Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” He stuffed a potato wedge into his mouth, chewing. “Us being friends and all.”

  “It is nice,” I admitted. “And it’s nice to see you happy. I have to say, last week you looked—”

  “Terrible. I know. I was having a bad day.”

  I nodded. “I guess those happen sometimes.”

  “Right before I ran into you, Anadi switched weekends on me, again, after I’d already planned to take the kids—”

  “Jesse.” It was my turn to cut him off. “No. You can’t talk to me about your divorce anymore. OK? It’s too weird.”

  “Is it?”

  I nodded. “It needs to be a rule.”

  “Fair enough.” He sighed. “I guess I have my therapist for that.”

  “That you do.”

  “Well, are there any other rules I should know about?”

  I nodded, thinking them up on the spot. “I think we should restrict our ‘meetings’ to daytime.” I gestured to the window. “Daylight hours.”

  “Meetings,” he chuckled. “Sure. And how about we can’t drink alcohol during our meetings. You don’t drink really anyway, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So that’ll be easy.”

  “And I don’t think we should go over to each other’s houses.”

  “Wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off me, eh, Singh?”

  I hit him lightly on the shoulder. “And no flirting!”

  “Then no hitting. Hitting could be considered flirting.”

  I grinned. The way Jesse was looking at me, I couldn’t help it.

  The waiter walked by to check on us, and I took a moment to compose myself. Jesse’s presence still affected me. A smile, a joke, even a look could lift me out of a fog, a terrible mood, and make me feel like myself again. But couldn’t a friend make you feel that way, too? It didn’t have to be confusing if you didn’t want it to be.

  “Anything else?” Jesse asked me after the waiter had left.

  “I don’t think we should talk about dating or our relationships.”

  “That’ll be easy because I’m not in a relationship.” He leaned down toward his milkshake, the bright red-and-white straw falling between his lips. “You?”

  “Sort of.” I hesitated, imagining Becket wouldn’t like that response. “Yes, I’m in a relationship.”

  “Oh?” Jesse sucked on the straw, looking up at me. “Spill the tea, girl!”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “What did I just say?”

  “Just the basics, and I’ll leave you alone.” He shrugged. “Name, age, height, occupation, girth—”

  “Jesse!” My face burned red as I glanced around us to make sure no had heard. When I looked back, Jesse was giggling like a little kid, his eyes lit up as he sipped his milkshake. I laughed, shaking my head at him.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I nearly failed English class, don’t you remember? I have no idea what that word means.” He pushed his glass away. “OK, fine. I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Just tell me his name.”

  “Becket.” I shrugged. “We’ve been dating since February. He’s nice.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “He’s really nice. And that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

  “Right. Moving on, then.” Jesse sat back in the red leather seat. “So what can we talk about?”

  “The weather,” I said dryly. “Current events. Sports. Bollywood movies. Family—”

  “How is your family?”

  “Good. Natasha’s pregnant.” I nodded. “Mom and Dad are the same as they have always been.”

  “Well, pass on my congratulations!” He paused, spearing a fried tomato with his fork. “You and your dad,” he added. “You still don’t really talk?”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  Jesse bit into the tomato. “The weather. Currents events. Sports. Bollywood movies . . .”

  “Ha ha . . .”

  “Your new job. His job—”

  “Jesse.” I crossed my arms. “I earned more at the age of twenty-five than he did for ten years driving taxis. Do you think he really wants to hear about my job?”

  “Have you ever asked him that?”

  “Can you stop?” I pleaded, practically whined. “Family is not off-limits, but I think this”—I gestured to his chest and then back to mine—“pretending we still know each other is.”

  “Don’t we still know each other, though?”

  I didn’t answer, shoveling in a big forkful of baked beans, and when I looked up, Jesse was still looking at me.

  “I think we should play an icebreaker.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “A what now?”

  “An icebreaker,” he repeated. “To get to know each other again.”

  Jesse was teasing me. He thought the ground rules I’d set were ridiculous. I straightened my shoulders.

  “I’d love to,” I said, calling his bluff. “What’s the game?”

  Grinning, Jesse pulled out a pad of paper and two pens from his messenger bag. “I don’t know what it’s called, but my daughter told me about this game she played with her big buddy at school—”

  “What’s a big buddy?”

  “Younger students get matched with older students to like—I don’t know—become buddies?” Jesse started folding and ripping the paper into smaller squares. “Anyway, each of us has to answer ten questions, and after, we have to guess what the other person wrote down.”

  Jesse found a random list of icebreaker questions online, and after we each wrote our own answers down, he started reading out the questions.

  The early ones were pretty silly, like, “What is the least terrible Subway sandwich?” This led to a heated debate between ourselves, the waiter, and the table next to us about Jesse’s answer, the Classic Tuna, which everyone else agreed was actually the last thing on the menu we’d order. Jesse defended his answer with spirit, making our side of the restaurant laugh, and impressively, kind of making me crave a Subway Classic Tuna. I loved seeing him so fired up, the way he could get in college, whether it was pushing back against something the professor had said about the Chicago school of economics, or trying to convince a lifelong Capitals fan at some party that they should really be cheering for Jesse’s hometown Philadelphia Flyers. So many of my friends had mellowed with age, growing more complacent and caring less about what used to light the fire in their belly.

  Although he was only talking about a Subway sandwich, I could tell that it hadn’t happened to Jesse. If anything, his joie de vivre had only intensified.

  Finally, we moved on, and gradually the questions became more personal. We incorrectly guessed approximately how many people the other had kissed (eek) and then both had to figure out what was in the other person’s bag. I was completely off. (Who knew that Jesse had been accidentally carrying around his son’s miniature Mr. Potato Head? Certainly not Jesse.) He, on the other hand, was right on the money about what I had in my purse. (Although, let’s be real, it’s quite predictable that a thirtysomething-year-old woman would keep a wallet, keys, smartphone, tampon, and spare lipstick with her at all times.)

  “Final question,” Jesse said as we got to the bottom of the list. I tapped my foot, hoping the game would wrap up quickly now. I’d been away from the office for well over an hour and needed to get back to work.

  “What’s the most important thing to me in the world?”

  “That’s easy,” I said. “Your children.”

  Jesse nodded, clicking his tongue. “Nice one.”

  “And what did you guess for me?”

  “I have two possible answers—”

  “You’re only allowed one.”

  Jesse paused, making a show of studying my face as he drummed his fingers against his cheek. I
slid my rose-gold frames down the bridge of my nose, challenging him. His eyes rolled over my forehead, the bridge of my nose. A flush of heat ran through my body as his eyes landed on my mouth, and I resisted the urge to bite down on my bottom lip. Suddenly, I felt short of breath. Panicked. Exhilarated. And just when the moment became too much, thank god, Jesse spoke.

  “Family,” he said, leaning back into his seat. “You wrote down ‘family.’”

  “I . . .” I stammered, finding my bearings. “That’s your guess?”

  “Well, your career is a close second for sure, and you’d probably not admit it out loud, but yeah. I guessed that family is the most important thing to you.” He shrugged. “Was I right?”

  I cocked my head to the side, glancing down at my paper. Indeed, in large block lettering, I’d written down FAMILY. When Jesse had read out the question moments earlier, I hadn’t hesitated.

  None of my friends, coworkers, not even Natasha would have intuited my answer, but as complicated as we were, I would drop everything for my family. Even though I didn’t act like it half the time, they were my real priority, and I suddenly felt queasy thinking about how no one else in the entire world but Jesse still knew that.

  “Yeah,” I answered breezily, sitting up in the booth. “You were right. Anyway . . .” I trailed off and, desperate for somewhere else to look, started searching for the waiter. It was time to get the check and return to work.

  “What is it?” I heard Jesse say.

  I caught a glimpse of our waiter. He was busy with a nearby table, and I flicked my eyes back to Jesse. “What’s what?”

  Jesse didn’t prompt me again, but from the look on his face, I could tell he wouldn’t let me brush this aside, either.

  “Nothing,” I said forcefully. Jesse raised his left eyebrow at me. It made him look like a cartoon version of himself, and I laughed.

  “It’s not nothing. What was your on your mind just then?”

  I sighed, stalling for time. “I suppose . . . I feel guilty. Not suppose. I feel extremely guilty.”

  “For?”

  “I don’t necessarily act like my family is important to me,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “Except for Natasha, I’ve never made them a priority. I don’t go home very much. And I barely ever talk to my aunts and uncles and cousins. I should. But I never do.”

  “We could all do better,” Jesse said. “You’re being hard on yourself.”

  I smiled at his generosity. Yes, I could do better, but I’m pretty sure Jesse was already trying his best. If he was still the same guy I knew back in college, he was a wonderful family man. He’d spend hours every weekend on the phone with his parents, his siblings, and even kept in regular contact with distant family members, like his third cousin through marriage, Pinky, who emigrated to Denmark and whom he’d only met twice.

  “Well,” I said. “I have been making more of an effort with Mom lately. It’s not easy. But I’m trying.”

  Jesse nodded, and I could tell he was about to ask me something else.

  “I’m so full,” I blurted. Jesse’s gaze was getting a bit too intense, and I needed to change the subject. “Good call on coming here for lunch, but these portions are way too big.”

  Jesse leaned over and looked into my aluminum milkshake glass, and then dramatically into his own. “Funny how we’re both full yet happen to have half a milkshake left. It’s almost as if we could have shared.”

  Without missing a beat, I picked up my milkshake and started chugging. Within five seconds, my stomach hurt and my throat and mouth burned with the cold, but I didn’t stop and kept swallowing, even when the first touches of a brain freeze set in.

  Pushing past it, I took one last gulp, downing the last of it. Then I slammed the glass back on the table, and a beat later, a sharp pain gouged the sides of my head.

  “Ow . . .” I sat back in the seat, pressing at my temples as the pain sharpened. “Fuck. Brain freeze.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  My head felt like a block of ice, blindingly cold, and I shook my head as I watched Jesse laugh his ass off at me. “Totally.”

  “Talk about an icebreaker.”

  I giggled, which made my head throb even harder. “Talk about a dad joke.”

  17

  My stomach felt unsettled as I walked up the steps to the Hartshornes’ town house. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was nervous or if it was the giant milkshake still digesting in my belly. I opened the door, which Natasha had left unlocked. As hurt as I was by her recent behavior, when she’d texted me that afternoon and told me that Mark was on call, and invited me over for dinner, I’d dropped everything to come. I’d been waiting for her to reach out to me. And besides, she was still my sister, and I wanted her to make it right between us.

  “Serena?” I heard her voice ring out. “I’m in the kitchen!”

  I took my shoes off. The hardwood floor was cold against my bare feet, and I was distracted momentarily by the Hartshornes’ family cat, a whitish-gray tabby they called Reagan. (If it was a political reference, I didn’t get it, especially because the whole family were registered Democrats.) A long corridor led to the open-plan kitchen at the back of house, which faced a dramatically landscaped yard.

  Natasha was at the kitchen counter, chopping garlic. I’d never been over here with just the two of us, and for a moment I tried to imagine her life. Not just because of the family she married into, and all the bells and whistles that went along with their lifestyle, but because of her life as a married woman. As an expectant mother. She was wearing clothes I didn’t recognize, quite a bit looser than what she typically wore, and if I hadn’t known to look at her slightly thicker belly, I wouldn’t have been able to tell she was pregnant.

  What had it been like for her all this time? The experience of literally growing a baby, a life that was irrevocably attached to her own. She looked happy, but when I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself in her place, all I felt was trapped.

  “What are you doing over there?” she asked, her eyes not leaving the chopping board. “Come chop. We’re making quesadillas.”

  My heart lurched. Besides Mom’s cooking, that was my favorite meal. Maybe this was the olive branch I’d been waiting for.

  I walked over to her and hugged her from behind, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. I didn’t want her to see the mist in my eyes. After, I washed my hands and then joined her at the countertop.

  “How are you? It feels like it’s been forever.”

  I chopped through the onion, hard. The knife was extremely sharp, and it went through much easier than I’d anticipated. “It has been forever.”

  “I tell you what, I’m glad the first trimester is over. I can finally keep food down.”

  “Oh yeah?” I paused, waiting for the apology, for blowing me off at brunch, our spat in front of our parents. For the Evite. Anything, really.

  “How’s the new job?”

  I hesitated, not yet wanting to switch conversation topics.

  “Is that ginger one still being a bitch?”

  I smiled, pleased that Natasha had remembered something about my life, and then filled her in on my warning shot at Ginger Spice that morning. It felt so good to talk to her, but at the same time, it was strange to be giving her an “update” the way you might an acquaintance, a relative you hadn’t seen in a while. When we lived together, Natasha and I knew every single detail of each other’s lives.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “things were a bit weird this afternoon after I got back from lunch . . .” I looked up, unsure of whether I was ready to tell Natasha I was back in touch with Jesse, but then I realized she’d stopped listening. She was taking a photograph of an arrangement of baby tomatoes and coriander on a wooden chopping board.

  “Anyway,” I said again, watching her. She moved the chopping board to a different part of the co
unter, next to a vase of wildflowers, and then cleaned the knife she’d been using on the edge of a tea towel.

  “Could you take a picture of me?” Without looking up, she handed me her phone. “Use portrait mode, yeah?”

  The familiar knot in my stomach returned as I watched Natasha arrange her props, herself, her hair flowing down her back just so. She placed her left hand on her hip and her right on the slight curve of her belly. I was so shocked, I didn’t even say anything; I just went along with it.

  She made me take about a dozen pictures and then grabbed her phone back and sat herself up on a high-top stool. I finished chopping the garlic she’d abandoned, and from where I was standing a few feet away, I could see her screen. She was on Instagram, switching and testing filters. She didn’t say anything, so I moved on to the tomatoes. Finally, minutes later, she looked up.

  “Can you proofread my post?”

  Had my mother and I not taught her how to say “please” and “thank you”? I shrugged, and I knew I looked annoyed, but she didn’t seem to notice and simply slapped her phone into my hand and then hopped off the stool.

  Sighing, I looked at the screen. She looked radiant in the filter she’d chosen, and I could tell she’d adjusted the saturation, because the tomatoes definitely weren’t that green, yellow, and red in real life. I glanced down to the caption.

  Me and #bean cooking up a storm! #bean #fiesta #pregnancy journey

  My breath caught in my chest. She’d tagged Whole Foods, Everlane, and Williams Sonoma and had set the location to Georgetown. She’d even mentioned her unborn baby.

  But she hadn’t mentioned me.

  “Smells good, girls!”

  Natasha’s phone nearly flew out of my hand. I looked up, startled, and standing there like a goddess in a white, flowing kimono, as if she’d just appeared out of thin air, was Mrs. Hartshorne.

  Ugh.

  “Mrs. H!” Natasha said. “How was yoga?”

  “Brill, as usual. Serena, you’re here! How are you, darling?”