Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  I shook my head, grabbing the bag from him.

  “Thanks, I’m good.”

  “Sure?” He leaned against the door, and the corners of his mouth crinkled upward into a smile. I was waiting for him to leave, and he was waiting for me to invite him inside. My stomach lurched.

  “Jesse, what are you doing?”

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  I had to laugh, and I ran my hands through my hair. “Dude, you’re being so transparent . . .”

  “Come on.” He touched my arm. “What’s the big deal? Let me see your place. I’ll show you my apart—”

  “I don’t want to see your apartment!” I said, a little forcefully. He balked. I wondered if he knew I was lying.

  “Quit being weird, Serena,” he said casually, making me feel like I was the one acting strangely. “Do you still have a Tupac poster above your bed? That’s really all I want to know.”

  “Of course it’s there,” I deadpanned. “Where else would I have put it?”

  “And the Beanie Babies? You were twenty when I met you, and you still had Beanie Babies, for crying out loud—”

  “It was a collection. They were a set—”

  “You were a grown woman with toys.”

  “I was twenty, Jesse. And I lived with my parents. I wasn’t a grown woman.”

  “So, what does a grown woman’s room look like, then?”

  “Well, for one, there are sex toys everywhere.”

  He chuckled, shifting his shoulders back. “Come on, Serena. I know it’s against the rules. But let me see your place. It’s really no big deal.”

  I sighed, looking at my shoes.

  “Come on,” Jesse said, laughing. He was standing so close now. Too close. The tips of his shoes were edge to edge against mine. All I would have to do was tilt my chin upward to kiss him.

  I cleared my throat, pushing away the thought, and when Jesse gently pried my keys from my fingertips, I didn’t stop him. First, he jammed my parents’ house key into the hole, and then unsuccessfully tried out the key to my bike lock.

  “That one,” I said quietly, pointing at the long silver one dangling by his pinky.

  I showed him around my apartment as quickly as I could. It wasn’t big, but he stalled at every nook and cranny to crack a joke, make a comment, ask a question.

  “How long are you going to leave this as a shrine?” He said this leaning into the doorframe of Natasha’s old bedroom.

  All I could do was shrug. He did have a point. I had closed the door when she moved out and barely opened it except to run the occasional dustcloth over the windowsill or track down my copy of Michelle Obama’s book, which Natasha had read and then stuffed into the back of the closet. (I also found my favorite yellow sundress back there, which she’d claimed to have never borrowed.) She’d left pictures on the wall, a dusty rose bedspread on the double mattress, and piles of old books, clothes, and knickknacks that she presumably didn’t want anymore and were only collecting dust.

  “Tell her to clean it up, Serena,” Jesse said softly. “She isn’t thirteen anymore.”

  I didn’t answer. He knew all about my relationship with Natasha, and I didn’t feel like getting into it. I was getting increasingly annoyed with his presence, his chipper attitude, his probing into my life, and by the time we circled back into the kitchen, I regretted bringing him up here.

  I felt weak all over again, like a total idiot. When I looked up, I realized he was babbling away about the artwork on my wall and settling himself into the armchair. My armchair. The one I had bought and paid for, and dragged up the stairs all by my fucking self.

  “Jesse,” I said quietly, the anger rising in my voice. “I think you should leave.”

  “I have this blank wall above my stove, right? Are you supposed to hang art above a stove?” He looked over at me, craning his neck as he leaned farther back into my chair. He hadn’t heard me. “The heat would ruin it, right?”

  “I think you should leave,” I said again.

  “In a minute. Do you think—”

  “No, Jesse,” I snapped. “Now.”

  He stopped talking, although his mouth remained open. Slowly, he peeled himself out of my chair and walked toward me.

  “Why?” he asked, stopping short just a foot in front me. “I’ll go, but you have to tell me why.”

  “You know why.”

  “Because of the rules you made up?” Jesse asked. “Because you wanted us to be respectful of Anadi and whoever it is you’re dating? Anadi and I are divorced, Serena. Frankly, it doesn’t matter what she thinks. And as for your mystery fellow, well, it’s hard for me to believe that you made up these rules to be respectful of a guy you never talk about.”

  “I . . .” I stammered, words failing me. The rules failing us. I’d mandated them to maintain boundaries in our friendship, to be respectful of Becket. My palms grew moist as I wondered what would happen if I told Jesse that Becket was no longer in the picture. What would happen if we were standing any closer.

  “Becket’s a nice guy,” I said finally. Jesse blinked, and he looked as confused as I felt. Why was I lying to Jesse? Why was I pushing him away?”

  “That’s all you have to say about your boyfriend?” I didn’t respond, and Jesse scoffed. “You’re dating him because he’s nice? My Toyota Camry is nice, Serena. Jesus!”

  “Well, not everyone gets to drive a Ferrari or Tesla or whatever they want.” I shook my head. “Sometimes you get a car because you need to get somewhere, it’s functional.”

  “And some people get their dream car, and then they crash it for no apparent reason.”

  It felt like I’d been punched in the gut. My body clenched, and I felt my eyes go moist, so I blinked until the tears receded. Jesse was staring at me, and when he caught my gaze, I couldn’t look away. He took another step toward me, and I felt sickeningly powerless. Completely under his control.

  “I . . .” I hesitated. “I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore.” I let out a stiff laugh, trying to break the tension. “This analogy is falling apart.”

  He pressed his mouth into the back of his hand, the way a person might when they were about to vomit or cry or maybe both. A moment later, he brought his hand down to his side.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said, his voice distant. “I have a date tonight.”

  “A date,” I echoed, my voice wavering.

  “She’s a teacher, apparently, over in Arlington.” He nodded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his running shorts. “Good with kids. A Democrat.”

  “You . . . haven’t met her yet?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a blind date. My friends think it’s time I move on.”

  “Good. Yeah.” My voice sounded colder than I wanted it to. “You should move on. If you’re ready and all that.”

  Jesse bit his bottom lip. “If I’m ready.”

  I swallowed hard as he toed closer toward me. It was only a few inches, but it was an onslaught, and from where I was standing, I could feel his heat, his presence, his power over my entire body.

  My heart, too.

  “Say something, Serena,” he whispered, and I winced, tearing away my gaze.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His arms were by his sides, his hands just inches from mine. I was looking at my feet, but I was aware of every inch of him.

  “For what?”

  “For kicking you out.”

  “Is that it?” He sounded incredulous. I forced myself to meet his eye. “Twelve years, and you still can’t say anything more?”

  I pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. My strength was faltering, and everything I’d pushed down was rushing up. What did he want me to say? What truth did he want me to admit?

  “Is that it?” he asked again.

 
I wanted to say more. I wanted to throw my arms around him, press myself against his chest. I wanted everything I wasn’t ever supposed to have.

  “Serena—”

  “Yes,” I whispered. I turned around, because if I didn’t, I wasn’t sure what I would do. “That’s it.”

  Who were these people in movies, even real life, who claimed it was possible to stay friends with an ex? With someone who would know you better than you know yourself.

  If only you allowed them in.

  I could hear my heart beating in my chest, my ears, my throat. I swallowed hard, concentrating on a scratch on my kitchen cabinet. I wondered what I would do if he stayed, if suddenly I felt his hands slip around my waist.

  But it was too late. Because a moment later, I heard the front door slam behind me.

  28

  I spent the rest of Saturday afternoon on the couch streaming episodes of Jane the Virgin. When the show first aired, Natasha and I had watched it together. I’d rolled my eyes at nearly everything our heroine Jane said or did or giggled at, and made sarcastic commentary until Natasha hit me with pillows and I finally shut up. Jane was the ultimate romantic who wore her heart on her sleeve and hung every single emotion up on the laundry line for the whole neighborhood to see. She was so romantic, in fact, that she was even a romance writer. (It’s a satirical telenovela; it’s supposed to be corny.)

  But today the TV show didn’t feel as ridiculous as I remembered. And as I watched grand gesture after tear-filled monologue after soppy French kiss with either Michael or Rafael (for the record, I am one thousand percent #TeamMichael), I found myself swooning along with Jane. Crying. And more often than not, thinking about what it would have been like if I hadn’t kicked Jesse out of my apartment, and we’d had one of those soppy French kisses of our own.

  After my fourth episode in a row, I turned off the television and took a glass of water out to the balcony. It was sweltering outside, and my little outdoor space had absolutely no shade in the evenings. I sat down, sinking into my solitary patio chair.

  Alone. Always alone.

  The moment Jesse left, I wished I’d had the courage to turn around and stop him, and now that I’d stopped drowning out my thoughts with television, it was something I could no longer escape.

  What did I want from him? It didn’t matter. The bigger question was what did I want for myself? Maybe the answers to these questions weren’t mutually exclusive, and I was overwhelmed by the need to call Ainsley, to momentarily brush aside the disaster of our crumbling friendship and plead for her advice on what to do next.

  I snorted, imagining her response. She’d sigh, like she was totally exhausted with me, and dramatically shake out her hair from her topknot. Then, she’d set her hands firmly on her hips, and in her typical Ainsley way, she would tell me to “just get over yourself already,” and “follow your damn heart.”

  And what would I say in reply?

  Damn it, Ainsley.

  I would tell her that she was right.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I was a sweaty, loitering mess in front of Poke Pete’s, having speed walked down to Dupont Circle. There was an unmarked black door with a call box right next to it. Jesse’s name was the third button down.

  “Hello?” he answered, a few moments after I managed to press the buzzer. He sounded tired, even through the static, and as I opened my mouth to announce my arrival, he let me in.

  Jesse was waiting on the landing at the top of the stairs, but he was reading something on his phone and didn’t see me right away. I smiled, slowing down my approach. He was wearing gym shorts and ugly blue Crocs, and his face was covered with a bright yellow paste. Even though he looked like a total dork, I got goose bumps just looking at him.

  “Hey.”

  He looked up, knocking his shoulder against the wall as he caught sight of me.

  “Hey.”

  I hesitated, noting the surprise in his voice. Was he expecting someone else? Was his blind date supposed to come over here?

  My sneaker caught the edge of a stair, and I stumbled forward.

  “I thought you were the pizza guy—you good?”

  Suddenly, Jesse was only inches away, helping me up. He smelled like damp earth and sweat, like he’d just gone for a jog. Then again, after walking around in that heat, I probably didn’t smell so great myself.

  “Turmeric mask?” I asked

  “After you found that pimple, I figured I should get back in the habit.”

  “Did you use yogurt, too?”

  “Yep. And honey.”

  I nodded approvingly as he led me to his apartment and pushed the door open with his back.

  “Would you like a tour?”

  I followed him inside. The kitchen was open-plan, overlooking a large sectional and wall-mounted television. CNN was on mute, and there was a basket of laundry on the armchair, a game of Monopoly abandoned on the coffee table. He gestured toward a door, and I peered inside to find bunk beds, a wardrobe, and a smattering of toys and clothes all over the carpet.

  “The kids were here this afternoon,” he said behind me. I turned around. He was standing above the sink, scrubbing the yellow from his face with a tea towel.

  Across the living room, I saw two more doors ajar. A bathroom. Presumably, Jesse’s bedroom. I stayed where I was, my eyes skirting around the room. It was strange to see him living like a grown-up. The last time I’d been in his house, he and his roommates hadn’t owned a broom.

  “I still haven’t bought curtains,” he said. Indeed, there was nothing covering the windows, nothing to stop anyone in the office building across P Street from peering into Jesse’s life.

  “You scared me off the plaid.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You were right, though. I don’t live in a Scottish castle.”

  Normally, I would have made some quip or remark, but I was exhausted. My head was pounding from the humidity and lack of sleep, and I found myself on the far edge of his sectional, my head on the backrest, my feet curled up beneath me.

  I closed my eyes and half heard Jesse moving around the room, a kettle whistling, the pizza delivery guy arrive and then leave. I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up, the apartment was pitch-black except for the cold blue flicker of the TV. Jesse had put a blanket on me. I sat up. He was sitting right by my feet.

  “Hey, sleepy,” he said, without looking over.

  “What time is it?”

  “About ten. I saved you a few slices.”

  “Shit.” I sat forward, massaging my temples. “What about your date?”

  “What about my date?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “You canceled?”

  “No, it’s not for hours still.” Jesse glanced at his watch. “It’s actually a booty call, not a date. Did I not tell you?”

  I smacked him on the back of the shoulder, and a huge smile split across his face.

  “Of course I canceled,” Jesse said, softly. “The moment I left your apartment.”

  “You knew I’d come over with my tail between my legs, huh?”

  He shook his head, and my gut twisted as our eyes met.

  “Then why?”

  “You mean besides the fact that there was another woman passed out on my couch?”

  I suppressed a laugh, and he leaned in, lifting my feet onto his lap.

  “You know exactly why I canceled, Serena.”

  My body ached for him as he drew me closer. My eyelids felt heavy, and when I blinked, I didn’t see Jesse and Serena, forever-ago exes with enough emotional baggage to fill a U-Haul.

  I didn’t see us on the set of a telenovela, making grand gestures or having soppy kisses.

  I just saw us. Together.

  Ever so lightly, his fingers grazed the back of my arm, my shoulder, the tattooed patt
ern on my neck. His touch scalded my skin, and I closed my eyes as, silently, the tears fell.

  “Hey.” Whispering, he gently pressed the back of his hand against my cheek. “What’s that about, huh?”

  My face was wet, and I tasted salt when I licked my lips. My breath turned rapid, a weight lifting from my chest.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  It wasn’t nothing. It was everything. Everything I could never say or do or admit to either of us. I tilted my chin to the side, my eyes still closed. With my hand, I felt for his cheek. I grazed his stubble, the rough edges of his jaw, and then pulled his face toward mine.

  His lips were dry and soft, hesitant. For a brief, terrifying second, I thought he would push me away, that he didn’t want me in the same way I so desperately wanted him. I parted my lips, pressing myself into him, and a shiver ran down my spine as he relented, as he pulled me into him and kissed me back.

  I hadn’t felt those lips in more than twelve years, but I knew them well. I knew what they were capable of. My knees trembled as his hands moved up my arms to gently cradle my head. I ran my hands through his thick hair, tugging, forcing us closer. He kissed me deeply, a fire igniting deep down inside of me as he groaned into my lips.

  I leaned back on the couch, pulling him on top of me. His weight felt good, and I moved against him as he kissed my neck, my collarbone. I slid my hands beneath his shirt and then moved them down, tugging at his shorts.

  “Serena.” He grunted into my ear. “Are you sure?”

  I moaned in response, squirming against him. I felt out of control. I felt alive.

  I wanted him to put his hands on me again. I wanted him in every way possible.

  “Are you?”

  I opened my eyes. Jesse was hovering above me, his weight pressed into his arms on either side of me. I nodded again, and slowly, a sad smile stretched across his face.

  I hadn’t convinced him. I’d wanted to. I wanted him. We were breathing hard, and without saying anything to each other, we both sat up on the couch. My cheeks were hot with embarrassment. I was afraid to look at him, and when I finally made eye contact, the hungry look on his face quickly changed into one of concern.