by Lillie Vale
I take a step toward the house. Keep staring, don’t blink.
Harrie cocks his head expectantly.
I hesitate. God, I’m gutless.
Maybe I should check my email. I mean, there could be something really important.
“Just gotta do this one thing and then we’ll go in,” I tell the boys. Freddie has no opinion and returns to his very busy life of sitting, but Harrie pins me with a knowing stare.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, already pulling out my phone. I tap the mail icon, expecting to see a pizza coupon or a panty sale alert. I’m about to mindlessly trash it, except—
Sender: MyShaadi.com
Subject: A sneak peek JUST FOR YOU
Preview: It’s been a while! We’ve missed you, Rita! Now’s your chance to meet new singles in your area . . .
I groan. I had totally forgotten that Aji badgered me into signing up for the matrimonial website during my dating dry spell six months ago, pre-Neil. I’d copped an earful from her when I’d used it for dating instead of marriage.
I should have unsubscribed from this a long time ago.
“Goodbye and good riddance.” I press the screen with my thumb harder than I need to.
You are now unsubscribed.
I take a deep breath and turn the key in the lock. The next few seconds will tell me how successfully I’ve timed my arrival back home. But until I push the door open and find out for sure, I hang in a Schrödinger’s-cat limbo.
Time to be brave.
Chapter 2
On the days my boyfriend, Neil Dewan, sleeps over, he usually gets the coffee started after talking to his mom while I take the dogs out. As I open the door, my nose tingles with the anticipation of fresh-brewed coffee. I step inside, inhaling, but there’s nothing. All I can smell are the skillet fajitas we cooked (well, I say “we,” if you count him standing around as helping) together last night.
Shit, was all my stalling for nothing? Is he still on the phone?
I strain my ears, but I can’t hear him talking, so maybe I’m in the clear. Still, better safe than sorry. “I’m back!” I whisper-shout as I step through the door, paper tucked under my arm.
I almost want to check my soles for broken eggshells.
Crouching, I unclip the leashes and my boys zip off. After tossing the keys in the only slightly hideous woven basket I made in tenth-grade art for Mother’s Day (which my mother jokes is too ugly to live), I head straight for my bedroom.
The bed’s empty, rumpled covers thrown back in that sloppy way I hate when the sheets are fresh. My eyes skip over the sleep shirt dumped on the floor, one of those ugly free ones the credit card companies hand out on college campuses. Neil’s pretty fastidious about keeping his own place neat, but when he’s at mine, somehow I always end up picking up after him like I’m his damn mother.
I can make out his low rumble from the bathroom, but the water’s still running.
Damn it. He’s still on speakerphone. Everything I did to stall and somehow I’m still not home late enough to miss Neil’s daily morning phone call with his mother.
Siiiiigh. Seriously?
Harrie yips and comes skidding into the room. Every morning Neil stays over, two things happen. The first is the clockwork phone call. The second is my normally very good boy Harrie treating my boyfriend like a stranger, forgetting all the chin scratches and belly rubs he’s bribed with every time he sees Neil.
“Harrie, no!” I hiss, but it’s already too late.
Right on cue, he bounds up to the door and sets off barking.
“Kohn ahey?” Neil’s mom asks in Marathi.
Harrie, now convinced there are two strangers in the bathroom, puts his front paws on the door so he’s standing as tall and intimidating as he can (which is not intimidating at all) and intensifies his barking, eclipsing my scolding.
“No one,” Neil says hastily. The flow from the tap doubles. “Just a dog.” Then, unconvincingly, “Out in the street.”
I scoop Harrie up, a tough task when he’s squirming like this, and deposit him outside the bedroom door, closing it quickly before he can scamper back in.
It’s hard not to roll my eyes as I catch the tail end of Neil’s mom extolling the virtues of some girl. Ah, back to our regularly scheduled programming of the well-intentioned but no less irritating Isn’t It Time You Got Married, Beta?
It depends on the family, of course, but for most Indian kids, at some point in their twenties it’s like a timer goes off and it’s time to Get Serious About the Future before you start rocking that withered, on-the-shelf-too-long prune life.
Neil’s seen me naked, but not daylight naked. So I start to strip out of my sweaty racerback tank and yoga pants in double time, grabbing the closest clothing within reach, which happens to be a pair of grungy denim shorts and a shapeless black tee, knotted at the front, that I’m pretty sure is a forgotten remnant of another boyfriend. It’s my favorite at-home shirt—old and softened from wear.
I tug the shirt down over my neck just as Neil’s familiar “One sec, Ma” comes muffled through the bathroom door, followed by a clatter as he balances his phone on the ceramic sink’s sliver of a ledge.
He pops his head out, all men’s-shower-gel-advertisement hot and black hair dripping wet. The mirror’s fogged up behind him, like he never learned to turn on the exhaust.
But then he smiles.
Butterfly wings tickle against my soft, squishy heart. Oh boy.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, voice too low for the phone to catch.
Butterflies free fall into my stomach. That smile is doing devastating things to me.
He keeps one hand on the knot of his towel slung low on his hips, dark black arm hair whorled the way it does when he uses too much lotion. With his other hand he gestures behind him. Mom, he mouths. Gimme a few.
I flash him a thumbs-up, smiling over gritted teeth. No problem.
As if his mom’s daily morning wake-up calls haven’t been a problem all the other nights we spent together, too. I miss him when we aren’t together, but jeez, she doesn’t even give herself a chance to miss him.
Don’t be such a bitch, Rita. He’s not even mad about Harrie barking the house down . . .
He disappears back into the bathroom.
“Sorry, Ma, I was getting dressed,” I catch before the door shuts.
I gather my sweaty clothing, along with Neil’s discarded clothes, and make for the laundry room. The drum’s almost full with the week’s clothes, so I start the wash.
As I head for the kitchen, passing in front of the doggy bed, Freddie opens his eyes, but otherwise doesn’t move. While Harrie, earlier misbehavior forgotten, leaps from doggy bed to reupholstered crushed velvet ottoman (“Harrie, no!”) to the seat in front of the bay window, trampling over the library book I left there last night. Tongue out, head cocked, his cute, cheeky little face knows I’m too soft to make him move.
This house is so small that even when I’m in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew, the glugging of the washing machine sounds like I’m still in the same room.
Then I hear it—the click and turn of my bedroom door.
“Something smells good,” says Neil, entering the kitchen looking like he’s stepped out of a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. He’s wearing a baby-blue button-down and chinos, sunglasses already tucked into the V of his collar, an effortless cool guy. He flashes me a knowing grin.
Neil is Like This when he flirts. Cheesy nineties sitcom-dad humor delivered with a wink.
He drops a kiss at the corner of my eye, bringing with him the spicy and potent scent of his aftershave. Not unpleasant, just a little extra. Much like his flirting. I tamp down a smile.
“How was your walk?” he asks. “Your cheeks are a little flushed.”
“Hot,” I say, grabbing two of my newest prett
y handmade Etsy mugs from the cupboard.
“Rita, you’re literally the only Indian I know who can’t stand the heat.”
“You let your mama hear you stereotyping with that mouth?” I brush my hand through his straight black hair like I’m smoothing it down, when really I’m messing it up just a little.
He laughs like he knows what I’m up to and wraps an arm around my waist, thumb lightly rubbing the tiniest strip of exposed midriff, but doesn’t press too close in case I really am as sweaty as I look.
I want him to lean in, to close the gap, to ignore that I’m flushed and unshowered, but I know from past experience he can be a little fussy about that. Would I be a terrible girlfriend for testing him? I shift closer, tilting my chin up for a kiss, but his arm drops away almost immediately. He shoots me an apologetic smile and gestures to his ironed shirt in explanation.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, faking a laugh.
“You know, Rita, you didn’t have to leave just because Ma called. One of these days we’ll have to tell her we’re seeing each other. Or Harrie will.” He grins with insinuation. “Seeing a lot of each other.”
One, yes I did have to leave. Partly because the woman calls him every single morning, like she has no concept how to give her grown-ass children independence and privacy. Partly because I have a suspicion that if I stick around he’ll put me on the spot and on the phone.
Two, it’s easy for him to say all this now, when a few minutes ago it was pretty clear I was still a secret.
The coffee maker stops sputtering.
I pull away to pour the coffee. Just mine.
Neil wraps his hands around his empty mug. “You’re upset,” he says quietly.
“No.” I watch him alternate my hand-painted lavender-sprigs-with-gold-crescent-moons black mug from hand to hand. The fact I don’t scream Careful!!! Not on the tile floor!!! is a goddamn feat.
“Really?”
I exhale through my nose. “Really.”
Anyone else would be thrilled that their partner wanted to get serious. And yet.
If I didn’t have hot coffee in my hand, I would flounce myself dramatically into my seat. But I do, and it’s filled to the brim, so tentative cat-burglar inching it is.
He gives me an I-know-you-better-than-that look. “So why the monosyllables?”
My right eyelid twitches. “Look. Every time you talk with your mom, you get like this.” I see his mouth open, so I race ahead with, “All mature and ‘let’s tell our parents about us,’ like that doesn’t break the very first rule we made when we decided to go out together. And quit it with the mug and the hands—you’re making me nervous.”
Neil sets the mug back on the counter with a mumbled “Sorry.” Without something to fidget with, he crosses his arms. He looks like a child who’s had his balloon pricked.
I feel bad for half a second. Right until the point Neil opens his mouth again.
Frustration quickens his words. “Rita, come on. We aren’t living in a star-crossed-lovers Bollywood soap where our families have a blood feud going back before we were even born.”
When he says things like this, it’s so obvious he’s never met my mother. She lives for filmi melodrama like this. Streaming Sling TV is religion in our house. If there isn’t an Indian woman on TV wailing in Hindi about her lost lover and his conniving mother, something’s wrong. I’m not supposed to know this, but Dad turns off the Wi-Fi and blames it on the Internet company whenever he needs a break.
It’s why Mom hates AT&T.
And Neil’s family.
But I’m not playing that card just yet.
It might not be a blood feud, but there is bad blood between our families. And since his side started it, you’d think, you’d just think, he’d do well to remember that.
“It’s just,” says Neil, “Ma might actually get off my back if she thinks I’m in a serious relationship, you know? Every day it’s this auntie’s daughter this, that auntie’s daughter that. If our parents know we’re together, then maybe Ma will stop trying to find green card–girls who can roll out round, round rotis.”
He mimes a rolling pin motion, except he looks more like a really terrible preppy DJ than a Desi domestic goddess.
I laugh despite myself. “Oh my god, don’t remind me.”
The last time I’d attempted to make roti, I was eleven and inspired by our family trip to Italy. It turns out that roti and pizza dough don’t have much in common except they both glob to the ceiling with the same amount of sticky.
“Or,” I add, “you could just tell your mom you’re not interested in being set up.”
“Me? Tell my Indian ma to quit interfering in my love life?” His eyebrows shoot up in mock horror. “You must be joking.”
I put on a wide jack-o’-lantern grin. “So sneaking around for the rest of our lives it is!”
His eyes gleam as he walks over to the kitchen table. “Rest of our lives, huh?” He pulls me up midway through a gulp of coffee and a sputter. “So you and me are a forever deal?”
Ajsdfhjfajfdsjf. My top-shelf sarcasm is clearly lost on him, but I’ll play along.
I tap my finger to my chin, thinking about it. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“Hmm, no. I definitely heard it.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, rolling his thumb over the curl of cartilage that sends shivers down my spine. It’s teasing and not fair at all when he has to leave for work right about—well, ten minutes ago.
I pluck at the stiff lines on his ironed shirtsleeves. First, he brought his toothbrush; later, when he started leaving for work directly from my house, his deodorant, two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, and extra clothes moved in, too.
Neil makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Not a sexy one, more of a panicked please-don’t-wrinkle-me whine, so I relent. As much as I love morning banter, I’m more relieved we got off the topic of parental introductions because I know for a fact how that’ll play out.
“You must think you’re awfully cute or something,” I say, proud of myself for not sounding too breathless when his arms wrap around me, tugging me closer.
My heart does a cartwheel. But then I glance between us and there’s a solid five inches of space between him and my glistening upper chest. Well, maybe that’s okay. We’re different people. He can be grossed out about things like my sweat getting on him. I shouldn’t be so hurt about it.
His grin spreads. He doesn’t even try to hold it back. He’s so oblivious, but he thinks he’s done his part in making up. “I do,” he says, trying to sound solemn but failing miserably.
I lightly jut my pelvis against his. “So cocky.”
My erogenous zone still tingles, but it fizzles fast when he doesn’t take me up on the invitation, instead scrunching his forehead like he’s about to say something I really won’t like.
“Rita . . .”
“Neil,” I say firmly, warning him off this topic he’s returning to dog-with-a-bone style.
He ignores it, because of course he does. “Rita,” he starts again, this time in a firmer voice, fully geared up and unwilling to back down. “Hear me out. Our parents are adults—”
Yeah, he really hasn’t met my mother. Adult. Ha.
“Not up for negotiation!” I snap. The mood is gone and now so is my patience. “Hear me, Neil. I told you why this needed to be on the down-low and you agreed. You agreed.”
Another face, another boyfriend, flashes in front of my eyes.
But Neil knows nothing about that, nothing about him.
About the high school boyfriend whose name is taboo. Maybe if he did know about him, he’d know why I hate broken promises so damn much.
“That was when we agreed to a third date,” he argues. “But we’ve been dating for three months. What’s the lucky number here? Three years? Three kids?” His voice roughens. “When?
”
Never.
The answer flies to my lips and I lean forward, chest rising, about to say it, when I realize I can’t do that to him. The truth is, if my mother didn’t hate his purely on principle, I’d have said sure, Indian parents lose their ever-loving minds about their kids dating, even if they’re twenty-six and not looking for input about it. But yeah, let’s do it. Let’s tell them.
“We don’t have to tell them how we met,” Neil rushes to say. “They don’t need to know it was Tinder. Or that we slept together on the first date.”
Honestly, I wasn’t even thinking about that, but now it’s just one more thing we have to hide. That we were so horny we ordered dessert first (crispy, beautifully flaky caramel apple empanadas) and skipped dinner entirely, driving straight back to his place. The second date was a do-over of the first because I actually did want to eat at that taqueria and was dying for their traditional rope vieja and the decidedly not traditional caramel apple empanadas again, but it still ended up back at his place. What was that phrase? All roads lead to your lover’s bed?
It took the third date for us to agree to see each other again, sometimes maybe even with clothes. We might never have gotten to the fourth if we hadn’t agreed that keeping our respective parents out of our love lives (and thereby far the fuck away from each other) was the only way this could ever work.
And now Neil wants to go back on that.
He takes my hesitation to push his case. “And you’re always telling me that your aji won’t stop bugging you about that matchmaking thingy.”
That thingy is MyShaadi.com, the number one matrimonial website not only in India, but even for Indians living abroad. And ever since I turned twenty-five last year, it’s the number one topic of conversation for my very traditional, marriage-minded grandmother.