by Sonya Lalli
They brought blankets, hats, paper fans, and cardboard boxes full of potato chips, pretzels, and cold cans of Coke and 7 Up. Sandeep had attempted to organize the potluck with American staples like macaroni and cheese and potato salad, but none of her friends knew how to make such things. Instead, they brought containers full of daal, saag, other subjis, and roti.
There was enough shade in the park nearby, and they’d played Bhabhi—Sandeep’s favorite card game—while the men held a cricket match. Veer being Veer was selected as pitcher, and he was a sweaty, sexy mess by the time they retired to the shade. Placing his bat in the hall closet, Sandeep blushed, remembering the first time she’d watched him play, back when he was just the handsome captain of the local college team. It was several years before she realized their two families were acquainted, and his parents brought him around the house to propose her hand for marriage. All the girls from school were jealous. Even Sandeep’s own cousins.
She heard the shower come on and toyed with the idea of joining him. Natasha was with a friend from school for the whole weekend—her parents had a beach house a few hours away—and they weren’t used to the luxury of alone time. But it was already past four p.m., and Serena and Jesse would be arriving any minute.
She’d cooked that morning and the evening before in preparation. All of Jesse’s favorites and plenty of leftovers to send home with him. Sandeep lifted up the heavy cardboard box of empty containers from the picnic and balanced it on her hip as she slowly inched her way into the kitchen. She was about to set it down or go interrupt Veer to come help her, but then she heard the laughter.
She pushed through and made it to the edge of the kitchen counter, setting the box down lightly. There was no one there. Was she going mad? A few seconds later, she heard it again.
It was coming through the open window above the sink. She tiptoed over and sighed in relief when she saw Serena and Jesse side by side on the outdoor love seat, which sat flush against the house wall. The top of their heads were touching, and they were hunched over something. She leaned over the sink to see what it was. It was just Serena’s laptop.
“That’s really good,” Jesse said suddenly, sitting back. He kissed her on the forehead, and instinctively, Sandeep stood upright quickly so he wouldn’t see her in his peripheral vision. “Hilarious. They’re going to love it.”
“You think?”
“How could they not?”
“Iain never picks my stuff. And if he does, he takes the idea and then assigns it to one of the guys.”
“I know, sweetie.” Jesse kissed her again, this time on the mouth. “You need to get out of there. You’ve been there two years already. Maybe it’s time to look for a new job.”
“I don’t know.” Serena shrugged, lolling her head onto Jesse’s shoulder. “I like the clients, though. The work is interesting. If I stick it out just a bit longer . . .”
“Why don’t we look for jobs together,” Jesse said. “In New York.”
Sandeep’s heart started beating wildly through her salwar, and she crept farther away from the window.
New York?
She shouldn’t be listening to this. This was their private business. Rationally, she knew she needed to walk away, but as a mother, she could not.
“I don’t want to move back to Philadelphia. My parents don’t expect it, either,” Jesse continued. “I’d be happy here, or we could try out a new city together. We could find a studio in Brooklyn—”
“Right,” Serena interrupted. “Let’s move to New York and live together. I’m sure my parents will love that.”
“Well, there’s something I could ask you, Serena. A question we could talk about to make them more comfortable with it . . .”
Sandeep gasped, pressing her warm hands against her face. Jesse was going to propose.
Finally.
She’d assumed he would after they both finished university two years earlier. But then weeks passed. Months. Serena started work at the advertising agency. Jesse began a master’s program in a subject Sandeep could never remember the name of.
Serena moved out.
Sandeep had tried to forbid it, but Serena had the money saved and the will to see it through, so there was nothing they could do but watch. It didn’t even matter that Jesse lived in student accommodations and Serena in another house with roommates—she instantly became “the talk of the town.” An unmarried woman with a boyfriend, and she didn’t live under her parents’ roof?
It would never happen back home, but evidently, it was happening here.
Even in the two years since Serena left home, other Punjabi girls in the community followed suit. To her family’s dismay, one girl moved all the way to Los Angeles to pursue acting, of all things, and another just across the state line to her boyfriend’s.
It was the way of the world now, and she’d grown comforted by the fact that this day would come and Jesse would eventually propose. He was a nice boy, and Sandeep herself couldn’t have made a more perfect match for her daughter. Jesse’s family was Sikh, yes, but they were also educated and raised in America. They would treat Serena with love and respect and not like a dishrag, the way some of her friends were treated by their in-laws.
“So what do you think?” she heard Jesse ask. “Would you want me to ask your parents for permission?”
“No—look, Jesse, we can’t get married just to make my parents happy.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” He repositioned on the love seat, facing her. “Yes, we’re only twenty-four . . . but we’re going to get married anyway, right? We might as well do it now.”
Serena didn’t answer, and Sandeep again felt like she should walk away. But she didn’t. She started to imagine what the wedding might look like.
“We don’t have to move to New York. We can stay in DC,” Jesse said. “Hell, we can move anywhere. Even Canada if you want. But my master’s program is nearly over, and I need to start applying for jobs, Serena. You never want to talk about this, but we have to start making plans soon.”
“Jesse . . .”
“We don’t have to have a big wedding.” He laid his hand on her knee, squeezing. “And I promise to pull my weight. I can plan the whole thing with our mothers if you want.”
Sandeep smiled, watching them. Her fantasy was becoming real. What had she done to deserve such a son-in-law?
“Jesse,” Serena said quietly. “You’re not listening. You never listen to me—”
“I do, sweetie. I know you. And I know this stuff freaks you out, but I’ll—”
“It’s not the wedding that freaks me out, Jesse. It’s the marriage.”
“What—what you do mean?”
Serena sighed, resting her head in her hand. “I don’t think I want to get married.”
Sandeep’s heart dropped into her chest.
“What are you talking about?” Jesse asked. “That’s crazy. Of course—”
“No, I don’t. And I do try and talk about this with you. You just never want to hear it.” Serena paused, folding her legs up onto the love seat. “Do you know there are no women over the age of thirty at my agency? No mothers. No women that aren’t at the bottom of the totem pole like me?”
Sandeep pressed her hand against her chest, trying to understand what was happening, to make sense of the words she shouldn’t have been hearing.
“I know I complain about Iain and those guys, but Jesse, I love what I do. One day, I want to be the best . . . Hell, I want to be Iain’s boss. And I want more for myself than—”
“Than what, Serena? Than me?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m trying to, babe. Look—”
Sandeep knocked over the box with her elbow. Hard. On purpose. Everything crashed to the ground, and she quickly hunched to the ground to gather it all up.
“Mom, are
you OK?”
Sandeep glanced up, coyly. Jesse and Serena were peering through the kitchen window, concerned looks on their faces.
“Oh, Serena?” Her heart was still racing, but she kept her voice even. “Jesse? I didn’t realize you were home.”
16
Through my earbuds, I played the soundtrack to Wonder Woman and tried to channel my inner Amazon. To anyone observing me, I was going over some sample graphics Posh Spice had prepared for our client’s organic laundry detergent campaign, but in my head, I was a Punjabi Gal Gadot and kicking some serious ass.
Promptly, at eleven forty-five a.m., I stood up and grabbed The File from my locked bottom drawer, which contained all my notes on Ginger Spice. One last time, I pictured myself in a slightly more modest version of Wonder Woman’s outfit, hands on hips, elbows powerfully jutting, and then tapped Ginger Spice on the shoulder.
“Vic?” I said, after she pulled out her own earbuds. “Do you have a minute?”
I didn’t make small talk as we walked to the boardroom. Holding the door open for her, I waited for her to sit down, and then I gently closed the door behind me and took the chair directly opposite her.
Today, her red hair was braided beautifully down her neck, her makeup and clothes flawless, impeccable. Not only was she an excellent copywriter, she also looked the part. She had the confidence to act the part, and I knew exactly why Deborah had hired her.
“What’s up?” Vic said icily.
Hell, I would have hired her, too. And even though I was her boss, the idea of confronting her was making me sweat through my blouse.
“Are you happy working here?” I asked. It took me everything to keep my voice steady, and she looked surprised by the question.
“Are you?” I asked again.
“Yeah. Yeah, why?”
“Because most of the time you act like you don’t want to be here.”
“Of course I want to be here.”
“And you certainly don’t act like you want to report to me,” I added, even though I felt like saying, And I know you wished you’d gotten my job and didn’t have to report to me.
Vic didn’t answer, and coolly, I held her gaze. I was about to reach for The File but at the last second decided against it. I didn’t need it.
“Do you have concerns about my performance?” she asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Because last I checked, I was doing a really good job. Like, you haven’t given me any negative feedback, and Deborah loved my pitch on . . .”
I let her finish talking, and then I said what I came in here to say. Folding my fingers together on the boardroom table, the way powerful women bosses do on TV, I went on to diplomatically outline my concerns about her behavior. That as smart and capable of a copywriter as she was, she was not meeting the requirements of being a “team player,” something Deborah and I both valued as part of our friendly, female-led workplace.
“So you’re telling me off because you think I have attitude,” she said flatly, after I was finished.
“I’m putting you on probation because you have a negative attitude.”
Her face went as beet red as her hair.
“Tracy will be handing you a letter this afternoon, where we’ve stated our concerns in writing and outlined actionable steps that need to be taken.” I paused. “You’ll note that the letter is signed by myself, Tracy, and Deborah.”
Vic’s mouth gaped at my mentioning of Deborah’s name. Her eyes narrowed. I could tell that she wanted to scream at me, kick up a fuss, call me a bad word. I wondered if this was the first time she’d been put in her place, and while I felt bad, it also gave me a guilty thrill.
“If you have any questions, let me know.” I stood up abruptly, but I didn’t break eye contact. “We can set up a meeting.”
My heart raced as I walked out the door and back to my desk, my chin held high. I’d informally supervised people before, but I’d been lucky enough to have enthusiastic, nice reports; men and women who didn’t hate my guts. This whole situation of having to be a tough bawse was entirely new to me, and I hoped to god I’d done the right thing.
I rounded the corner, and as I passed Ainsley’s pod, she waved me over, pulling down her headphones as I walked up.
“How did it go?” she whispered, giving me a look.
“As well as it could have.”
“Did she . . .”
“Stab my eyes out? Luckily, no, but I might sleep with one eye open tonight.”
Ainsley smiled, sinking back into her chair. “Well, you’ll have to give me the full debrief later because Becket is here.”
“Becket?” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Can’t be. I just saw him last night . . .”
“Well, there’s a very handsome gentleman talking Tracy’s ear off, ready to take you to lunch.” Ainsley crossed her legs. “Also, you never told me Becket’s of Indian heritage. Sorry, when you said he was Asian, I thought you meant—”
“He’s not . . . Oh.” I shook my head. “That’s not Becket. That’s Jesse. He must be early for our lunch.”
“Jesse?” Ainsley paused, and my heart sank as I remembered that Ainsley knew all about Jesse; that day at the farmers market, she’d seen me at my worst over him.
“Facebook Jesse?”
I leaned over, speaking softly, “I ran into him last week. We decided to be friends . . .”
“Oh . . .” Ainsley sounded surprised, and even a bit judgy. “How does Jesse’s wife feel about that? And Becket?”
“Jesse’s divorced.”
“I see.”
“And I didn’t tell Becket.” I stood up straight, suddenly wanting the conversation to be over. “I don’t need to. It’s nothing romantic with Jesse . . .”
“Oh. OK.”
I bit my lip, looking at her, and neither of us broke eye contact.
“Anyway,” Ainsley said dryly, pulling her headphones back on. “He’s in the kitchen.”
“Thanks . . .” I trailed off as I didn’t think she was listening, and I didn’t really know what else to say.
* * *
I tried to shake off my conversation with Ainsley as I grabbed Jesse and we left for lunch. Why was I so irritated? What gave her the right to think she could make assumptions about my relationships with Becket and Jesse?
Jesse was in a much better mood than when I’d run into him at the sports bar. He was super chatty and even seemed to have a spring in his step, and I let him take the lead in the conversation as we walked to lunch. He told me about his job in data analytics for the Washington Post, where he’d worked for the past five years, and then the minor renovations he was planning for his new apartment downtown.
“I want the kitchen tile to say . . . ‘Respectable Bachelor.’” He stopped walking, pointed to the sidewalk as if we were standing in his kitchen. “But I also want it to say, ‘Super Dad.’ You know what I mean, right?”
“Of course,” I deadpanned. “Although I hear that tile is very expensive.”
“I’ve basically been living at Home Depot—hey, you should come with me sometime. What do you think of plaid curtains?”
“Plaid? Like lumberjack plaid?”
“Yeah, why?”
I made a face at him as we arrived at the local diner where we were planning to eat. “No plaid?” I shook my head, and he shrugged in such a goofy, warmhearted way that I couldn’t help but laugh.
As Jesse held the door open for someone exiting the diner, I snuck a look at him. It was the first time I’d seen him dressed up for work. He was wearing shiny brown shoes, dress pants, and a collared powder-blue shirt that fit snuggly over his broad shoulders. The top button was undone. One more and I would have been able to see the beginnings of the thick black hair that covered his chest. When I first saw it years earlier, I’d been so surprised, and a little freaked out, that it had hurt hi
s feelings. Within hours, I’d loved it.
The host sat us at a corner booth by the window. I’d been here before, but only ever for a coffee and muffin when I was running late for work and had forgotten to eat that morning. It was a 1950s diner, very old Hollywood, and in our texts, Jesse had sworn by their all-day breakfasts, something he ate often, especially when first moving back into the city.
The waiter arrived, and Jesse ordered the house special. Without even asking what was in it, I ordered the same. I was still feeling off about my conversation with Ainsley and couldn’t really be bothered to look at a menu.
“Oh,” Jesse added. “And one chocolate milkshake, please. Serena, want to share?”
I grimaced. “Share?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I’m good—”
“But you love chocolate milkshakes!”
“Yeah, you’re right . . .” I turned to the waiter. “I’ll have a chocolate milkshake as well.”
After he left, I gave Jesse a hard look.
“What?” he asked.
“What do you mean, what?” I shook my head at him. “We can’t share a milkshake, Jesse.”
“Why not? They’re big here.”
“But sharing milkshakes, sharing food—that’s all very relationship-y,” I said decidedly. “So I think we need to set some ground rules. For the sake of our friendship.”
He raised his eyebrows at me, his left ever so slightly higher than the right one. “Is that so?”
“I can’t come to Home Depot with you. We can’t share food . . .” I shook my head. “We can’t do anything that could be perceived as relationship-y . . . or blur boundaries, cause confusion—”
“But I have confusion about what curtains to buy . . .”
“Jesse,” I said in a stern tone. “I’m being serious.”
“Me too.”
The food arrived. The milkshakes were, indeed, very large. As we ate, we talked about work, mostly—a topic I deemed to be safe, something friends discussed. I told him more about my new role, some of the campaigns I’d been working on, and that I’d given my first official warning as a boss.