by Lillie Vale
“And that’s not a red flag?”
“I’m not marrying him. We’re just having fun. Seeing where things go. If we level up our relationship, then, maybe, and only then, it might be a yellow flag.”
I have no clue why I’m on the defensive when this is the same question I’ve asked myself from the beginning. How okay am I, really, with a guy—a kind, honest, sexy guy—who still puts his mother first? Someone who’s shown time and time again that he is his father’s son?
While I’m waging war in my mind, Harrie wiggles to be let down. The moment I do, he bounds back to the phone, circling it like a new playmate.
Raj coos at him, slipping into baby talk, but then snaps back to her usual no-holds-barred self. “You’re fighting for the wrong guy.”
“That implies Milan is the right guy.” I snort.
“Maybe he isn’t,” Raj allows, “but that doesn’t mean Neil is just by default.”
The lump in my throat is boulder-sized by now.
Thank god she can’t see my face, which, evidently, I wear every single emotion on.
“Rita, you turned down Paula’s blank-check house reno. Now Milan’s offering you one. What if it’s a sign that you should do it? You said before that the universe was conspiring to bring him back in your life. What if you’re ignoring what fate is trying to tell you?”
“It’s not the universe,” I grumble. “His mother probably forced him into it. That’s literally the reason we were even in this situation to begin with, remember? He said it himself. ‘Your mom was right to make me hire you.’ That’s what he said, verbatim.”
My heart squeezes. “I was useful to him, that was all. And he thinks I can be useful to him again. I don’t think he actually gets that this might be hard for me.”
He should have known, even if I told him that I was over it. Over him.
Milan Rao knows me.
Even though I hate it, he should know me enough to get that nothing about this is easy.
“I think you’re the one taking away the wrong message,” says Raj, quietly now. “To me, it sounds like he’s admitting how good you are. Take the win. I know you’re a little jaded about Indian moms, but Milan isn’t a puppet on strings dancing to his mother’s tune.”
I fidget with my forgotten laces. “I can’t believe you of all people are encouraging me to consider this. Little Shop of Hors D’Oeuvres took your mom and grandma two decades to complete.”
“Oh, come on.” Raj scoffs. “Do you genuinely think the house on Rosalie Island is going to take that long or is this just an excuse not to do it?”
No. In fact, it’s pretty doable. We could finish up by autumn.
Wait, what am I saying? There’s no we.
“I’m just glad it’s over and I don’t have to see him again,” I say, pulling the laces tight.
She sighs. “Okay, that’s the millionth time I’ve heard you say that in the last week, Rita. We keep talking about him, and not enough about me, which is fine if there’s anything new and exciting happening, but there isn’t, so can we please return to my favorite topic of me?”
“I thought I was your favorite topic,” I say, amused at her whine.
“Yeah, but you’re my best friend, so you’re me-adjacent,” she says with a straight face.
“You’re hilarious. Okay, spill. What’s new in Raj-land?”
A gusty sigh. She brings the screen close to her face. “I swiped right on Luke.”
“Luke? As in Lucky Dog Luke?” It doesn’t surprise me he’s on Tinder.
“Can we not call him that?” I can see Raj’s wince. “It’s just a reminder of his—in less crude terms—prowess. I didn’t even mean to swipe on him, it just happened! He just looked like a hot guy and I didn’t think. My thumb has a mind of its own.”
“Babe, it’s a nickname. And it’s not even one he earned. It’s because he works at his grandpa’s antique mall. And it really doesn’t help that he wears a huge name tag that says ‘Ask me my name,’ ” I say with an eye roll, getting up from the couch.
The first time I met him, I made the mistake of asking him. By the end of it, I knew everything about him, his dad, and his gramps, all named Luke, and the entire history of the Lucky Dog Luke’s antique mall where he worked when he wasn’t an adjunct English lecturer.
She groans. “How am I going to look him in the face when he knows I swiped right on him, though?”
I hide my smile. “Raj, the only way he’d even know is if he swiped right on you, too.”
Her jaw drops. “Shit.”
“Guess you don’t know everything, do you?” I tease.
Harrie’s waiting at the door, ready for his walk, but his brother is another matter.
“Freddie, come,” I say, patting my thigh. “Raj, can I call you back? I promised these guys a walk and if I don’t return my mom’s call she might actually badger my dad into coming over to check on me, make sure I haven’t keeled over from too much instant noodles or something.”
Mom still thinks I can’t take care of myself unless I have a partner.
What would have happened if I’d managed to tell her about Neil that day Milan came over? How would my life look now? Would our Friday night date be replaced with a family dinner, Neil nervous to meet my folks, me nervous about the round, round rotis Aji would undoubtedly force me to practice?
I shake the thoughts from my mind, refusing to dwell on them a second longer.
Like I told Mom, I take care of me. I make my own decisions. And even if they’re the wrong ones, at least they’re mine. I can’t second-guess myself now.
Chapter 14
I don’t call Mom right away, just WhatsApp her that we’ll talk tomorrow.
She sends me back the middle-finger emoji.
Since I’m cajoling Freddie to pick up the pace, I don’t see it until after her follow-up message, the see-no-evil monkey emoji and an Oops, didn’t have my glasses on. Clicked the wrong one. Meant to do a thumbs-up. And then, to prove her innocence, three halo emojis.
Wrong one, my ass. My right eyelid twitches.
When did my mother learn to troll me?
It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her, but since she invited Milan over two weeks ago, it’s literally all we’ve talked about. She sees us as her chance to right the wrong that happened to her, to give me a happy ending—and I love her for it, but I’m also exhausted.
Harrie’s pulling ahead, straining against the leash. He turns around every few minutes to make sure we’re still there and yips to make us walk faster.
Freddie tips his head back to look at me. Unlike Harrie, he never begs for anything. Not food, not cuddles, not attention. But his expression right now plainly pleads with me to pick him up, French bulldog eyes growing big.
“Freddie, you’ve barely been walking for ten minutes,” I scold.
Harrie comes running back, but even his encouraging nuzzles won’t coax Freddie.
I give in with a sigh, bending to scoop him up. His perked ears tickle my chin, and his head butts against my chin as we keep walking. I get a few amused looks and snickers from the neighbors, who know Freddie’s reluctance to be taken on walks all too well.
It’s a little tough to carry a dog, albeit a small one, and hold my phone, but somehow I manage. Hey, want to pick up some takeout on your way over to my place? I type out. Your choice. I’m good with anything.
Send. It whizzes off to Neil.
Takeout means I don’t have to do any cooking or washing up. We can watch the next Die Hard in the franchise, we can try to tweak our MyShaadi answers so we get a match, we can hit “decline match” on the other girls that he apparently did match with, and enjoy ourselves.
My phone starts to ring.
I answer without glancing at the name on the screen, assuming it’s Mom. “Hello?”
&nbs
p; “Rita, hey.”
“Neil?” I furrow my brow. “You didn’t have to call me. I told you, I’m really okay eating anything you choose.”
“No, it’s not . . .” His voice is rough, frustrated.
“What’s going on?”
“I need you to not freak out, okay?”
Worry whittles at me, my mind racing with all the things that send me into panic mode. “Neil, whatever it is, spit it out,” I say sharply.
“Okay, so you know how”—he blows a long breath straight into my ear—“I got all those matches and none of them was with you?”
My voice comes out tighter than my throat. “Yeah.”
“I have a date tonight.”
Singular pronoun.
It takes a moment for my mind to grasp the subtext: not with you.
“With a MyShaadi girl?” I ask, drawing out each word until it’s a question.
“It’s not, like, a big deal or anything,” he rushes to assure me.
“No, of course not, it’s perfectly normal, my boyfriend going out with someone he met on a matrimonial website.”
“You’re mad.”
“Obviously. What the fuck are you thinking? Why would you— I don’t even get why that would even cross your— WE WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO GO OUT WITH OUR MATCHES, NEIL. HOW DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN?”
“It’s not my fault.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, and from the short inhale on his end, he knows it, too.
“Neil.” My voice is flat. “What the fuck.”
“It’s Ma! She’s been hounding me all week to tell her what I thought about that girl I met at dinner. What was I supposed to do? She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had to finally say I wasn’t interested in meeting that girl again, and then Ma said because I’m not being proactive in finding somebody, she has to set me up with eligible girls. So I had to tell her I joined MyShaadi.”
In other words, he’d rather face my anger than hers.
Bitterness twists my voice. “Bet that just made her day.”
“I mean—” Neil sighs. “Yeah.”
“So you just . . . what? You agreed to go out with all those girls?” And there were a baker’s dozen of eligible young women to choose from. Thirteen dates? At least?
“Not . . . exactly.”
“Don’t hedge,” I snap, tightening my arms around Freddie, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder. I squeeze him close and take deep breaths. Harrie stands close to my leg, brushing against my ankles to remind me he’s there.
“Ma wrestled my log-in away from me.”
“As in, she pinned you down and grabbed your phone?”
“No, of course not.” He has the nerve to sound affronted. “She asked me for it.”
We obviously have different definitions of the word wrestled.
“And,” I say slowly, “you gave it to her?”
“Well, yeah.”
The silence stretches between us.
“Why the hell did you even make us do this?” he asks, frustration in every word.
I walk faster. I need to be home, not out here, exposed and alone and with nowhere to curl up and cry. “How is this my fault?”
“You made us those profiles on MyShaadi!”
“Yeah, for us,” I grind out. “So we could date in peace instead of bringing on the band baaja baaraat. Not so you could go tomcatting around because you’re too gutless to tell your mother to back the fuck off and let you be a grown-ass man.”
He scoffs. “You want to talk gutless, Rita? Seriously? The whole reason we did this was, yes, to convince your mom. Because you didn’t want to tell her whose son I was. Because you thought she’d care about some grudge from a lifetime ago more than she cares about her daughter’s happiness. How’s that for gutless?”
This is our first actual fight. And it’s objectively terrible.
I don’t know what to say. I can hear him breathing. It’s out of sync with mine.
“It’s not my fault,” he says finally.
“You could have said no.” My voice is small.
More silence.
“I’m sorry,” says Neil.
But I don’t think he knows what he’s sorry for.
I hang up without saying anything.
My chest burns and my eyes sting, but my house is within sight. I can cry as soon as the door shuts behind me. Hold it together, Rita. Just another few yards.
That’s when I hear the sad “Oh, honey” behind me.
I freeze. Turn slowly.
Paula Dooley is behind me in hot pink, zebra-striped leggings and a matching sports bra. Water bottle in one hand, phone in the other. One earbud is in, but the other dangles over her glistening chest. She must have heard everything.
Harrie yips at high volume, even though our walks have taken us past a speed-walking Paula hundreds of times.
Rallying, I say, “Hi, Paula.”
She comes closer, clucking her tongue. “You poor thing.” Before I know what’s happening, she’s hugging me. Freddie makes an unhappy cry squished between us.
“Really, I’m okay. Thank you, though.” I pull back, eyes dry.
She couldn’t have just let me escape inside?
That would have been the more sympathetic thing to do.
Paula’s mouth forms a you’re-so-brave smile, but then her attention is caught by something beyond my shoulder. “I think your boyfriend’s here,” she stage whispers.
“No, it can’t—” I start to say, turning. The words shrivel on my tongue.
A red Alfa Romeo has slid up to the curb. Classic black-and-white Adidas emerge first, then charcoal-gray joggers and a fitted white tee.
I close my eyes. Milan.
Paula looks with curiosity as he approaches, the car beeping as it locks behind him.
Freddie feigns disinterest, turning his head away, but I can still see his eyes peeking.
Harrie’s head perks toward the newcomer and he takes a few steps forward, glances back at me. I brace myself for an onslaught of barking, remembering his contentious on-again, off-again relationship with Neil.
But then he begins wagging his tail, being a Very Good Boy.
“Hey, Rita,” says Milan. He crouches and holds his hand out for Harrie to sniff before scratching Harrie’s chin. “What a handsome pup, yes you are.”
Warmth swells in my belly. A man and a dog shouldn’t be so cute, and yet, here we are.
I guess introductions are in order.
“That’s Harrie with an ‘-ie,’ ” I tell him. “And this is Freddie with an ‘-ie.’ ”
Harrie’s named after three of my biggest teenage crushes, all named Harry: Prince Harry, Harry Potter, and Harry Styles. Likewise, Freddie: Freddie Mercury, Fred Weasley, and Freddie Prinz Jr.
“You’re not her boyfriend,” states Paula, who’s seen Neil often enough to greet him on her morning jogs.
He looks up at us with an unsure smile. “I’m not.”
“He’s a colleague,” I say, because I can’t tell her who he really is to me. Reluctantly, I add, “And this is Paula, my neighbor.”
“ ‘A colleague’?” Paula’s thin eyebrows skyrocket to her hairline. “I see.” She glances between Milan and his expensive car, then comes back to me. “I see why you turned down my renovation offer,” she says with a wink. With a wave, she continues on her way, earbuds back in place.
I squint at Milan. The setting sun casts him in bronze and he looks a lot more like the boyfriend from my memories than he did in those expensive threads. “What are you doing here?”
That’s when I notice the scrunchie on his wrist. It looks like the one I wore Sunday to—
My lips part. Oh.
“I wanted to tell you in person that the house got an offer. Actually, it got a
lot of offers.”
There’s no way I can play cool about this. “It did? How many?”
He grins, straightening up. “Four offers, and a fifth that blew the others out of the park.” He pauses for effect. “Above asking price. They made an offer, scheduled the inspection, and we’re all set to close the deal.”
“That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you. I guess you’ll want the house cleared out?”
He shakes his head. “They want everything as is.”
“Fully furnished?”
Harrie makes a soft whine to get Milan’s attention, tail wagging ferociously.
Milan gives an obliging scratch-scratch-scratch. “The new owners love your design. I knew they would.” His smile takes over his entire face. He seems even more thrilled than I am. “They even asked for your card in case they want you to do anything else. And, of course, we’ll pay you for everything they’re keeping. I know you made a lot of it yourself, so just let me know tomorrow what you’re charging and I’ll send a check your way.”
Before I can respond, he darts his eyes down to his wrist. “I almost forgot about this.” He snaps the parakeet-green velvet scrunchie against his wrist, and I don’t even panic about him loosening the elastic. “You left this the other day.”
“I didn’t even notice it was missing.” I take the scrunchie, still warm from his skin.
Milan returns to a crouch so he can ruffle Harrie’s head. “Yeah? Doesn’t surprise me. You had about a hundred even in high school. How has the hoard grown since then?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say with a laugh.
The smile fades from his eyes. “I would, actually,” he murmurs.
Involuntarily, my gaze drops to his lips.
“All right,” I find myself saying.
He tips his head back, forehead scrunched. “To what?”
For one wild moment, I want to tell him: everything. Just to see what he’ll do.
“I’ll go into partnership with you. I kind of want to get away from here for a while.”
“Anything wrong?” He says it like he’s the one to make it right.
I shake my head. “Nothing that some time on Rosalie Island won’t fix.”