Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  “Vic!” Someone called, breaking the silence. We both turned to look in that direction. It was Tracy, her head popping through the kitchen door, as if independent from her body. “Thought I heard you come in. You’re going to switch seats with Serena. Cool?”

  “Totally!” Victoria exclaimed happily, giving Tracy the thumbs-up. My eyebrows narrowed.

  “OK, then,” Victoria said, brushing past me to a seat farther down the pod. “Welcome.”

  Welcome? I sure didn’t feel welcome. As Victoria shrugged off her coat and rummaged through her purse, I knew I needed to say something, but what exactly? Did I need to assert myself? Salvage the situation? Invite her out to lunch?

  “So you must be Victoria,” I said, finally.

  “Vic,” she said, without meeting my gaze. “Call me Vic.”

  * * *

  “What did Becket’s text say again?” Natasha asked.

  “He was in the area and would I like to grab a bite.”

  “Verbatim?”

  “About, yeah.” I sighed. “But it’s been a long day. Maybe I’ll just go home.”

  I could hear her typing on the other end of the line. A day and a half into domestic bliss, and she was already cataloging the wedding presents into an Excel spreadsheet.

  “I shouldn’t go, right?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer, and I thought briefly about telling her about my first day on the job.

  It was a great first day. Well, it was good.

  OK, fine. It was mediocre. At best. And I didn’t really feel like talking about it yet.

  “What if I suggest Thursday night for a date?” I asked Natasha, refusing to dwell. “Maybe—”

  “You’re free tonight,” she said, interrupting me. The clicking of the keyboard stopped. “You haven’t eaten yet. He’s a good kisser. So can you just stop pretending you’re not going to go, and save us both a half hour?”

  I pouted into the phone, even though she couldn’t see it.

  “Should I take that as a yes?”

  After Natasha grilled me on my OOTD, which she approved and then asked to borrow, I hung up the phone and texted Becket back.

  We met at a sports bar on Connecticut Avenue I’d been to once or twice before, and I found him in a cramped booth at the back. I could smell his cologne from where I was sitting across the table, but I didn’t recognize it.

  “We probably should have ordered champagne,” he said, after the waiter left with our orders. (Beer for Becket. Ginger ale for me. Loaded nachos for both of us.)

  “I don’t really drink,” I said, even though I’d already told him as much the night we met.

  “What about on special occasions?”

  I smiled. “Well, sure, for a toast—”

  “Well, I think we should have a toast to your new job. If that doesn’t deserve champagne, I don’t know what does.”

  I smiled coyly, rubbing the paper napkin between my fingers. “It’s not a big deal, really . . .”

  “It is a big deal. You just got a job at Deborah Kim’s boutique, and according to Forbes magazine”—he made a silly face—“she’s kinda a big deal.”

  “Did you go all stalker on me?” I laughed. “How? I’m not on social media.”

  “I have my ways.” He leaned forward on the table. “And you’re her new creative director? You never told me that, Serena. That’s incredible! You must get asked this all the time, but is your life anything like Mad Men?”

  “Exactly like Mad Men. I even have a hot ex-wife who’s a dead ringer for January Jones.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I deadpanned, and it took Becket about five minutes to figure out I was kidding.

  * * *

  It was one of the better first dates I’d been on in the past fifteen-odd years. I never expected much on dates—a nod toward chivalry, a token amount of interest in my life and not just their own. Becket rose higher and higher in my books as the evening went on, as we ordered another round of beer and ginger ale, when he told me rather convincingly that he was “man enough to be proud of my success.” By the time we got the bill (we split; I always insisted), I knew there would be a second date and, very likely, a few more after that.

  It was surprisingly warm for early February, so we decided to walk home. We didn’t live far away from each other.

  “If it was colder,” Becket said quietly, “I would have an excuse to wrap my arm around you.”

  In response, I reached up and wrapped my arm around his shoulder, so tight that he had to hunch over to walk alongside me. He didn’t say anything, and about ten steps later, he craned his neck awkwardly to look down at me.

  “What, aren’t you man enough for this?”

  He grinned, and he looked so cute—so damn kissable—I put my other arm up around his neck and kissed him. He’d said he was strong enough for a woman like me, hadn’t he? If that was true, which I still wasn’t sure was the case, he could handle me initiating the kiss.

  Becket’s lips caught mine with just the right pressure and warmth. He wrapped his large hands around my waist and held me there, firmly, and I let myself melt into him for a moment before pulling away.

  “Jesus.” He licked his lips, breathing hard against me. “If it wasn’t a Monday night, I’d ferry you away back to my place.”

  “And if I was easy, I’d let you.”

  “You have a high-powered job and don’t put out . . .” He dropped his hands from my body. “This is never going to work between us.”

  I laughed, gently tugging on his arm. As we waited for the walk light, my eyes flicked away from him and across the street. Cars whizzed down Massachusetts Avenue, slamming on their brakes as they rounded Dupont Circle and made way for pedestrians and joggers. I watched them admiringly. I never could run outside in the winter; it made my lungs burn.

  Suddenly, a flash of cherry red caught my eye. A burst of neon green. My eyes skirted past the jogger with the uncoordinated outfit as he ran on the spot waiting for the walk light opposite us, but there was something about him that made me take a second look.

  The man had dark hair poked out over his ears and the nape of his neck. He turned to the side slightly, and my stomach twisted at the familiar profile. His forehead. The bridge of the nose. The shape of his lips.

  It couldn’t be him. Could it?

  “Did I offend you?” I heard Becket ask. I turned to face him, my heart still beating wildly. “I was only joking.”

  “Right. I know . . .” I trailed off. I glanced back toward the jogger just as the walk light changed, and the blur of red and neon picked up speed.

  “What are we looking at?” Becket asked.

  “I think that was my ex-boyfriend.”

  Becket put his arm around me as our own walk light changed color, and we continued on our way. Why had I told him that? I hadn’t meant to. The question had come as a surprise, and the words simply came out.

  “Was it a recent ex-boyfriend?”

  Oh boy. This was becoming a thing. A conversation. I racked my brain for the easiest answer.

  “A million-years-ago ex-boyfriend,” I said finally.

  “My favorite kind.” His hand slipped from my shoulder to my waist. “Why did you break up?”

  “Well, we met in college,” I said slowly, surprised by how difficult it was becoming to string words together. “We were . . . too . . .”

  “Young?” Becket finished, and I nodded, even though that’s not what I was going to say. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say.

  “I don’t miss being that young,” Becket said, after a moment. “The older I get, the more I realize how little I know.”

  He moved off the sidewalk to tie his shoe, and when his eyes were down I scanned the crowd, sneaking a look behind me. The jogger had crossed paths with us, but I’d missed it. The
re wasn’t a red tuque or neon green athletic jacket in sight.

  “You ready?” Becket asked, standing up. I nodded, slipping my hand back into his, and we continued walking forward.

  It was the only way to go.

  4

  My mouth watered as I scanned the menu. Gumbo and corn bread. Quadruple cheese macaroni. Spicy fried chicken.

  “I should have worn stretchy pants.” I tugged on the waistband of my high-rise jeans. “What are you going to order?”

  “The gumbo,” Natasha said. “Definitely. It’s their specialty.”

  “If I order the chicken, will you let me try some of yours?”

  Natasha threw me a look. “Obviously.”

  I held her gaze for a beat, smiling, before returning to the menu. I was pleased that Natasha had suggested dinner for just the two of us. Before the wedding planning had taken over both of our lives, we used to spend most Friday nights together. Mark tagged along at least half the time, and usually our hangouts consisted of takeout and teen Netflix dramas featuring sixteen-year-old characters who had as much sex as either me or Natasha. (OK, definitely more than me.) But tonight she’d vetoed my suggestion that we gorge ourselves on dumplings and watch reruns of The OC and insisted we try a new restaurant she’d dubbed “Louisiana comfort meets Rihanna.” (I gathered that the food hailed from the South, while the funky decor and upbeat music was in tribute to our favorite star.)

  We both ordered the freshly squeezed blueberry and pawpaw juice, and after Natasha took a Boomerang of us toasting and posted it to her Stories, I reminded her that she still needed to pick up the rest of her stuff from her bedroom at my apartment. I even offered to help her move it, and she grunted noncommittally. Natasha had been unofficially living with Mark at his parents’ town house in Georgetown for a while now, only spending the occasional night at mine. Most of the stuff she’d left behind, I gathered, she didn’t really need.

  Natasha was in a surprisingly unchatty mood, so I gave her the lowdown on my first week. I’d been dreaming about being creative director of an advertising agency like this for so long, and these past five days had been everything I thought they would be. Well. Nearly. The only thing that made it less of a dream job and somewhat of a nightmare was “call me Vic,” one of the five women who now reported to me.

  I’d given her the benefit of the doubt and tried to turn over a new leaf after our first awkward encounter, but Vic—whom I’d started referring to as Ginger Spice because of her red hair and temper—simply did not want to get to know me. We sat right next to each other, and she only spoke the bare minimum required of us to do our jobs and didn’t even look me in the eye.

  “What do you think I should do?” I asked Natasha, crossing my legs beneath the table. (Natasha was an expert in navigating complicated social situations. I’m not saying she was a Mean Girl in high school, but from the stories I heard, she was definitely Mean Girl adjacent.)

  “Everyone else likes me. Should I just take Ginger aside, pull rank, and tell her off?” I sighed. “Although, that rules out the possibility of us ever being friends.”

  “Well, you’re her boss, right?” Natasha played with her juice straw. “And if she’s a bitch, why would you even want to be friends with her?”

  “True . . .” I hesitated, hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to conflict just yet. I’d never formally managed a team before or had to have tough conversations with someone who reported to me. Just the idea of it made me sweat.

  “I might wait a few weeks and see if she comes around,” I continued. “Maybe she’ll warm up to me on her own.”

  “Yeah,” Natasha said blandly. “Who knows.”

  I caught her looking at something behind me, so I glanced in that direction. She was gawking at a rather fabulous-looking couple sitting at the bar.

  “Do you know them?” I asked, turning back around.

  “No,” Natasha said. “But she’s an influencer. I follow her. I wonder who that guy is.”

  I sipped on my juice, and a chunk of something came up through the straw. I chewed it, hoping it was just the fruit.

  “So there’s a reason I invited you out tonight,” Natasha said suddenly. “I have to tell you something.”

  My heart fell. She sounded serious.

  “Sure,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “What’s up? Everything . . . OK?”

  “Everything is perfect, actually.” A dreamy look washed over her face and then vanished an instant later. “I . . . I am . . .”

  I laughed nervously. “OK, what is it? You’re freaking me out.”

  “Sorry. I guess I’ll just spit it out, then. I . . .”

  “Spit away. Just not in my food.” I laughed. “I mean—”

  “Serena, I’m pregnant.”

  I froze, and a huge pit formed in my stomach. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

  Oh.

  Oh, fuck.

  Natasha was pregnant? My sister, who had been married a grand total of six days, was already knocked up?

  Timed slowed down. I knew in that instant I couldn’t let my feelings betray me. I had to say the right thing. I pushed out my cheeks into a smile, baring my teeth in a wide grin.

  “Are you sure—”

  “What do you mean, am I sure?” she snapped. “Why the hell would I tell you if I wasn’t sure.”

  I grimaced, stalling. I guess I hadn’t chosen my words carefully enough.

  “Then, wow.” My breath caught. “Congratulations!”

  “You’re mad,” she whined. “I knew you’d be—”

  “Mad?” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m so happy for you!”

  Was I selling it? I could sell anything else—name the product, the service, and I could figure it out—but this?

  “Serena, I know how you feel about all your friends who are busy with mommy clubs—”

  “Natasha.” I swallowed hard, suppressing the acid rising in my throat. “Stop. This is about you, and this is . . . wonderful news. Mom is going to so happy!”

  At least that was true. The silver lining was that a grandchild would make Mom smile, something she hadn’t done enough in her life.

  “I only went off the pill over Christmas.” Natasha said. For a moment, she seemed as shocked by the news as I was. “I didn’t realize I’d be so . . . fertile.”

  I reached across the table and squeezed her hand, and then forced out a laugh. “This is so exciting, I’m going to be a massi!”

  Natasha beamed, repeating the Punjabi word for “mother’s sister” back to me.

  “I’m so excited, Serena. We’ve wanted this for so long, you know?” Suddenly, Natasha was back to herself: a babbling brook of smiles and giggles and infectious lightness. And as she was talking, it hit me: This wasn’t an accident. Natasha and Mark had been trying for a baby, and she’d never even told me.

  I swallowed the hurt, attempting to listen as best I could, to be excited for her the way I should have been. Why was this news coming as such a surprise? I’d known all along that my dear, sweet sister would want to have a baby.

  So why hadn’t I prepared myself?

  “The timing is a bit inconvenient, though,” she said, coming up for air. “Now I can’t drink on the honeymoon.”

  I wondered if she also found it “inconvenient” that she had to literally grow a human inside of her, that in nine short months, her entire life would feel full of inconveniences.

  “Mark’s over the moon. We just took the test last night. We’re going over to Mom and Dad’s this weekend to share the news. We’ll just tell family for now . . .”

  I nodded my head as she continued chattering, and I was sure to make all the right noises and faces.

  Natasha had already given up her name, gotten herself pregnant, and moved into her in-laws’ house; what else would she be willing to give up?
/>   I’m still going to make space in my life for my friends, my hobbies.

  It’s what all my friends had said, but I hadn’t seen it happen yet. And it didn’t matter that Natasha wasn’t just another friend, but my very best friend and my own flesh and blood; I was suddenly scared shitless that it would happen to her, too.

  5

  Guess what,” I said, turning the corner from the boardroom. “I . . .”

  I stopped in my tracks. My pod was completely empty. I furrowed my brow, glancing at my watch. It was only four minutes past five o’clock.

  Irritated my whole team had left without saying goodbye, I sat down in a huff and plugged my laptop back into my workstation. I’d spent the last hour in the boardroom with Deborah and the accounts team finalizing a handful of strategy documents, and I’d been looking forward to updating the Spice Girls and handing out the next wave of assignments. I was even thinking about asking them out for happy hour that evening.

  My silly nickname for Ginger Spice had stuck, and in my head I was now calling the whole team by their pop star doppelgängers. My creative intern and youngest employee who worked with Ginger on copywriting was Baby Spice. The obvious choice for Sporty Spice was my social media specialist, who had again worn Lululemons to work that day, while I was calling our brand manager Scary Spice, not because she scared me but because I seemed to scare her. That left our graphic designer with Posh Spice, which made sense, because I’d heard her talking about her boyfriend named David.

  My computer powered on, and I tried to force myself to get back to work. I was flattered by the rate at which Deborah was onboarding me. (She’d already handed over complete decision-making authority on campaigns and creative strategies.) But it was only Tuesday afternoon, and already I felt like I was running on steam. Except for a quick date with Becket at my favorite local farmers market, I’d worked straight through the weekend, staying up late and waking up at the crack of dawn, trying to get myself up to speed on the new job and conquer my imposter syndrome.