Moti on the Water

by Leylah Attar

  “So beautiful against that lovely dark hair of yours,” she said. “Use some kohl to rim your eyes and you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

  “What about this?” I pointed to the patch of skin peeking between the top and skirt.

  “That’s the style. A bare midriff is sexy! You can always cover it up with your dupatta.” She draped the long, sheer scarf around me.

  I eyed my reflection. “Can we alter it? Lengthen the top a little?”

  She assumed I was too modest to show a little skin, but really I just wanted to be able to wear my Spanx underneath. Nothing stops you from going after that third chicken samosa than being trussed up in a sausage-like encasing.

  “Can I get you something?” asked one of the waiters coming out of the kitchen.

  “Just helping myself to some water.” I smiled as I grabbed a glass and reached for the pitcher.

  Okay. Let’s freeze this moment for a second.

  This moment right here, where I’m reaching for the pitcher.

  Because this is the moment where everything starts unraveling.

  Are you ready?

  Okay. Unfreeze.

  My fingers grasped the pitcher the exact moment someone else went for it. Which happens. Someone always goes for the same doughnut I want at work. No biggie.

  What was a biggie—what made my jaw drop and what warranted this freeze-frame, was the weird little nubbin sticking out of this person’s thumb. A dwarf thumb, complete with a miniature nail, like a deviated knob growing off a ginger root.

  Polydactyly.

  An extra digit in the hand or foot.

  More specifically, pre-axial polydactyly.

  When that extra digit is a thumb.

  Chances of running into a person with this condition: 1 in 1,000. Or was it 1 in 10,000? I should know. I’d googled it enough times, but the only numbers running through my mind at that moment were 1 and 2.

  1: Holy

  2: Shit

  And so I stood there, thumberstruck…er…thunderstruck. It’s not every day you get to see an extra thumb in the wild. Trust me. I’d side-eyed many hands—on the bus, at the grocery store, on park benches and, I’m ashamed to say, in the play area at McDonald’s (that’s mostly dads chasing after their kids, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and who knows—single dad, double thumbs?).

  Somewhere between the Holy and the Shit, my brain was running a background check.

  Male hand: check

  Age-appropriate: check

  Wedding-ring free: check

  DING, DING, DING!

  No. Wait. Un-check. Wedding ring would be on the other hand.

  Dare I look up? I hadn’t thought about anything beyond this point, but now that my unicorn was here, I wanted him to be attractive too. To hell with not looking a gift horse in the mouth, because if there was the slightest possibility of me kissing that mouth, then I sure as hell wanted to know what it looked like.

  I looked up.

  My stomach flipped.

  Not just a regular flip but one of those Olympic dive sequences: two-and-a-half somersaults followed by two-and-a-half twists in two-and-a-half seconds. Then my stomach disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of my ovaries, which held up scorecards for the miraculous sequence of human DNA before me.

  Ovary 1: “10”

  Ovary 2: “01”

  Ovary 1: “Seriously?”

  Ovary 2: “Hell, yeah! No, wait.” (Flips scorecard over.) “10!”

  That’s when Mr. 10-Out-Of-10 spoke.

  “Here.” He picked up the pitcher and filled my glass.

  My hand fell away from his. I darted a glance at his other hand. No wedding ring.

  Yesssssss!

  “I’m Nikos,” he said, filling his own glass and looking at me.

  His eyes were grape green. I know that sounds flat and boring. You want me to say jade green or pine green—the color of the forest after it rains, the color of springtime ferns. But if you knew how much I love food, you’d understand I was awarding him the highest honor. Granted, I could have gone with something more poetic, like fresh asparagus tips, but asparagus makes your pee smell funny.

  “Hi, I’m Moti.”

  What the fuck? Did I just say my own name with a hard T? Hi, I’m Fatty.

  “Moti?” he repeated.

  “Moti. With a soft T.”

  “Moti Wither-Softy?”

  Good thing I wasn’t hiding man parts under my Spanx or I might’ve taken the Wither-Softy part personally. I didn’t bother correcting him because I planned to take his last name anyway. I was all about the stars now. And destiny. And soul mates. And all the shit I didn’t believe in before.

  Nikos’s eyes were roving over my body.

  Holy crap, it’s happening. The planets are aligning. Heavenly cherubs are singing HALLELUJAH.

  Thank you, Spanx Gods, and the three sit-ups I did two days ago.

  Thank you, rice cakes.

  Thank you, steamed vegetables.

  “Cheers,” Nikos held up his glass and downed it.

  I wondered if he tackled sex as ravenously as he drank. I was sure he’d prefer something stronger than water, but Joseph Uncle wasn’t about to foot the bill for an open bar. Water, juice, soft drinks, and masala chai. Anything else, you were on your own, buddy.

  Nikos wore a blue dress shirt, snug pants, and a black leather belt slung around narrow hips. Not an ounce of extra flab on him—all trim and tight and toned. His hair was slick and luminous, sculpted back with gel and precision. A triangle of sun-kissed skin peeked over his collar. It was February in Chicago. He was obviously from Thomas’s side of the family. I watched his throat clench and unclench as he drained his glass. It did weird things to my internal combustion engine.

  I took a sip of water to cool down and choked. Why? Because I realized I’d met him by the water. The pitchers of water. Just as Ma Anga predicted. And now I was going to die in the water. Or rather, from choking over a mouthful of water.

  Oh God. Please don’t let it be so.

  “Are you okay?” asked Nikos.

  If you’ve never choked on water in public before, let me tell you, it’s the worst thing ever.

  No. I take that back. Choking on water in front of someone you’re trying to impress is the worst thing ever. Your eyes are tearing, your face is red. You’re trying to look cool while spasming all over the place.

  I held up one finger and nodded. “Excuse me,” I croaked and stumbled away.

  I managed to march a few feet before bending over and giving in to a fit of short, loud coughs. Water spilled from my glass as I gasped and coughed and gasped some more. When my breathing got easier, I high-fived myself and straightened. I was going to live.

  Take that, Ma Anga.

  Refusing to sneak a look over my shoulder and see if Nikos had witnessed my ability to suck water down my windpipe and survive, I made my way back to the table.

  “Here you go.” I placed the glass before Naani, hoping she wouldn’t notice it was only half-full. “Naani, do you see that guy in the back? By all the jugs of water?”

  “Who?” She swiveled around and then nodded. “Achha, him?”

  “Don’t make it so obvious,” I whispered. “What’s he doing? Is he looking this way?”

  It’s sad when your wing-woman is your grandmother, but I had to find a way to learn more about Nikos before the evening was over. Like was he seeing anyone? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? A parole officer?

  “He’s wiping the table, Moti.”

  “What?” I turned around and saw one of the waiters where I had left Nikos.

  “Eh?” Naani elbowed me. “You like him?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. Not him.” My eyes scanned the banquet hall, searching for the sun-kissed Greek god. “You won’t believe this. I just met a guy with three—”

  “There you are.” I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder. It was Isabelle. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “You’re supposed to be looking after me. That�
�s what a maid of honor is for.”

  “Sorry, I was just—”

  “Never mind. This is a practice run. But honestly, Moti. You can’t be taking off on me at the wedding. Come on. We have to get seated.” She pulled me up and dragged me away. Halfway to the front of the hall, she slipped and teetered, precariously close to landing on her ass. “What the hell? There’s water all over the floor.”

  Oops. Flashback to me, spilling water as I coughed and sputtered my way back to life.

  I tsked and shook my head. “Unacceptable. I’ll go talk to the event coordinator.”

  “Later. We need to get on stage right now.”

  The stage was a raised platform, put up at Isabelle’s request. She wanted her table elevated above the guests. I helped her up the makeshift stairs, holding her skirt so it didn’t get caught in her heels. Thank God she hadn’t fallen earlier because I can’t stop myself from laughing when people fall. It’s a knee-jerk reaction and I’m very sorry for it afterward, but I’m pretty sure laughing at the bride-to-be would get the maid of honor fired. Not that I’d applied for the position. Isabelle didn’t have many friends, and she couldn’t be her bossy self with the ones she did. So, the honor had landed on me. Blood is thicker and more boss-aroundable than water because blood takes longer to say, “Screw it. I’m outta here.”

  Thomas smiled warmly as I arranged Isabelle’s skirt and draped it around her chair. He was charming and easy-going, with thick black hair, the same color as his eyes. His parents were seated at the first table, with Rachel Auntie and Joseph Uncle. I caught Rachel Auntie’s eye between the pillars of the tiered cake before me. She gave me a discreet thumbs-up; I assumed because Dolly was behaving.

  I sat back in my chair and then shot up again. Nikos was weaving through the hall, making his way purposefully toward me.

  Holy hell.

  Had he felt a connection? Was he being compelled by mysterious forces to seek me out? Was he helpless against the pull that was drawing him nearer and nearer?

  God, he was hot. Bold thighs, firm chest. Sleek, sexy, and hopefully single.

  Did I call Ma Anga my nemesis? She was a fucking goddess. I was already buying plane tickets for myself, Nikos, and our two kids so I could make the pilgrimage to India and kiss her feet.

  My heart was pounding so hard by the time Nikos reached me, I thought I was going to pull a Dolly and pass out at his feet. He took the stairs to the stage, two at a time, and…walked right past me to take the chair next to Thomas.

  “Did you meet Nikos?” asked Isabelle. “He’s going to be Thomas’s best man at the wedding.”

  My mouth formed a silent O. I was simultaneously deflated and elated—the anti-climax of him not singling me out and the realization that he was the best man and I was the maid of honor. Could it get anymore meant-to-be than that?

  “Is he related to Thomas?” I asked.

  “Childhood friends.” Isabelle leaned toward Thomas and flashed a brilliant smile as the photographer took their photo. Nikos had a colossal flower arrangement in front of him and I was hidden behind the cake. Clearly, it would save Isabelle from having to crop us out of the pictures.

  A little band of photographers worked its way through the guest tables. Joseph Uncle and Rachel Auntie really went all out. Not many people from the bride’s side would be able to attend the wedding in Greece, so the engagement party was in lieu of the ceremony they’d be missing

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please.” Nikos got up and clinked a fork against his glass. “On behalf of Thomas, Isabelle, and their families, I’d like to welcome you here tonight…”

  He had a delicious English-isn’t-my-first-language accent that told me he could curl his tongue around words and caress them in ways that—

  “Moti,” Isabelle hissed. “Are you listening?”

  “Sorry, what?” I scooted closer.

  “My flower is slipping.”

  I tucked it back in her hair. “So…will Nikos be coming with us on the cruise?”

  “Of course. He’s part of the wedding party.”

  “Just him? No wife, no girlfriend?”

  “He’s not married. And as far as I know, he’s not bringing anyone to the wedding either.” Isabelle shot me an impatient look. She was too high on engagement fever to put two and two together. Maybe she never saw his thumbs up close to connect the dots.

  “Sorry. I just…” I trailed off. This was Isabelle’s day. Now was not the time to bring up the best man’s extra digits.

  Nikos was making a toast. We raised our glasses. I caught a glimpse of his ass, but then Isabelle’s up-do obscured it. As any self-respecting woman would, I tilted my chair a smidgen to get a better view. Now the back of Thomas’s head was in the way.

  Dammit. What does a maid of honor have to do to check out the best man’s butt?

  I scraped my chair back a few inches.

  Next thing I knew, my chair toppled over the edge of the platform with me on it. I gasped as I hit the floor. The sparkling grape juice I’d been holding up to toast Isabelle and Thomas splashed on my face like a cold, rude bitch-slap. Miraculously, no one seemed to notice, given that I was pretty much hidden behind the cake. I might’ve recovered, gotten off the floor, picked up my chair and, “Heigh-ho, back to work I go.” But no, I was stuck, my chair wedged in the space between the back of the platform and the wall. Caught at an angle, I stared at the ceiling with my legs sticking straight up toward it, my bum still on the seat. A classic Pilates position—the V-Up. Go ahead. Look it up. I’ll wait. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

  Isabelle turned around at the thud of my hundred and forty-five-pound frame hitting the floor at a forty-five-degree angle. Then Thomas caught on. He looked startled to see me with my lehenga up around my ears, but Isabelle stopped him from getting up. She was smiling at whatever Nikos was saying. Poor Thomas looked confused.

  Welcome to the family, bro, I thought. Appearances are everything. The show must go on. I’ll just lie here until I figure out which is going to kill me first. Death by Underwear (my Spanx is killing me) or Death by Embarrassment (please don’t let Nikos turn around and see me like this).

  And then it struck me. I’d let Rachel Auntie down. All this time she’d been concerned about Dolly making a scene and there I was, Master of Disaster.

  I blinked at the ceiling. Why are you so hopeless, Moti?

  After Nikos finished his speech, Isabelle summoned the event coordinator to help me up. Discreetly. Seamlessly. So that, while dinner was being served, Mission Moti was covertly under way behind the stage.

  “Thank you.” I heaved a sigh of relief once I got dislodged from the chair. My clothes had a huge wet spot, my hair was sticky from grape juice, but I was still holding my glass. I might’ve goofed big time, but I’d kept the glass from shattering.

  “So sorry,” I said to Isabelle.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said, waving away the event coordinator who was propping my chair back on the platform. “I think you should go sit with Naani and Dolly Auntie, Moti.”

  “I…um… Okay.” I grabbed a napkin to hide the wet spot on my clothes.

  That’s when I realized that I was being fired as Isabelle’s maid of honor.

  I should’ve felt relieved. I wouldn’t have to worry about throwing Isabelle the perfect bridal shower. Or making goody bags with loofahs, lotions, and scented beads that made me break out in a rash. No more agonizing over how I’d pay for the frothy peach concoction the maid of honor was supposed to wear. Yet, I felt the complete opposite. I’d failed at something yet again.

  Aware of the curious eyes on me, I plastered on a smile as I made my way through the guest tables.

  “Why is your skirt wet?” asked Dolly. “What happened? Why aren’t you sitting with Isabelle?”

  “She doesn’t want me there.”

  “You messed up, didn’t you, Moti? I knew it. I knew you’d end up doing something silly. And for God’s sake,
wipe that stupid grin off your face. This is shameful. Disgraceful. How am I going to show my face to everyone?”

  “Are you okay, beta?” Naani asked, while Dolly rambled on.

  I squeezed her hand and nodded.

  “So. What did you do?” Dolly asked.

  “I…uh…” I opened my purse, pretending to look for something. My hand closed around the thin, wrapped bar of hand soap I’d swiped from the ladies’ room. I rubbed it back and forth between my fingers.

  “Dolly. Let her be.” Naani finished her dinner and pushed her plate away. “Did you eat, Moti?”

  “Yes, Naani.” What was I going to say? That my food was sitting on Isabelle’s table? That I didn’t deserve to eat?

  I looked away and caught Nikos smiling at me from behind the fronds of a huge fern. Maybe he was laughing because he saw what happened, but that was okay. I laughed when people fell too. And I’d gone for the water the same time he’d gone for the water. My face had been hidden by a giant prop on the table. His face was hidden by a giant prop on the table. My God, we had so much in common. Could we be any more perfect for each other?

  I felt myself grow lighter. I’d just been dislodged from a tight spot—literally and figuratively. Me, falling over backward, could quite possibly have been the best thing to happen to me. And better things were yet to come. Like Nikos falling for me. Just because I was no longer the maid of honor didn’t mean I couldn’t light a fire under the best man.

  My mind cut to a picture of me running barefoot on a beach in Greece—flowy white dress, lasso in hand, a beautiful sunset in the backdrop. Nikos was running up ahead. I threw the rope, cut the slack, and tightened the noose. BOOM. Nikos landed at my feet.

  Granted, him being all trussed up wasn’t exactly the picture of happily-ever-after, but sometimes a girl just has to go for it and hope for the best—especially when it’s the one thing keeping her afloat in the sea of drowning dreams.

  I had three months to step up my game.

  Three months to Isabelle’s wedding.

  Two weeks on a family cruise to win over the only man my mother would approve of.

  One window of opportunity to break free.

  I was ready for this. So, so ready for this.