her feel ashamed. It’s been almost thirty years, and she still thinks it’s her fault. That it’s something she needs to hide.”
She reached for him, and he pressed her hand between his palms.
“She could have remarried. For years Auntie Jayani tried to convince her. But she was punishing herself. She couldn’t let it go.”
“Neil . . .”
“We never talk about it. It’s become so real to me. It’s like . . . It’s what really happened.” A silence, stark and sour, hung in the room. “I hope that bastard is dead.”
“Neil, I don’t know what to say.” She squeezed his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
She looked over at him, and with the hall light shining on him, she could just make out the profile of his face. “What do you mean?”
“I never let you in.” He moved his hand away. “About my dad. About”—he tapped his chest hard—“about anything going on.”
“Neil, you were fine.”
“I lost you, Anush.” Then he turned to meet her gaze. “I’m not fine.”
She didn’t remember the exact order of what happened next. Who looked or blinked first, who pressed and who pulled. But quickly, and not fast enough, their arms were around each other, their lips and bodies pressed so tight, it was hard to imagine they had ever been apart to begin with.
chapter thirty
Eight years earlier
They’d waited five years.
Five freaking years to explore each other’s bodies, realize firsthand why Rose’s and Jack’s hearts beat so fast when they panted in sync with each other in that old-fashioned car on the Titanic’s bottom deck. Five years in which they remained unsatisfied, frustrated, technically virgins, and therefore technically good kids.
But it was their wedding night, and that was all about to change. Up there on the mandap as the priest chanted in Sanskrit, neither of them was thinking about the 486 guests staring right at them or what the mantras they repeated actually meant. They didn’t care, unlike Lakshmi, that the flower bouquets they ordered weren’t quite the same tones of cream and red as Anu’s bridal sari. Unlike Priya, they couldn’t care less that the caterer’s industrial deep fryer exploded and they’d be serving kofta as the appetizer, not samosa as she’d been planning for months.
Nope. While Anu and Neil exchanged rings and garlands, posed for their thousandth picture, were showered with rose petals and blessings, all they were thinking about was the king-size bed that awaited them twenty-six floors above. Because after five long years, excruciating years, they were finally going to have sex.
The ceremony passed in the blur, then the lunch—although both forgot to eat. The afternoon disappeared as Anu, Neil, and their families posed for photos, then changed into their evening wear.
How was it that they couldn’t manage a moment alone together? Not even to sneak their first kiss as a married couple? The reception started and the champagne flowed. They skipped dinner in favor of cocktails, and during the speeches—up there at the head table, bored stiff as the umpteenth uncle made a toast—they played a drinking game.
Every time someone whose name they didn’t know congratulated them, they drank.
Every time Lakshmi cried, they drank.
Every time an auntie asked them when they planned to have children, they drank.
They were both piss drunk during their first dance, and they clasped each othe
r’s hands to keep stable, to refrain from wobbling. Their family and friends joined them, and the whole dance floor became a haze of laughter, sparkles, and sequins.
“Hey!” Neil shimmied toward her. His underarms were drenched, but she barely noticed as he grabbed her—rather chastely—around the waist. “Hey, let’s go fuck.”
“Neil! Shh!”
“We’re married,” he said, twirling her around. “We’re allowed.”
She went first, and he joined her at the elevators a minute later. He was already unbuttoning the blouse of her lengha as they sped upward toward the room, chased each other down the long, carpeted hall. Someone—she didn’t know whom—had taken all the flowers from the ceremony and stuffed them in all the corners of the room, and when he pushed her down on the bed, she had the distinct feeling she was in the home gardening center near her parents’ house.
“This is so heavy.” He pawed at the skirt of her lengha, as if he could lift it off her rather than untie it.
“You’re not the one who had to wear it all day.”
“Do you want me to wear it?” He grinned down at her, his cheeks flushed. “Would that turn you on?”
“Would your fat ass fit?”
“Hey!”
She laughed as they move farther up their bed, shuffled around so their feet weren’t hanging off. She’d managed a few buttons, but she couldn’t concentrate—there was too much going on at once. Too much to remember. Moving her mouth and tongue—kissing, that she had gotten the hang of. But her head was spinning, and she couldn’t see straight, couldn’t feel where his clothes started and hers ended.
With a burst of energy she sat up, pushed him over. Eyes half closed, she grinned, slid her hand down his boxers.
“Anu?” He pushed her hand away. “What are you doing?”
“Cosmo says sixty-three percent of men like it.”
“Sixty-three percent of men are lying.”
“Cosmo—”
“Shut up about Cosmo and kiss me, Anush.”
He was kissing her again, and it was bringing her back to the moment. Those lips, she’d known those for five years. The lips that made her tremble, even quake; what else could they do?