The Shaadi Set-Up

by Lillie Vale

  The move brings the sweet toffee scent of his coffee cup even closer to me. One of the ridiculous, overpowering flavors he loves.

  I can’t stop myself from adjusting the frames, making sure they’re covering me from eye bags to eyebrows. “Oh. Um. Yeah. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Concern knits his eyebrows together. “You didn’t have to come to work today.”

  “I want to.” I don’t point out that I could have got my forty winks if he hadn’t shown up.

  His brows still haven’t unfurrowed and I get the feeling that he wants to say something.

  “So,” I say before he can, “you’re going to be here all day?”

  “I’m all yours for as long as you want me.”

  My teeth accidentally bite into the meat of my inner cheek.

  He doesn’t see my grimace, because in the lull, Milan’s eyes have found my Eiffel keychain, Pepto Bismol pink and glittery. Cheap tat from a sidewalk stall I bought on a whim just because it made me smile. That trip, I was always looking for small joys.

  I wait for him to ask the way he asked about the lotus tattoo on my pinky finger.

  Instead, he says, “There was a time not so long ago that I was hungry for sales. Sell, sell, sell. It’s what made my open houses so successful. My name recognition. Josh promoted me because he knows how much money I bring in, but ever since I bought the house in the spring . . . working on my own place is way more exciting than selling other people’s. That’s why Bluebill means so much to me.” A self-conscious smile tugs at his lips. “Six years at the same place, doing the same things day after day . . . I think it’s safe to say that all work and no play makes Milan a dull boy.”

  “Work-life balance is important,” I say as Rosalie Island starts to fill the view out of the smudged front windows.

  “Does that mean you’ve got it all figured out?” He stretches his legs. “What I wouldn’t give for a social life like we had in high school. I looked at my recent calls and other than work calls, the person I talk to the most is the guy who takes my Chinese takeout orders.”

  We again, his words lumping us as the team we haven’t been in so long.

  Maybe it’s just my breakup with Neil that makes my mind go there, but it’s interesting that Milan’s mom isn’t a regular name on his recent calls. And as far as my social life goes, it’s entirely comprised of Raj, Paula, Luke, and the regulars at the dog park that Luke introduced me to. I’m not exactly thriving in that department.

  “Hardly,” I say, snorting. “Coming here is the highlight of my week.”

  His smile is sweet. “Mine, too.”

  * * *

  —

  As we reach the end of the gangway, we’re greeted by the all-caps letters on the yellow event banner strung high between two wrought-iron streetlamps: FARMER’S MARKET 9 A.M. – 1 P.M.

  “This is every Sunday?” asks Milan, sidestepping two little girls in blond pigtails as they run squealing past him. He’s sporting a silly, bewildered grin.

  Harrie whines as he tries to scamper after the children, eager to follow the smells.

  “Yup. Sometimes I buy lunch here,” I say, pointing to a stall where I bought an egg-and-smashed-avocado waffle last Sunday and a blueberry-acai smoothie bowl with an almond croissant the week before that. The most gorgeous aroma of sizzling bacon wafts over, and my stomach rumbles for the breakfast sandwiches I see handed to a smiling couple.

  Dozens of vendors work busily behind their stalls while the square buzzes with people, most of whom are carrying heavy grocery totes drooping almost to the stone cobbles. An all-weather pavilion has been erected from one end of the square to the other, so customers can browse to their hearts’ content in the shade.

  Local farmers with their just-pulled-from-the-earth produce and small businesses set apart with sustainability and verve always appeal to the tourists. Root vegetables, hairy and dirt-smudged enough to retain their charm, are piled high on tables, while unblemished fruit and cardboard tubs of plump berries line wooden crates.

  As we get closer, Milan can’t tear his gaze away, but I stride determinedly past.

  He loves the tableau in front of him because it’s charmingly novel, a curiosity he wants to explore. I get it. I was the same when I stepped off the ferry that first Sunday so many weeks ago and felt that diluted, though familiar, rush of being in a Parisian market.

  I know what we’ll see if we step into the pavilion tent: fresh flowers and sachets of dried lavender competing with the perfect char of a crisp-skin rotisserie chicken on a spit, dripping fat onto the tiny golden roasted potatoes below. Salmon burgers and tuna melts ready to go in gingham containers next to cold pasta and quinoa salads. Skewers of seasoned jumbo shrimp, heads and all, sizzle away on the grill, the lemony, garlicky smell drawing a sizable crowd.

  A bit farther away, the leather satchels and wallets, still pungent from tanning, where the men tend to linger. And on the tables nearby the delicate gossamer metalwork that their wives slip onto their wrists and fingers, turning it this way and that to catch the light.

  “Let’s stop,” says Milan. “I’m ravenous and my coffee feels like forever ago.”

  I don’t say yes right away. I’m in no mood to wander around and make small talk. I’ll tell him he can stay if he wants, but I’ll go on ahead to Bluebill.

  “Come on,” he says, wheedling me the way he used to when he wanted to sneak out on a school night. He stops me with a touch to my wrist that makes me jump, then freeze in place.

  “You go and enjoy,” I say. “Honestly, I don’t need you, so have fun.”

  I think I’m being gracious, giving him an out, but his face falls.

  Too late, I hear how he must have heard it: I don’t need you.

  It was the kind of thing I’d have wanted to fling in his face six years ago. Five years ago. Even five months ago, before we’d reunited. Hell, I’d itched to hurt him the first moment we met at my mother’s. I relive my taunt about MyShaadi, and suddenly, the jab doesn’t feel anywhere close to satisfying.

  Annoyingly, seeing him hurt makes me want to take that hurt away.

  And seeing that same expression on two men’s faces in as many days is a gut punch.

  Swallowing, I say, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I think I should get to work. You already put in practically all the money, it’s not really fair for me to accept your time and labor when that’s supposed to be my contribution to this partnership.”

  “All work and no play make Rita a dull girl, too.”

  I search his face for any sign of a dig. When I can’t find one, I shake my head. I’m not being a goody-goody, like he teased me in high school, and it’s not because I’ve never shirked or postponed work, because I have. But: “I still have work to do.”

  And throwing myself into work is exactly what I need after the breakup yesterday and my sleepless night.

  “The work will be there when we get home,” he says gently. “We can still put in our hours, Rita, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the work won’t love you back.”

  I relent. “Fine. But no more than an hour.”

  * * *

  —

  It’s definitely been more than an hour.

  Milan has already bought hand-poured soy candles and wax melts (“They smell like Christmas trees and mango lassis on a warm, sandy beach, Rita, how can I not?”), juicy Carolina peaches (so juicy that he got it all over his chin and I had to hand him a napkin with a long-suffering sigh), and a double dresser painted the most odious Shrek shade of lime green.

  We’re still in Second Chance Shores, a charming little thrift shop on a quiet street behind the square. The frosted glass windows with loopy gold lettering and blurred twinkling lights made Milan almost press his nose against it to see inside. On entry, we were greeted by a smiling woman who introdu
ced herself as the owner and decidedly unsmiling, fierce-faced mannequins draped in vintage sundresses and jean jackets, costume jewelry adorning their wrists. I left my sunglasses on indoors, peeking from the top when he’s not looking.

  The back wall is stamped with picture frames and mirrors, a handful of square and rectangular spaces hinting at recent sales. I catch my reflection in an ornate gilt mirror and cautiously lower my sunglasses. My eyes are still strained, so back up the aviators go. Straw and felt hats hang on a rack next to a towering, paint-peeled bookshelf and end tables decorated with ceramic lamps perched on a footed base. But none of that is what got my attention first.

  It was a pair of trestle dining tables that caught my eye as soon as we stepped inside. Painted white and distressed to look coastal-shabby, a very “in” look at the moment, they were large enough for ten, with six chairs and a long bench seat. It wouldn’t fit with the warm color scheme and dark wood furniture I’d already sourced, but I could see the possibilities. Once the table was stripped and sanded down, I could bring back its luster with a few coats of Danish oil.

  The plan was to sell the house as is, completely furnished. There was, of course, always the chance that the new homeowners wouldn’t want every single piece inside, but Milan said most rich people wanted a turnkey house. “If it’s move-in ready, it saves them the additional time and cost of getting a decorator in,” he’d explained during my tour of Bluebill a month ago. “I know what I’m talking about. I’ve sold hundreds of furnished houses.”

  For this, anyway, I can hand over my trust.

  I grab the measuring tape out of my purse and pull it taut, squatting.

  When Milan ambles up to stand next to me, I make the mistake of glancing up at him.

  “Seriously?” His face is the picture of amusement. “You carry that with you?”

  “Oh, just a girl being prepared.” I give him a daggered smile. “Size matters.”

  “Do you think it’ll fit? Or is it too big?”

  Catching on to his game, I say smoothly, “I’ve seen bigger.”

  He bites his lip to keep from laughing.

  We buy the trestle table.

  “You two make such a cute couple,” says the owner, beaming at us. “Warms my heart to see a couple share a laugh. Makes me miss—” She looks heavenward, then back to us, eyes misty. “People forget how important it is to be with someone who makes them laugh.”

  My cheeks burn, but it feels cruel now to tell her she’s off base.

  She writes down the delivery address before we can give it to her. “We’ve all been wondering when somebody would buy Bluebill, make it a home. Bet it needs a lot of work.”

  “Thank you,” says Milan. “A lot can be fixed with a little love, I’ve found. And the best things are worth the time.”

  I throw him a sharp look, but he’s tucking his credit card back in his wallet with a blasé smile, as though there weren’t a myriad of other ways that statement could be interpreted.

  “And now,” I say, as we leave Second Chance Shores, “we work.”

  His eyes are innocent. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

  So, naturally, after all the “work” of shopping, he’s worked up an appetite.

  “Crêpes,” he decides, and drags me off in that direction. “We can eat and walk.”

  We both choose the same one, folded into a triangle with a smear of Nutella. He insists on paying, thrusting the bills at the vendor before I can open my purse.

  “It’s as good as the ones I had in Paris,” I say absently. Crisp outer edges and a soft, fluffy middle made even sweeter with the chocolate-hazelnut spread.

  The roads aren’t too busy so the two of us start to walk side by side back to the house. With the occasional car passing by, we make sure to keep Harrie and Freddie close.

  “Really?” He shoots me an unbelieving look. “Rosalie Island crêpes go toe-to-toe against the crêpe capital of the world?”

  I nod and take another bite. “Perfect crêpe to filling ratio, too. Some places don’t make them right, so when you actually start to eat, it oozes out onto your fingers and makes a mess. And yes, before you ask, I am a crêpe connoisseur, because it happens to be one of the cheapest foods you can eat on a budget.”

  “You don’t talk about that trip much,” says Milan, very much in the tone of someone broaching a topic that’s likely to bite him.

  On top of not being one of those obnoxious people who can bring every conversation back around to When I was in . . . I also have no idea how to share memories of a trip with the man who I’d wanted to share it with in real life.

  He thinks I haven’t noticed, but it’s glaringly obvious after adding up all the little distractions today—he knew something was wrong and he wanted to cheer me up.

  So I’ll tell him, but I’ll curate the nostalgia, leaving out the experiences I know he’d had his heart set on.

  I start with Mick and Kayla, the American newlyweds who asked me to take their picture under the Eiffel and gave me tips on the best open-air marchés and high-key insisted I had to try the roasted chicken and potatoes before leaving for the next city.

  We move on to boyfriends Nick and Gustav from the Paris hostel, who insisted on cheering me up with a night out, their treat, when they found out I was all alone in the city of love. I know Milan well enough to know his smile is forced. “They got married last year and we still send each other Christmas cards,” I finish. “We’re planning to meet in New York next year.”

  After Paris comes Italy and Faridah, who shared my hostel room and gave me all her guidebooks to make room for the souvenirs she was taking home for her family. My crêpe is finished by the time I get to Priya, the competitive surfer, who traveled with me through Spain because her Australian boyfriend had dumped her and she didn’t want to go home to an “I told you so” from her Indian family.

  We’d thrown back way too many solidarity cavas and sangrias and danced with strangers, and my surfing was no better now than it was when she’d first started to teach me, but I gloss over all this. I have a standing invitation to drop in on her next time I’m in India.

  There’s only one person I’m not in touch with: my cabinmate, Kristoffer, who’d leaned out the window to ask me for my phone number right as the train pulled away from the station, who never called because the train whistle swallowed the last four digits before it picked up speed.

  “Do you wish he did call?” asks Milan, a note of something in his voice.

  “At the time I thought it was a shame,” I answer honestly. “But I wasn’t ready. And I still thought that . . .” I bite my lip. No, I won’t tell him that part of me had thought he’d be waiting for me at the airport when I came home, that it would all have turned out to be a mistake and we weren’t broken up after all.

  When I don’t finish, he changes tack. “Top three favorite French meals?” he asks. “And no desserts. You’ll make me too jealous.” He says the last sentence in a strange, hoarse tone.

  I don’t think he’s necessarily talking about the food.

  The idea that he’s jealous over this faceless guy he doesn’t know is strangely thrilling, and part of me wants to put him out of his misery.

  The bigger part wants to keep him there a bit longer.

  I take off my aviators, feeling the deep, rounded indents left behind on my nose.

  Why are French words easier to say than the English language? My tongue doesn’t trip once as I rattle off, “Moules marinières, salade Niçoise, and cheese soufflé. All delicious, cheap, and filling. Perfect to pick up and eat in a park somewhere.”

  There’s a yearning on his face that arrows straight into my heart, lodging deep. It’s not for the food, but for the museum of memories he’s being led through, gazing upon each one with wonder, but never able to stay in one long enough to experience it before it’s time to move
on.

  We can’t re-create the past. We can only visit it.

  Desperate to retreat to a safer footing, I tell him about the whole entire day I spent at the Louvre. It’s just the kind of story that he would have been glad to escape in real life.

  “That completely sounds like something you’d do,” he says through his laughter. He bends to scoop up Freddie, who has pointedly stopped walking. “And I’d spend more time trying to steer you to the exit than actually looking at the exhibits.”

  “Hey, who knows when we’re going to go back?” I ask, too relieved to be defensive at his teasing. “I’m getting my money’s worth.”

  The mirth freezes on his face. His face slackens, all trace of amusement gone.

  Too late, I realize that I said we.

  * * *

  —

  By the time we get back home, the dining table, dresser, and table lamps are waiting on the porch with a yellow Post-it saying: Thank you for your business! Smiley faces in all the u’s.

  With the we still hanging between us, Milan disappears out back with a shovel, presumably to finish planting the ornamental grasses and purple beach asters he started last week. Without hesitation, Harrie bounds after him, Freddie following more sedately.

  I throw myself into hand sanding the distressed white paint on the trestle table, using fine-grit sandpaper to keep the character of the grain. I don’t want to sand in too deep, butchering the darker, circular knots.

  My arms weep by the time I’m done. The sun’s fallen since the time I started, turning the pale yellow planks to a burnished gold, the color it’ll turn after a few coats of Danish oil. I run my hand over the smooth surface.

  Me. I did this.

  After a lot of elbow grease—okay, a lot of back, shoulder, and elbow grease—this project is halfway to being the table I imagined.

  A meeting place for a family to share lazy Sunday breakfasts, for parents to help their kids do their homework. For paying bills and writing letters, the kind no one writes anymore because we all have eight different social media platforms to chat on. But damn it, this is the kind of table I want to write a letter on, using the painstaking Austenesque cursive I’ve never actually had to use since passing second-grade English.