Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  “Have you ever had a terrible roommate situation?” I heard Rachel ask.

  “Yeah. I have.” I nodded, turning back to her, feeling sad for Jesse. “Before I got my own place, I shared a house with five inconsiderate, messy people in Adams Morgan.”

  “Did any of their cats try to eat your shoes?”

  I laughed. “Luckily, the landlord forbade pets.”

  I glanced back at my phone. Jesse had texted again.

  I hate to ask. But can we talk?

  Talk now? I hesitated, unsure of what to reply. I was busy. And not only that, I knew that if I called him, he’d talk about the divorce, and that would be breaking one of our rules. On the other hand, we were friends. And weren’t friends there for each other when you needed them most?

  “Is that your boyfriend texting?” Rachel asked suddenly. My face flushed red, and I turned to her.

  “Can’t leave you alone for one night, hey?”

  “No, it’s just a friend in distress.”

  She nodded, and suddenly her silence—her lack of chat—was palpable. Lazily, she covered the vegetables we’d chopped and peeled with a balsamic vinegar. Again, my phone buzzed on the table. Jesse was calling.

  “Is it an emergency?” Rachel’s friendly tone had taken on a different quality. I bit my lip and then quietly gathered my things.

  “It is.” I nodded. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

  * * *

  I waited until I was outside to call him back. Jesse spoke for the next ten minutes straight without taking a breath, and even though I was tempted, I didn’t interrupt him to remind him that he wasn’t allowed to talk to me about the divorce.

  “I’m never going to see Maya’s face when she sees Princess Jasmine for the first time. That’s never going to happen.”

  I didn’t answer, and I didn’t think I was supposed to. He just needed to vent and process and wallow. He needed to grieve that he wasn’t always going to be around for his children.

  I’d heard people say that their kids became a limb to them, even an organ, something they couldn’t live without. I would probably never fully understand, but these days, I was getting close. My eyelids fluttered to a close, and the smell of MacKenzie’s hair suddenly flooded in. I loved him. And as much as I didn’t want any of my own, I knew I would do anything to protect the children in my life.

  Except for the gender reveal, I’d barely seen or spoken to Natasha in months. Would I get to know her son the same way as I was getting to know MacKenzie?

  And what about Maya and Ajay? Would I . . .

  I dug my fingers in the flesh of my thighs as I tried to derail that train of thought. What was I doing, daydreaming about meeting Jesse’s children? If getting together with each other’s families wasn’t already an official ground rule for our friendship, surely it should be.

  We wouldn’t be a good idea right now.

  He’d said it in passing when he thought he’d caught me admiring him, and I hadn’t let myself think about those words since. But now, suddenly, irritatingly, the last two words kept playing over and over again in my mind.

  Right now. Right now.

  What about “right now”? We were friends, we made sense as friends, and there was no reason for that to ever change. He must have said that without thinking.

  Right?

  “Sorry. Sorry, Serena,” Jesse said, gratefully interrupting my thoughts. “Thanks for listening. I know not being the one to take them to Disney World isn’t the end of the world.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” I had found a bench across and up the block and sat down on it. “If you want to keep talking, I’m here. Although I’m not sure I have any sage advice to impart.”

  “It’s OK. I appreciate you listening.” He let out a loud yawn. “So where are you right now?”

  I glanced to the side. I could see the cooking class going on through the window. Rachel had joined the station behind us and was chatting to the two women there. A part of me wanted to go back inside, but the other part of me wondered what the point would be.

  “I was at a cooking class,” I said finally.

  “Shit. I’m so sorry—”

  “It’s over,” I lied. “It’s fine.”

  I could hear rustling on the other end of the line. Was he on the couch, on his bed? I wondered what his apartment looked like. I knew he was there right now. He wouldn’t allow himself to be so vulnerable in public.

  “Have you ever had a terrible roommate?” I asked suddenly, thinking about the story Rachel had been telling me back in the kitchen.

  “Sure. Don’t you remember Robby?”

  I nodded, remembering the pot-smoking ladies’ man Jesse had lived with in grad school. “Didn’t he sleep with the wife of one of your professors?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I sighed. “I wondered what ever happened to Robby.”

  “According to Facebook, he’s quite high up at the World Bank.”

  “He is not . . .”

  “And I hear that Cliff is making a play for office—”

  My jaw dropped. “Keg-stand Cliff? Which office?”

  Once I hung up the phone and started walking to the bus stop, I noticed that everyone in the cooking class had started to clear their things. The class was nearly over, and it had been two and a half hours since I’d faked an emergency and left to talk to Jesse. I sighed, suddenly famished and parched and unable to remember most of the details that had made up our hours-long conversation.

  We’d talked about our college friends for a while, the Labor Day weekend before senior year we’d spent at Virginia Beach, and from there it spiraled outward. To real life. To the ups and downs of our workdays. To things as insignificant yet all-encompassing as what we ate for breakfast.

  From the beginning, I’d known that a friendship with Jesse would involve reliving the past, because it was something we shared. What I didn’t realize was that it would mean so much in the present, too.

  He’d needed me tonight, and it felt good to be there for him. So maybe I was happy to listen. Maybe that rule I invented was pretty arbitrary, and he could talk about the divorce with me.

  But then, what rule would we break next? And then, what would happen after that?

  Right now.

  I yawned as a dull fatigue set in. Right now we were friends, and as I hopped on the bus that would take me back to Columbia Heights, I decided to put myself—and the issue—to bed.

  24

  Looks like Nikesh’s business is taking off,” I said, admiring the boxes of Dirty Chai bottles piled up on the porch. The Fourth of July had come and gone, as had Ainsley’s parents, and she’d invited Becket and me over for dinner. After only four days apart, I was looking forward to seeing her, even though I’d had a busy weekend in my own right. I’d alternated working on The Fifth Ingredient campaign from my sweltering balcony and air-conditioned living room, and spent a few nights out with Becket checking out new restaurants and food festivals. Jesse and I met up for lunch once, too. (It was so ordinarily friendly it’s barely worth mentioning.)

  “I hope it does,” Becket replied, and it took a moment for me to remember we were talking about Nikesh’s hustle. “It’s the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

  “Dirty chai is tea and coffee,” I corrected, smiling. “Anyway, Ainsley says he’s been talking to a few investors.”

  “Oh yeah?” Becket replied vaguely.

  I tripped on a box as we made our way to the door, and Becket grabbed my hand to steady me.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled without looking up at me and then reached for the doorbell.

  I furrowed my brow, unable to read him. Something seemed off. It was the first time in our relationship—I was proud of myself that I’d started using that word—that he was the one acting distant. It was unnervi
ng.

  I reached for his hand and pushed it away from the bell.

  “Becket?”

  He didn’t answer. I reached up and brushed his cheek with my hand, like his face was a canvas. He must have shaved just before coming to pick me up because it felt smooth, as smooth as I’d ever felt it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He grabbed my hand, holding it in his. I was preparing to have to pry the information out of him, crack all sorts of jokes to cheer him up, but then he actually came out with it. No prompting required.

  “Wedding season.” He sighed and then let both our hands fall down to our sides. “I’m not as busy this year. There’s just too much competition right now.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s demoralizing.”

  I nodded, surprised by how honest he was every time I asked him a question. There was a wicker bench somewhat free of clutter, so I took a seat, and Becket squeezed in next to me.

  “I wish I wasn’t so reliant on weddings.” He met my gaze. “Anyway, ignore me. Nothing like a slow work week to emasculate a man, hey?”

  I shrugged, clasping my fingers through his. “Is there anything I can do?”

  His face went dark and he nodded. Oh god. I was trying to be nice. I hadn’t actually asked that question seriously, and my gut wrenched as I prepared myself for whatever “relationship” ask he was about to make.

  “I . . .”

  Oh good Lord . . .

  “I really need . . .”

  “Yes, Becket?”

  “A blow job.”

  My heart sank into my stomach.

  “You need a blow job.”

  “Yes.”

  I snorted.

  “What?” He laughed. “You asked.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, and the joke made me realize we hadn’t been intimate in two weeks, even though he’d slept over several times. Had this just occurred to him as well?

  “Anyway, I just need to recalibrate a bit. That’s it,” Becket continued. His optimism sounded forced. “My parents did warn me against art school. Maybe I should try something new.”

  “Becket . . . you’re so talented. Don’t say that.”

  He was really talented. Natasha’s wedding photographs were gorgeous and original, and his other work was even better. He’d shown me his photography and design portfolio early on, and I’d been impressed by his eye for detail, the way he could capture an image and, somehow, make it even more real.

  “Hey . . .” I said, a lightbulb going off in my head. “Why don’t you . . . work for me. Would that be weird?”

  He laughed. “Are you being serious?”

  “Yeah. I actually have a meeting with Deborah tomorrow. We need to find more freelancers. With The Fifth Ingredient, everybody is swamped.”

  I told him about the available projects, and as I suspected, Becket had the exact sorts of skills and experience we were looking for. I would have hired him even if he wasn’t my boyfriend.

  “So, do you want the gig?” I asked. He was smiling, grinning even.

  “Let’s do it!”

  He high-fived me, hard, and it was so unexpected that I couldn’t help but laugh.

  * * *

  MacKenzie was still awake, and I spent the first fifteen minutes ignoring everyone except him. I’d only known him for five months, yet I could see him changing already. The Paddington Bear pajama onesie that used to hang on him like a potato sack now looked snug. I imagined myself walking into a department store and buying him a replacement. Paying full price, which I never did, for ridiculously cute pajamas that would only fit him for a few months. I wondered if Natasha and Mark would want something like this for their son. If, on a random weeknight evening, I’d be invited to play with him.

  Ainsley and Nikesh let me feed him his bedtime bottle, and then Nikesh pried him out of my hands to put him to bed. Becket went up with him, and I sighed deeply after they went upstairs.

  “What’s the sigh for?” Ainsley was in the kitchen, directly behind the sofa I was sitting on. “Do you have baby fever or something?”

  “Just for your baby. Do you need any help?”

  “All done. We’ll eat when he’s asleep.” Ainsley appeared beside me, two glasses of kombucha in hand. (When I first met Ainsley, I thought it was disgusting, but she’d converted me on the trend.) She sat down heavily next to me, setting the glasses in front of us. Through the baby monitor, we could hear MacKenzie crying and the creaks of floorboards as, presumably, Nikesh patted him, walked him back and forth across the room in preparation to lay him in his crib. MacKenzie had napped that afternoon and wouldn’t go down easy that evening, so Ainsley decided we had time to do the turmeric mask I’d told her about after relaying Jesse’s “zit” story. Jesse and I used to do those masks together all the time. Turmeric’s antiseptic properties worked wonders for the skin.

  Ainsley and I scrubbed makeup from our faces and then mixed together turmeric, yogurt, and honey in a stainless-steel bowl. We applied it over the kitchen sink, careful not to drop any of it on our clothes or the counter. Turmeric stained like a bitch.

  “How long do we have to leave this on for?” Ainsley asked me after we’d sat back down on the couch, old tea towels draped over our shoulders.

  “Ten minutes.” I glanced at her canary-yellow face. “Well, maybe five for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a gori, and you’ll look jaundiced if you leave it on any longer.”

  “Gori,” Ainsley repeated. “I thought ‘white person’ was gora?”

  “‘White man’ is gora. Gori is ‘white woman.’”

  “Right.” She nodded. We could still hear MacKenzie over the baby monitor, although his cries were getting fainter.

  “So did you ever end up going to that Trojan cooking class last week?” Ainsley said after a while. “How was it?”

  “Tuscan.” I laughed. “And it was . . . nice.”

  “Nice?” She winked at me. “Did you meet anyone? Do you have a new friend?”

  I blew on my fingernails. “Too many to count.”

  “You player!”

  “I get around.”

  She giggled, hitting me on the shoulder. “Seriously, though. How was it?”

  “Good. We made this bread thing, and I can’t remember what else.”

  “You can’t remember? It was four days ago.”

  I reached for my kombucha on the coffee table, stalling for time. I hadn’t told Ainsley about my cooking class because I was worried what she’d think about why I left early. But it’s not like I could lie to her, either. Friends didn’t lie to each other.

  “You’re being weird, Serena. I’m just throwing that out there.”

  “I actually left early.” I took a sip, shrugging. “Jesse called. He needed to talk.”

  Ainsley made a face somewhere between surprised and irritated, but I couldn’t really tell because of the face mask.

  “About what?”

  I told her, and all she did was nod, so I kept talking, although more slowly because the turmeric was starting to dry and crack on my face. I told her about the ground rules I’d made for us, that it was the first time I’d let him speak about the divorce.

  “Two and a half hours,” Ainsley repeated. “He went on about his divorce for that long? That must have been hard for you to listen to. You’re a good friend.”

  “He only talked about that for ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” I shrugged. “The rest of the time, I don’t know . . .”

  Another wail erupted from upstairs, and Ainsley looked up at the ceiling, like she was ready to fly through it. A moment passed, and MacKenzie’s wailing died down.

  After, Ainsley was quiet. She was never quiet, so I knew she was holding her tongue about something. The last time she’d passed judgment over my rela
tionship with Jesse, I’d shut her down, but this time, I wanted to know what she was thinking.

  Having Jesse in my life again was throwing me off, and though our friendship was nothing more than platonic, of course it was confusing. How could it not be? I needed my friend to be honest with me. And when I told her that, she responded, “What do you think I’m thinking?”

  “You’re thinking . . . Good God, Serena. You didn’t tell Becket the whole truth, that’s saying something, isn’t it?” I turned toward her on the couch more fully. “And I’d say back, Gosh no, Ainsley. We get along well, and sure, he’s still a straight-up hottie, but it’s strictly platonic.”

  “‘Good God’? ‘Gosh no’? Are we in an old Hollywood movie?”

  “Maybe.”

  She smiled at me, and my whole body relaxed. Her smile was one of the reasons why everybody liked her. At the office, or our waiters or baristas, or strangers sitting next to us on the subway. She smiled in a way that appeared to be for you and only you.

  “It’s platonic. You’re just friends. I believe you. But . . .”

  “I knew there’d be a but—”

  “But I’m not even sure that’s relevant. Sure, you could be friends with Jesse. But should you be?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You almost married the guy, Serena. And now you don’t believe in marriage. So your relationship with Jesse is still affecting you. And you’re bringing all of that with you into your friendship with him and . . . your relationship with Becket.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true.”

  Ainsley shrugged. “It’s just an opinion. You can take it or leave it.”

  I wanted to leave it. Bury what she said underneath the couch and never go there again. She didn’t really understand what happened. I’d never told her. But maybe, separately, there was a grain of truth to what she said.

  Was Jesse the reason Becket and I had stopped being intimate? I didn’t think so. It’s not like I was rejecting Becket’s advances; we were both not making an effort in that department.