Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  I sighed, looking at our dishes on the coffee table, the dirty pots and pans in the sink, my work laptop on the counter, my running shoes in the foyer. There were a million productive things I could be doing right now on a Friday night—ones that I was used to doing on a Friday night. Meal prepping while finally watching the new Netflix show everyone was talking about. Exercising. Catching up on a week’s worth of news, having only had time to cast an eye over the headlines during the week.

  It was early May now, and we’d just sailed past the three-month mark. (Although, thankfully, neither of us wanted to make a big deal about it.) We were getting comfortable—I was getting comfortable—and this was usually the point in the relationship when guys walked away. Because they were players and got bored or felt emasculated. Sometimes, they grew tired of my busy schedule, feeling that I didn’t make enough space in my life for them. One time, to quote, he got “sick of feeling like the chick in the relationship.” (Boy, was he a winner.)

  But Becket wasn’t walking away or complaining or asking anything of me other than what I had to offer. And right now that was two or so evenings a week, a phone call and a few texts throughout the day, and no more. I hadn’t seen him since the previous weekend—we’d both had a busy few days—and earlier that evening, he’d shown up with a smile on his face and a canvas bag full of udon, fresh shrimp, and bok choy. Things were going well. They were exactly how I wanted them to be, and I definitely didn’t want anything to change.

  I knew Ainsley thought I should have “the talk” with Becket, clarify what I wanted my future to look like so we could decide if that picture matched his own. But why ruin a good thing? Becket seemed equally intent on enjoying the present and worrying about the rest—well—in the future.

  My phone buzzed, and I leaped for it. It was Ainsley, and I smiled at the fact that we were thinking about each other at the exact same time.

  What’s your opinion on Amy Poehler?

  I giggled. That was random.

  WHY?? Please tell me she’s not canceled. I loved Parks and Rec!!

  I set my phone back down and slid my bum to the other side of the couch, tucking my legs underneath Becket. “You sure you don’t want to do something tonight? Should we go see that new Marvel movie?”

  “No.” Becket shook his head, his black hair flopping around like a shaggy dog. “I’m perfect here.” He paused. “Who was that, by the way?”

  “Ainsley.”

  “It seems like you two are really hitting it off?” He opened his eyes, winking. “Sounds like you have a new buddy.”

  “I do.” I grinned. “She’s the best.”

  “Well, I’m glad you found her. After all those crazy friend dates you went on, who knew that your perfect match was sitting fifteen feet away from you the whole time.”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “And all anyone really needs in life is one good friend, right?”

  I didn’t answer as I stood up from the couch and cleared the dishes. I put them in the sink and then turned around. Becket was looking at me, the back of his head in his palms, his elbows jutting out wide. Once again, I started hearing Ainsley’s voice. There was something else she thought I should clarify with Becket. And about that, at least, she was probably right.

  “I made another new friend, recently,” I said to Becket, wiping my hands with a tea towel. “Jesse.”

  “The catfish?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “The woman from the sex club?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “Not Jessie, as in Jessica. Jesse. As in Jasmeet. I met him during my third year of university.” I paused. “We dated for a while.”

  “Huh.” In one swift movement, Becket sat straight up on the couch. “What’s a while?”

  “Four years.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I haven’t seen him since I was twenty-four. So basically a lifetime ago.” I paused a few feet in front of him on the couch. “I ran into him a few weeks ago after book club. He was at the same bar.”

  Still, Becket didn’t respond. I couldn’t tell if he was jealous or not. I’d never seen him express an emotion other than variegated shades of happiness.

  “You have nothing to worry about, OK?” I sat down next to him and squeezed his hand, as if my touching him could prove it. “Becket. Can you say something?”

  He looked at me, as if he wanted me to keep talking. To say something that would reassure him in better, more articulate words that it was Becket who I cared for, not Jesse. Becket who I wanted to spend my Friday nights with. I tucked a stray piece of hair away from his forehead, letting my fingers drag down his cheek, the stubbled contour of his jawline. Something deep inside me ached, and without thinking, I kissed him. Hard and raw and deep, and we were both breathless by the time he pulled away.

  “OK, OK.” Becket laughed, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “I believe you. I have nothing to worry about.”

  I smiled, kissing him again. “Good.”

  “Can you humor me, though, Serena?” Becket set his hand on my knee closest to him, pulling at it. “Can you tell me when you see him? I don’t want to feel like you’re sneaking around.”

  “I’ll tell you. I promise.” I paused. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  I tensed up, waiting for the questions I wasn’t sure I could answer truthfully.

  “How many times have you seen him, since the bar?” Becket asked, after a moment had passed. I could tell that he wanted to ask more but that he wouldn’t. I breathed out a tiny sigh of relief.

  “Just once. We went for lunch earlier this week.”

  “Lunch.” Becket nodded, and I could tell by the tone of his voice and the pressure of his body that this fact had brightened his mood. “Lunch is . . . good. I love lunch.”

  I knew what he meant by that comment. Lunch meant meeting during daylight hours; implicitly, it meant boundaries.

  I thought about telling Becket of the rules I’d set for Jesse and our friendship to ensure those boundaries were kept, but something told me Becket would perceive them as a further cause to worry, rather than reassure him.

  19

  The month of May flew by. I packed away my tights, sweaters, and wool skirts at the top of my closet, trading them for the summer dresses and breathable cotton garments I’d need soon, as DC’s sticky, hot summer crept in. The weather was perfect when I woke up in the morning, and on the days Ainsley didn’t work from home, we’d bus or walk to work together, one of Nikesh’s cold brews in hand as we chatted about anything. Everything. Sometimes, it seemed, absolutely nothing. But it wasn’t just Ainsley I was becoming close to; it was her whole family.

  Nikesh and MacKenzie were a huge part of her life, and I loved that they were part of our friendship, too. I’d see them at the farmers market on Saturday mornings, sometimes with Becket, who got along with Nikesh famously. I even made Indian food for everyone one night, while Becket babyproofed all the sharp edges of my apartment with Bubble Wrap. Mom was so proud that I was cooking. I took pictures of every dish and texted them to her.

  It was tense at home, more so than usual. And for the first time in my life, it wasn’t because of me. It wasn’t Serena refusing to go to gurdwara or bringing home a guy at the age of twenty or getting a neck tattoo for all the aunties to see. Moving out before she was married. Saying out loud that she didn’t ever want to get married.

  It was Natasha.

  Mom would never say a bad word behind someone’s back, let alone her favorite daughter, but every single day when I called Mom, I could tell she was upset with her. Even I was upset with Natasha. The pain of losing Natasha’s friendship had started to subside, but I still couldn’t believe the way she was treating our mother. Excluding her from her life and her pregnancy, acting like she was ashamed of where she came from. According to Mom, Natasha wouldn’t
even let her bring a dish to the gender reveal party. (Just let the woman make you samosas, you brat! Everyone likes them.)

  The day of the party finally arrived on a sunny, balmy Sunday in early June, and somehow, I’d managed to convince Ainsley to come along with MacKenzie. Becket and I walked over to their house at the appointed time and found her strapping MacKenzie into the car seat in the back of her truck. She was more dressed up than usual. She rarely dealt with clients or had external meetings in her role, so her wardrobe was a roster of jeans and trendy T-shirts. I don’t think I’d ever seen her with makeup on or in a dress, and the emerald-green material contrasted well with her bright red hair and made her eyes pop. We walked up the driveway, and I let out a long whistle.

  Ainsley leaned her head out of the car, grinning.

  “Looking good, Woods!”

  “I waxed my armpits for this, Singh. It better be a good party!” Ainsley walked down to meet us, giving Becket a warm embrace. “Nikesh is inside. I warn you, he might make you taste test his new brew.” Ainsley lowered her voice. “Cumin. Seriously, I almost threw up.”

  Becket laughed. “I’ve lived off generic brand instant coffee for fifteen years. I can drink anything.”

  I kissed him goodbye, and we watched him walk into the house to hang out with Nikesh. From what I heard about their plans, they were going to drink beer and watch “the game,” and even though I had no idea what sport would be on, I half wished Ainsley and I could stay home and join them.

  “Is he upset?”

  I turned to Ainsley. She was looking at me, her arms slightly crossed. “Becket? No. Why would he be?”

  “He didn’t want you to invite him to Natasha’s party?”

  I shook my head. I had been a little worried Becket was expecting an invitation, but luckily, he’d brought up the subject first and suggested he stay behind. That bringing over the new boyfriend would take away the attention from Natasha and Mark. This worked out perfectly because, to be honest, the possibility of inviting Becket—introducing him to my family—hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  “That’s so thoughtful,” Ainsley said when I told her what Becket had said. “Or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “He’s putting the brake on.” Ainsley paused. “Does that bother you?”

  “Bother me?” I rolled my eyes. “It thrills me. It means Becket and I are on the exact same page.”

  We showed up right on time, but dozens of guests had already arrived. The main floor of the Hartshornes’ town house had been transformed by an absurd number of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. It looked beautiful. Instagrammable. But it didn’t look anything like the Natasha I used to know.

  I caught sight of her and Mark on the love seat across the room, posing for pictures with their friends, a two-tiered cake just in front of them. She was wearing a flowing off-white dress, and she was showing even more than the last time I’d seen her. I choked up just looking at her.

  “Are you sure it’s OK for MacKenzie and I to be here?” I heard Ainsley say, and I turned to her quickly, thankful for the interruption. She looked anxious, which was odd to me, because the way she commanded herself in the office with her team, I’d never seen her anything less than confident before.

  “Of course it is,” I said. “It’s BYOB. Bring your own baby?”

  Ainsley followed me to the kitchen, where we set out the bottle of prosecco and a bottle of nonalcoholic sparkling apple cider we’d picked up from the farmers market the previous morning.

  “What do we have here, girls?”

  A shiver ran down my spine, and I took a moment to plaster a huge grin on my face before I turned around to face her.

  “Mrs. Hartshorne. So nice to see you.”

  “You didn’t need to bring anything—we specifically said in the invite not to bring anything.”

  “Oh, it was no bother—”

  “Let’s put these away, shall we?” She stiffly grabbed the bottles and then craned her neck around. “Pam? Pam?”

  A young woman appeared as if out of thin air, and Mrs. Hartshorne practically threw the bottles at her and then wiped her hands together, as if they were covered in dust. “On the dining table, Pam? With the rest of the guest wine?”

  She smiled at me crisply. I suppose I was a guest.

  “And who is this?” Mrs. H said, looking over.

  “I’m Ainsley. And this wee one is MacKenzie.”

  “MacKenzie. Hello.” Mrs. Hartshorne beamed. “What a lovely name. How old?”

  “He’s two—”

  “A lovely age.” She nodded, cutting Ainsley off. She leaned against the counter, tossing back her head, dramatically. “I’m just so thrilled I’ll be a grandmum soon. First time, you know! I thought Bethany would be the first; she’s a few years older. But . . .” She trailed off, and I understood why. Natasha had told me all about Mark’s sister. These days, Bethany and her husband were a bit too preoccupied with party drugs to be thinking about having their own gender reveal party.

  “Anyhoo!” Mrs. Hartshorne said brightly, just as I was about to come up with a reason to excuse ourselves. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been looking forward to this afternoon, and I can’t quite believe that it’s here. That I’ll know in”—she glanced at her gold Fitbit—“twenty-two minutes whether I’ll finally have a little granddaughter!” She paused, coming up for air. Sometimes I wondered if she had gills and didn’t really have to breathe like us humans at all.

  “I know I’m not supposed to have a preference. But I do. Is that terribly naughty?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but she continued.

  “I shouldn’t say it out loud. I wouldn’t want to jinx it.” She looked up suddenly, as if remembering she had an audience. “Annalise, did you have a preference?”

  Ainsley gave me a look as she gently shifted MacKenzie, who had fallen asleep in her arms. “It’s Ainsley. And no, I didn’t. My husband and I only hoped that our baby would be healthy.”

  “Well, of course you did.” Mrs. Hartshorne sounded annoyed, as if she’d been told off. “Still, it’s hard to believe that you didn’t even have a slight preference. At your gender reveal, didn’t you—”

  “We didn’t have a gender reveal,” Ainsley said, cutting her off.

  So that was how you got Mrs. H to shut up. You needed to interrupt her.

  “I mean,” Ainsley continued, “at the end of the day, isn’t gender just a social construct?”

  I coughed, choking down a laugh as I covered my mouth with my palm.

  “And even if MacKenzie was born the male sex, and it’s his assigned gender right now, that doesn’t necessarily mean that’s truly his gender, if he even has one, does it?” She paused. “And the same goes with your future grandchild.”

  Mrs. Hartshorne looked horrified. I was literally dying, and I had no idea how Ainsley was keeping a straight face.

  “So this whole social directive that parents—particularly mothers—have to have a party to celebrate something society still doesn’t really understand is . . . really quite toxic.” Ainsley smiled brightly. “Don’t you think?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  I’d never seen Mrs. Hartshorne at a loss for words. She looked utterly bamboozled. I felt like hugging Ainsley. It was glorious.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Hartshorne said finally, as she pretended to wave at someone across the room. “Host duty calls. Refreshments are that way, girls.”

  “Girls?” Ainsley said, after she’d stalked off. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t a girl. Girls don’t have cellulite, and they’re not pre-premenopausal.”

  “Pre-premenopausal?”

  “It’s a thing. Google it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure it is. Anyway, thank you for telling her off like that. I’ve never had the courage.”

  “I’m su
re you would have if she wasn’t your sister’s mother-in-law.” Ainsley winked. “Lucky for me, after this party, I’m never going to see her again in my life.”

  Ainsley and I made our way to the “refreshments” table and helped ourselves to glasses of ginseng and coconut water. (The theme of the party seemed to be snob.) While pouring our glasses, I caught sight of a woman I once knew well. Very well. Jasmine looked exactly the same, but her hair was shorter and now a trendy gray-brown, rather than the bottle blond she used to rock. She had a toddler in one arm and was dragging a young, crying child with her other hand.

  Our eyes met. She let go of the child and waved at me, smiling brightly, but then noticed that the crying child was now dry of tears and was darting toward the dessert table. I could hear her whisper a curse word, the one I’d heard her say countless times under her breath in class, at the gym, or to describe her now wife, yearly, when she forgot their anniversary.

  I waved back, smiling, but I don’t think she saw me. She was running after the escaped child.

  “Who’s that?” Ainsley asked, looking after her. “Do you want me to tell her off, too?”

  I shook my head. “No. She’s lovely, actually. Her name is Jasmine. We went to business school together.”

  “Have I heard about Jasmine before?”

  I shook my head. “No, but I was . . . her bridesmaid.”

  Ainsley’s jaw dropped.

  “I helped plan her four-day bachelorette in Atlantic City.”

  “Atlantic City?”

  “We stayed at one of Trump’s hotels. Mind you, this was way before he ran for president.”

  “Still!”

  “She wanted to have a Jersey Shore–themed night out,” I said flatly. “We used to watch it religiously. Obviously, I dressed as Snooki.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Ainsley laughed. “I can’t imagine the pictures. No wonder you’re not on Facebook.”

  I smiled, remembering the good old days. Jasmine was a few years younger than me, and because I’d included Natasha in every part of my life, she’d become friends with her, too. I should have known that she might be here.