Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  Trying not to think about how Ginger Spice still seemed to despise me.

  Trying not to think about my future niece or nephew.

  It was too selfish to admit out loud, but I wasn’t ready for Natasha to have kids yet. Not because I resented her becoming a mother for even a second, but because I didn’t want to lose her the way I had all my other friends.

  After seeing Natasha and Mark with their groups of friends, I’d gotten nostalgic and reached out to my own crew from school. Our WhatsApp chat group had been inactive for months, so I wrote a long update about Natasha’s wedding and my new job—providing full details about the look on Iain’s face when I told him I was leaving him for Deborah Kim. And then I asked if we could schedule a brunch soon. (Brunch was good for them because it was during daylight hours and allowed them the option to bring their children. Brunch was good for me because I loved eggs Benny, and after meeting up at our favorite gastropub in Fairfax County, I could swing home for a quick visit with Mom.)

  Over the next few days, everyone else’s replies and updates came in. There were new jobs, houses, or holiday plans. Just one new pregnancy. We created a poll for the next weekend we’d all be available, and my mouth dropped when I saw the verdict.

  July.

  That was more than four months away, and by then I wouldn’t have seen any of them for nearly a year. Is that the type of friends we’d demoted one another to? God forbid, if I had a family emergency, or got married, I knew these women would be there for me in a heartbeat. But the truth was, I couldn’t count on them anymore in my day-to-day life. We knew one another best, but in other ways, we didn’t know one another at all.

  Natasha. She knew me; we saw or spoke to each other every single day. And I only had to scroll through my text messages to appreciate just how big a role she’d started to play in my life outside of work. She was my life outside of work. In the months leading up to the wedding, other than colleagues, every single text message was from Natasha, her bridesmaids, her wedding planners, or . . . Mom.

  I took a deep breath, trying to extract myself from the pity party swirling inside of me. I hadn’t talked to Mom that day yet, so I swiveled my chair away from the rest of the office and called her.

  Mom felt close to me by talking at me, so I went through my junk mail folder as she told me in rapid-fire Punjabi about the pakoras she was making for a dinner party, a fundraiser she was planning at the gurdwara, before seamlessly transitioning to the one subject I didn’t want to talk about.

  “Natasha and Mark FaceTimed us this morning. They are having a nice time in the Bahamas.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said dryly.

  “I asked about her plans for the baby shower, but she became very emotional.” Mom paused. I could almost see her standing there in the kitchen, one hand on the cordless, the other propped high on her hip. “Has she talked to you about it?”

  “No . . .” I actually hadn’t heard from her since she’d left.

  “She will let me host, hah? She refused to discuss the subject.”

  “Well, maybe she thinks it’s too early to start planning anything,” I suggested. “They only just found out about the baby.”

  I trailed off when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I swiveled my chair around and looked up to find a woman I didn’t recognize towering over me. She was my age or slightly older and was wearing a campus sweatshirt and ripped jeans. Her brownish-red hair was tucked away behind a yellow bandanna, and when she blinked in surprise, I noticed how blue her eyes were.

  “Shit,” she whispered, taking a step back. “You’re on the phone. Sorry!”

  I held up my finger to signal I just needed a minute.

  “Mom, I’ve got to go.”

  “Hah. Come home soon.”

  “I will,” I said, still speaking Punjabi. “I love you.”

  I put my phone away and turned back around. The woman was perched against Sporty Spice’s empty desk, her arms crossed in front of her, looking at me intently, like she was trying to solve a complicated math equation. Who was she? I tried to place her as I stood up, but I couldn’t figure it out.

  I extended my hand, and she offered hers in return.

  “I’m Serena.”

  “I love you.”

  I froze, dropping her hand.

  “Pardon?”

  “I love you?” she repeated. “Right?”

  I paused. Was that a question?

  “Sorry. Jesus, look at your face!” The woman laughed. “I’m Ainsley. Ainsley Woods. The digital director.”

  “Right.” I smiled awkwardly, taking a step back. “Ainsley. Hi.”

  “I don’t love you,” she said, loudly. “I mean”—she chuckled—“you seem great. I’m sure you’re very lovable. But I’m learning Punjabi. Did you just say ‘I love you’ on the phone?”

  “Oh.” I nodded, laughing as my body unclenched. “Sorry. Yeah. I was talking to my—”

  “Mom, right?”

  I nodded, and Ainsley pumped her fist.

  “And did you say something about a”—she repeated the word in Punjabi—“baby?”

  I saw her glance down at my stomach, and I crossed my arms in front of it. “Eyes up here, Ainsley. My sister’s the one having a baby.”

  “My bad,” Ainsley said sheepishly, and then in Punjabi: “I’m still learning how to eat Punjabi.”

  I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. “You’re still learning how to eat Punjabi?”

  “Shit. How do you say it?”

  I repeated the phrase back to her correctly, and she practiced it again and again until she got it right.

  “It’s rather pathetic that I’ve been trying for two years,” she said afterward, “and I can still barely string a sentence together.”

  “You’re really good. It’s a hard language. But I have to ask . . .”

  “Why am I learning Punjabi? My husband’s parents are from Amritsar.”

  I nodded, thinking she’d go into more detail, but she didn’t.

  “So, what are you doing here?” I asked, sitting back down in my chair. “I thought you were still on vacation.”

  “I’m officially back tomorrow, but I thought I would come in and grab my computer. I might as well catch up on e-mails tonight while I’m jet-lagged. We took our son, MacKenzie, to visit my parents. Have you been to British Columbia?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, if you go, which you should, definitely check out Whistler. I may be biased, but I think it’s the most beautiful place in the world.”

  “It sounds magical.”

  Ainsley smiled, then glanced at the clock above my head. “Are you ready to call it? My husband is on dinner duty, so if you wanted to grab a drink or something . . .”

  I smiled, leaning back into my chair. “A drink,” I said, stalling.

  “Have you been to the Fox in Columbia Heights? Do you like beer? I don’t. But for five dollars a pint, I’ll drink it.”

  I laughed. The Fox was one street over from my local bus stop, and I wondered if Ainsley was my neighbor. “Five dollars, huh?”

  “It tastes like piss.”

  “Piss. You’re really selling this—”

  “I know. It’s almost like I should work in advertising.”

  I laughed again, and suddenly she was laughing, too. A part of me wanted to go. Ainsley seemed pretty cool, and I knew I’d have fun, and wasn’t I just thinking, miserably, about how I didn’t have any plans? How I didn’t really have a social life anymore?

  “I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I can’t tonight.”

  “Oh, OK. Sure.”

  She sounded disappointed, but you know what, I would be, too. I would be disappointed when we went to the Fox and I watched her work up the courage to awkwardly ask me about my partner, and then look at me with pity when I reve
aled I hadn’t been in a serious relationship since my mid-twenties.

  When she pretended to believe that being single, not having a family, was my choice and not a default.

  “Another time,” I heard Ainsley say.

  “Another time,” I repeated, knowing there would never be another time. Ainsley and I lived in different worlds. Women with families like Ainsley asked someone for a drink and literally meant one drink so they could get home in time to put their kid to bed.

  Would Natasha become someone who had time for only a quick drink—once a year—for her big sis, Serena?

  I didn’t want to believe it. I refused to.

  6

  I’m not seeing anyone else.”

  I thought seriously about covering Becket’s eyes with my hands and saying, Well, you’re not seeing me right now, either, but he didn’t look to be in the mood for one of my jokes.

  It looked like he was about to ask me to be exclusive.

  “Me neither,” I said quietly, looking at our hands. His were folded romantically around mine as he spooned me beneath the covers. It was dusk outside, and the diminishing light cast a spooky glow around my bedroom. On the other side of the window, I could hear a group of teenagers laughing and hollering as they walked by down below, a bus, and then a bus driving the other way.

  Was one month of dating too soon to be exclusive? I mean, I already was, and I’d assumed he was. It’s not like I had the time or inclination to date multiple people, or would have slept with Becket for the first time thirty minutes ago if I had any intention of doing so. Still.

  “I deleted my Bumble account weeks ago . . .” I heard Becket say, and then his loud breathing in my ear. “Are you still . . .”

  “I don’t have Bumble. Or any of the . . . ‘apps,’ as people say.”

  Tinder. Bumble. Hinge. I’d tried them all when they first came out for the sake of it and had met a handful of people over the years, but I found the whole experience of dating and socializing on my phone overwhelming. I dealt with social media and apps enough on the job; I didn’t want it clogging up my personal life, too.

  “So,” I heard Becket say, and I wondered why he was drawing it out. I rolled over, turning myself into him until we were nose to nose.

  “So.”

  “We’re both not seeing anyone else.” He brushed the hair out of my eyes. “Do you want to see anyone else?”

  I shook my head. “Except . . .” I waited until his cheeks reddened before continuing. “If I’m being honest, if Idris Elba asked me on a date, I would have a hard time saying no.”

  A grin spread across his face. “So how about we’re exclusive, except for Idris Elba?”

  “Works for me.”

  “So to be clear, because I don’t want you to get mad at me later, this means we can both date Idris—”

  Laughing, I cut him off with a kiss, and as I pulled away, I heard my phone buzz. My heart leaped as I reached for it on the bedside table. In another burst of motivation, I had messaged a handful of my old coworkers in a group text inviting them to dinner and a movie, as I hadn’t seen them since my farewell dinner. Whenever someone left the company, we all promised to stay in touch, to transcend from more than merely “work friends,” but it seemed I, too, was destined to lose touch with them.

  I read the text alerts on my home screen. Every single one of them was busy.

  “You better tell your other boyfriends you’re taken,” Becket said, as I set my phone back down. He’d said the word “boyfriend.” I didn’t realize to him that was the same thing as exclusive. I should have clarified.

  “Was that Natasha?” he asked, and I shook my head. She’d gotten back from the Bahamas the week before, and except for the photos and emojis she’d dumped into the family group chat, I hadn’t heard from her.

  “It was an ex-coworker. I was hoping to go see that new Tiffany Haddish movie tonight, but everyone’s busy.”

  “I’ll go see that movie with you.” He grabbed his own phone off the floor. “What’s it called again?”

  “You like rom-coms?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “A lot of guys?” I shook my head. “Don’t worry. I’m letting you off the hook. And didn’t you say you have work to do later, anyway?”

  “I want to see it with you, Serena.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve been hanging out all day, and I figured . . .” I trailed off when I realized I’d hurt him, and I blushed in embarrassment. I knew how I acted sometimes, and I’d been called out for my behavior by more than one ex.

  Hard to get. Some guys loved it; all they wanted was someone to flirt with, to fuck, and then to leave. But the others, the more sensitive ones like Becket, made me feel like shit about it. But the truth was, I wasn’t playing hard to get. Not really.

  I was hard to keep.

  “I’m sorry.” I pressed my lips together in thought, trying to find the right words. “The truth is . . . I was really looking forward to seeing my old coworkers tonight.”

  “Really? Because if you want me to go—”

  I shook my head, cutting him off. “This isn’t about you,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. “This is about me and the fact that . . . I don’t want to be the kind of woman who has nothing to do on a Saturday night but hang out with . . . her boyfriend.”

  As difficult as it was for me to say the word, at least Becket looked pleased. He put his arm around me.

  “You’re not, Serena. Look at you. Look at everything you have going on.”

  “I don’t have a lot of friends.” I grimaced, closing my eyes. “That sounded pathetic. I do. If you can believe it, I used to be pretty popular.”

  He laughed, brushing the hair out of my face. “Don’t worry. I believe it.”

  I smiled, thinking fondly about the wholesome fun my high school friends and I used to have much later than our peers. Many of us waited until we were pushing eighteen to fool around or try alcohol and soft drugs. From childhood, everything new we experienced together, and then slowly, our lives diverged. Some of us went to college, others straight into a career. We charted out different paths that came with brand-new groups of friends, but we always made time and space for one another.

  Always. And then even that started to change.

  “I love my friends, but . . . we barely see each other.” I shrugged. “So it kind of feels like I don’t have any right now.”

  He nodded. Either he was a good listener, or he was trying very hard to be one, so I continued.

  “It just seems like . . . people get married and have kids. And then they don’t need me anymore.”

  “Serena . . .” Becket cooed. I averted my eyes.

  “Natasha’s pregnant.” I was surprised by the emotion in my voice. I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted to talk about it with someone who wasn’t Mom. “Sorry. I know I should be thrilled.”

  “You’re allowed to have mixed emotions, though. It’s big news. Fast, too.”

  I glanced around my bedroom, which was the first room I decorated after buying the apartment. I’d saved scrupulously and bought vintage furniture from secondhand shops, styling it to my exact taste. Everything about it screamed Serena Singh, yet I knew that when Becket left—whenever he did leave—without Natasha around, I’d feel lonely, and I hated that.

  “She was my best friend, Becket.”

  “Was?”

  I nodded. “I know that she’ll always be my sister—I’ll always have her that way—but once she has this kid, we won’t have time together like we used to. We used to talk or text every couple of hours, and now . . .”

  Now? I didn’t know. I’d been afraid to reach out since she got back from her honeymoon and find out.

  “Everybody changes. Everybody moves on, whether they get married and have kids or not.”

  I nodded and let my head fall t
o his shoulder, even though I wasn’t sure he was right. I wasn’t sure I’d changed at all.

  “I don’t want to mansplain, but I think I have an idea.”

  “Go on . . .”

  “Remember how I used to live in Ireland?”

  I nodded. He’d told me on our first date how the best year of his life was the one he spent washing dishes at a Dublin pub.

  “Well, I didn’t know anyone when I first arrived. But then someone in my hostel recommended I join this Facebook group for expats. It was full of Americans, Aussies, Germans, Brazilians, Canadians—all of them new to Dublin. All of them looking for . . . friends.”

  I could tell where he was going with this, and I smiled gently, not wanting to turn down his idea straightaway. He looked so freaking optimistic.

  “We’d drink together, go to movies, hiking, weekend getaways to the West Coast. We became buds instantly. Some of us are still buds.” Becket propped himself up on his elbow. “What do you think? There’s bound to be something like that here.”

  “That’s a nice idea . . .” I said, squeezing his arm. “But I don’t have Facebook.”

  “Well, I’m sure there are other websites that don’t require you to have an account. Where’s your computer?”

  Hesitantly, I retrieved my laptop from the dresser, and after I entered in my password, Becket set to work. All it took was a few quick search terms like “make friends in DC” and “widen your social circle”—how dorky was I?—and a long list of options presented itself.

  Did I want to join a book club? A recreational softball league? Or what about a salsa class?

  There were websites to connect people around any and every interest, for social groups, however niche. Beer brewers. Wine tasters. Literally even candlestick makers.

  I watched Becket scroll through website after website, trying to sell me on everything from Ping-Pong tournaments for thirty-plus women to Tuscan cooking classes to Bumble’s BFF setting that allowed for platonic friendships.

  “It makes sense, Serena,” Becket said, trying to convince me to sign up. “We look for partners online. Why not friends, too? This way, you can even search for people with the same interests as you.”