by Alix Nichols
“I love you,” I whisper again as she disappears.
TWENTY
Uma
Sitting behind Aama and Baba, I stare at Zach’s face on my phone screen.
The reason this Skype call is taking place in my parents’ presence is that it’s them Zach has called this time around. I’m just a silent “extra” in this show. I’m the party who, if we were doing this properly, wouldn’t even be present on this occasion.
“I love your daughter, and I would very much like to marry her,” Zach says before adding, “if you’ll agree.”
Ever since his public declaration at Charles de Gaulle, Zach has said and texted “I love you” to me every single day. It’s as if his floodgates burst open and now there’s no stopping him.
Not that I would ever want to stop him from saying those words.
Aama and Baba don’t respond immediately, even if I know they’re going to say yes.
Over the last month, we’ve discussed this almost daily, and I’ve managed to get them to move from “no way” to “all right, then.” It helped that Priyanka took my side. It also helped that after I turned down Giriraj, my parents couldn’t reasonably expect more Brahmins to scramble to offer for the picky Dalit girl… who may have been ruined during her unsupervised stay in Paris, anyway.
I didn’t tell my parents I’d given my virginity to Zach. Call me weak or a hypocrite, but I knew I’d rather elope with him and risk their wrath than hit them over the head with that confession.
I’d almost given up and was about to suggest elopement to Zach when Marguerite came by our house and vouched for him. With my sister, her husband, Marguerite, and Noah all championing Zach, Aama and Baba finally caved in.
Trouble is, they don’t seem to be in a hurry to inform him of their consent.
“Can we see some proof that you aren’t already married?” Aama says. “Last year, we were assured you were. We even talked with your wife.”
Zach sighs. “I’m very sorry about that charade. Colette and I aren’t married. In fact, we never were.”
Too much information!
I should’ve warned him not to mention that detail.
Baba knits his brows. “You made a child out of wedlock.”
Zach drops his head to his chest, realizing his gaffe.
“It’s common in Europe,” I say. “People date, make a child or two, and then get married.”
“Or not,” Aama says pointedly.
Zach looks up. “In my defense, I did propose when I learned Colette was pregnant. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to tie herself down.”
Aama’s eyes widen. “With a baby on the way?”
“She wasn’t sure she was having the baby,” Zach says. “The only reason she didn’t get an abortion was her fear of hospitals.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence, but then Baba speaks. “We have yet to get over the fact that you’re the reason Uma refused to marry Giriraj.”
“I don’t think so,” Zach says. “She refused to marry him because she didn’t love him.”
Aama shakes her head.
“It’s true,” I say. “I never loved Giriraj.”
She sighs. “In the Hindu tradition—your tradition, Uma—love is something that comes after marriage.”
Baba gives me a hard look and points his chin to the phone. “So, you love him?”
I nod, realizing that even if Zach knows it, I’ve never said those words aloud.
“I do.” My voice is loud with no hesitation. “I love him more than anything in the world. More than life itself.”
Even without looking at the phone, I can feel Zach’s hot stare on me.
Baba gives me a quick nod before turning to Zach. “All right, then. You have our permission and blessing.”
Finally!
“The wedding will be held in Nepal,” Aama says, shifting from resigned to businesslike with surprising ease. “We’ll ask an astrologer to find an auspicious date.”
What?
There was no question about a wedding. It was supposed to be a no-fuss, courthouse marriage.
Zach blinks and glances at me.
“Aama, Baba, we don’t want a—” I begin.
Aama shakes her head. “Don’t you think you owe us a proper ceremony?”
“Of course,” Zach says, clearly over his initial surprise. “I’ll be happy to travel to Nepal and marry Uma according to the Hindu tradition. May I bring my son and my parents?”
Aama grins.
“You should bring them and anyone you can round up,” Baba says. “The more the merrier. We don’t want a lonesome groom with no family or friends to support him on such an important occasion. It would reflect badly on Uma.”
I cover my face with my hands.
“Got it,” Zach says. “Expect a small army.”
When the conversation winds up, the mood and my parents’ tone are light-years from where they started. They make jokes, laugh at Zach’s jokes, and look mighty pleased.
After dinner when Priyanka stops by to hear the outcome, Aama says, “He’s very amiable, your sister’s beau. I can see why Uma fell in love with him.”
“Err… I’m not sure it was his amiability.” Priyanka gives her a sly smile and fishes her phone out of her purse. “I looked him up the other day.”
I lean over Aama’s shoulder as Priyanka pulls something up for her on her phone. It’s a video of one of Zach’s games. My sister pauses it when Zach propels himself out of the water in all his muscular, virile glory, ready to slam the ball into the opponent’s goal cage.
Pointing at his torso, she smirks. “This is why she fell in love with him.”
My face feels like someone just set it on fire.
Aama claps her hand to her mouth in pretend shock and erupts in laughter. Priyanka howls, holding her sides. They double over. Looks like my mother and older sister just regressed to teenagers.
“More tea, anyone?” I mumble and scurry to the kitchen.
My phone beeps as I fill the kettle. It’s a text from Zach.
When you said you loved me, I thought I’d explode. I want to kiss you, every bit of you, starting at the top of your head down to your toes. I’m the luckiest guy alive.
I reread the message several times before sticking the phone in my pocket and praying to the gods that the astrologer finds an auspicious date this month. Or, if that’s too much to ask, next month.
If it takes any longer until Zach can execute his threat, I might expire from yearning.
TWENTY-ONE
Zach
The only time I’d seen a Hindu wedding ceremony was on TV in a Bollywood movie. I remember the well-coordinated dance numbers of the flash mobs that the newlyweds and the guests performed every ten minutes or so. And the songs. The plot is fuzzy in my mind, but what stayed are the bright colors, exotic rituals, and beautiful costumes. And mouthwatering food.
Uma said I should expect all of that—barring the flash mobs—at my own Hindu wedding.
My bride’s family compressed the celebrations into two days, kindly considering my status as a foreigner and tight game schedule.
On the first day, my “party” travels from Marguerite’s to Uma’s place in a festive and loud procession. A marching band leads the way, and passersby line the sidewalks to watch and cheer. While many of the guests walk—including Mom, Dad, and Noah—I am driven in a convertible decorated with flowers like some modern-day maharaja.
Luckily, Sam rides with me.
When we arrive at Uma’s, my jaw drops at the sight of my bride in her red silk sari embroidered with gold and beads. Around her slim wrists, she wears multiple glass bangles. Her hands and feet are covered in red henna patterns that snake up her wrists and ankles like magical tattoos.
She’s sexy as hell.
Then again, I find her sexy even in her oversize flannel pjs with green teddy bears on them. But dressed like this, all made up and tattooed… She blows my mind.
Uma’s relatives throw
flower petals at me. After that, a man marks my forehead with a dot and motions me to a special seat in the middle of the courtyard.
Food is served.
When everyone has eaten and drunk, Uma sits next to me. She has a sheer veil over her face, pinned to a puffy top bun that she wears like a crown.
“Your majesty,” I whisper. “You’re stunning.”
“You aren’t too shabby yourself,” she whispers back, surveying my tailored three-piece suit.
We are told to take our shoes off, and Uma’s relatives bring out a large copper bowl filled with water. I must admit I was nervous about this ceremony and weirded out by the prospect of my future in-laws washing my feet.
“Can we maybe skip that part?” I’d asked my intended.
The answer was no.
So I brace myself and suffer through it. When the bowl is taken away, Uma and I are led into the house for another ceremony. I give her a new sari. Her parents give me a new set of clothes to change into.
Ten minutes later, I emerge from the bedroom decked out in a long, brightly colored tunic cinched with a red belt, and comfortable pants.
“Positively dashing,” Uma says. “How are you holding up?”
I arch an eyebrow. “I survived public foot washing by my soon-to-be mother-in-law. You got yourself one tough cookie for a husband.”
This is bravado, of course.
The number of ceremonies still ahead of us today and tomorrow is daunting. Luckily, there are priests and elders on Uma’s side to keep track of what should be done, how, and when.
Dad’s eyes are filled with wonder.
Mom cries at nearly every ceremony.
Sam gets excited when we get to the part where Uma’s sister “steals” my shoes, and I have to bargain a price to get them back. Then he almost falls asleep when the priest recites endless prayers to various Hindu gods.
Next, I tie a gold diamond necklace around Uma’s neck and add gold bracelets to the glass bangles on her wrists. She gives me a thin gold chain and a new watch. After that, we exchange rings.
But we aren’t officially married until I take a pinch of red powder and spread it on the part of Uma’s hair.
My second uncomfortable moment comes when Uma bends down and touches her forehead to my feet. I presume this gesture is supposed to indicate her submission to her husband—something all religions seem to require of women.
Personally, I don’t want her submission.
What I want is her love and respect.
Uma winks at me as she straightens up and I relax.
The elders pray to the gods, after which Uma and I hold hands and take seven steps around a crackling blaze that symbolizes the god of fire.
“With these seven steps,” I say to Uma, repeating after the priest, “you’ve become my friend.”
That’s more like it.
“May I deserve your friendship,” Uma says, her voice cracking with emotion.
I stare into her eyes and utter the final words, “May our friendship make us one.”
The priest and the elders nod their heads in approval.
Suddenly, Uma lifts my hand to her heart. “From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”
I repeat those words.
We’ll have a courthouse ceremony in Paris, so this is Uma’s way of bringing my heritage into the only religious wedding we’re going to have. I love her for this, even if I doubt the Hindu priest appreciates her initiative.
I glance at him.
To my surprise, he’s smiling, unfazed.
I smile back.
“It is your duty to protect your wife and make her happy,” he says.
I nod solemnly, overjoyed at how well this Hindu injunction aligns with my own plans.
Cherishing Uma and protecting her from harm is exactly what I want to do for as long as I live.
EPILOGUE
Uma
Zach unlocks the door and holds it open for me.
I step in, slightly unsteady on my feet. We went out with his friends and had more to drink than usual, seeing as Sam is at his grandparents’ this weekend.
After removing my coat and kicking off my shoes, I head up the stairs, but I don’t get far. Zach grabs me by the waist from behind and spins me around. His mouth descends on mine, hungry and a little rough. But I don’t mind. He tastes of wine. I guess I do, too. Pushing his tongue in deep, he swirls it and caresses mine.
Heat begins to pool between my legs as he molds my breasts with one hand and my ass with the other.
I move against him, panting, rubbing myself against his bulge. As his kiss and his hands grow more demanding, my core pulls and pulses with need.
Shocking as it may sound, I hope he’ll take me right here, right now, without any preliminaries. I’m too aroused for foreplay.
Then I remember we don’t have protection. It’s in the bedroom.
“I want you now, right here,” Zach whispers against my mouth. “No barriers, skin to skin.”
I nod. “I can go on the pill starting tomorrow.”
He draws back, his eyes searing into mine. “Don’t.”
I frown, studying his face to make sure I understand his meaning.
His expression softens. “Of course, if you’re not ready or if you don’t want kids—”
“Another one like Sam?” I say. “Are you kidding me? Yes, please!”
His eyes light up with joy.
Pressing his lips to mine, he unzips my jeans and drags them down together with my panties. I sigh in relief. Clearly, I’m not the only impatient one tonight.
As I step out of my bottoms, Zach frees himself and presses his tip against my pulsing entrance.
Murmuring my name, he lifts me up and enters me, right where we stand. We both groan our pleasure.
So good.
I can feel him throbbing as he pushes deeper, inch by delicious inch, until he is fully sheathed. Leaning me against the wall, he starts to move in and out, slowly at first and then faster. He hammers into me for barely a minute before I tense and spasm around him as I come.
Without pulling out, Zach tightens his grip on me and turns. He sits down and leans back against the steps. I touch my toes to the wood, pressing my breasts to his chest and nuzzling his throat.
Both of us are still wearing our shirts.
For a split second, I consider unbuttoning his shirt and pulling my sweater over my head. But he grabs my hips and pulls me up along his length all the way to the crown. Our eyes lock, and he thrusts into me to the hilt.
My lids flutter shut. I grip his shoulders and let him pound into me as pleasure rises once again. My second climax is just as swift, but it’s deeper, sweeter than the first. It makes my legs quiver and my entire body shudder uncontrollably.
Zach thrusts once more and groans his release.
“I love you so much,” I say into his ear. “I’ll never stop loving you.”
He cups my face. “Je t’aime, chaton.”
Somehow, we get to the bedroom where I climb under the blankets, and he lies down beside me. I curl up, exhausted and a little tipsy. Having made love without protection, the insides of my thighs are sticky with Zach’s seed. I should go clean up. Only I don’t want to. Partly because I’m too tired, but mostly because I don’t mind being sticky with Zach’s seed.
To be honest, I like it.
As I begin to drift off to sleep, he wraps his arm and leg around me and kisses my neck.
I remember what Priyanka said about why I fell in love with him.
She wasn’t entirely wrong. In the beginning, there was more lust than anything else in what we felt for each other. It wasn’t supposed to lead to love.
The perfect way, at least in my culture, is letting your parents choose a deserving man from a reputable family and a matching caste. There’s a lengthy engagement during which time you get to know him and discover his qualities. You grow
to respect and appreciate him. You realize you have the same values. This respect is the cement of a solid relationship and—in a perfect world—comes before the emotional and physical aspects.
As time passes, your heart gets involved. After that, desire awakens, and you start to crave his nearness, his touch, his kisses.
That’s not how it happened for me.
Zach and I did it backward. Our bodies craved each other—claimed each other—before our hearts caught up, and long before our minds realized how right we are for each other.
That’s definitely not the prescribed way.
But I’ll wager the gods approve.
<<<>>>
The Game Time series continues with PLAYING FOR KEEPS!
He remembers everything… except the first thirty years of his life.
French athletics star-turned-coach Lucas Delaunay has no recollection of his past, despite his parents’ and friends’ efforts to help him. Every month of his life is accounted for. Mementos from the birthdays he celebrated, the games he played, and the women he dated fill Lucas’s mind, amounting to hundreds of memories.
Shame they aren’t his.
Now a manager of an up-and-coming water polo club, Lucas’s ambition is to take his team to the European and World arenas. He wants them on the podium even more than he wants to remember his past.
Enter publicist Isabelle Ferrand, hired to land sponsors and fundraise for the club. A few years back, Isabelle was a poloist herself. She was also a friend. Just a friend, until she fell out with him for reasons she claims she can no longer recall. But everyone—Isabelle included—insists Lucas regarded her as a sister.