Playing to Win (The Complete Series Box Set): 3 romances with angst and humor

by Alix Nichols

  He’s putting on a brave face, but I know he’s heartbroken.

  Ashamed as I am to feel this way, I envy Sophie. Noah may have messed up and hurt her, but their relationship has always been more than just sex for him. It’s obvious from the way he talks about her. Besides, he recently hinted he was about to do something crazy for a chance to win her back.

  Zach was prepared to do a crazy thing for me, too, but for the wrong reasons. What moves him isn’t love but a mixture of lust and guilt.

  And pity.

  I don’t want anyone’s pity. Especially his. I want him to be free to do what he thinks is right for him and his boy.

  God, I’ll miss them!

  But I must make room for the woman whose rightful place I’ve been trying to usurp. The whole thing has gone too far, and Jean-Michel’s comment is just another wake-up call. Mathilde was right. I should’ve been more careful, guarded my heart better. Instead, I let Zach and Sam take root in it.

  Now I have to rip them out.

  NINETEEN

  Zach

  I’m driving to the Charles de Gaulle Airport with Uma in the front seat. Her two roller bags are in the trunk, and her huge backpack is on the back seat. Sam stayed at home with Colette at Uma’s insistence. She wanted to spare him the long trip in congested traffic, so they said their goodbyes right after breakfast. The little man hugged her. He cried and asked her not to leave. Uma cried too. For a moment there, I allowed myself to hope she would change her mind.

  But after she wiped her and Sam’s eyes and helped him blow his nose, she just kissed his cheeks and said she was sorry.

  Then Colette arrived, acting all jittery. It’s no wonder. She’s never been alone with our son before. When she agreed to babysit him, I explained exactly what to do in the unlikely event Sam has a seizure.

  But Colette doesn’t think she’s ready, and I no longer think she’ll ever be.

  At some point last night when I was hugging Uma to my chest between two bouts of desperate lovemaking, a lightbulb went off in my head. For the last few months, I had obsessed that Sam shouldn’t grow up knowing his mother rejected him. I had worn my obsession like a blindfold. I was all too quick and too eager to believe Colette had discovered maternal love and wished to become part of her son’s life.

  That was never her intention.

  All she ever did since she dropped her initial hint about second chances was to try to spend time with me. Poor Sam! His mother clearly doesn’t need his love. She isn’t looking for redemption. She’s out to seduce her ex who’s grown considerably richer since she left him.

  I’m done encouraging her.

  As far as I’m concerned, she can go jump off a cliff.

  A scene flashes in my mind’s eye. This morning when Uma was packing a few remaining items upstairs, Sam and I hung out in the kitchen. He gave me a look full of such desperation that I picked him up.

  “What is it, buddy?”

  “I don’t want Uma to go.” His big eyes began to water.

  “You always knew she’d be gone by Christmas.”

  He choked back a sob. “Why can’t she stay? Daddy, please, can you ask her to stay?”

  I stroked his soft cheek. “Mommy will be here soon. You can ask her to read you the same books Uma read for you. And she can play the same games with you if you teach her.”

  “She won’t.” Sam sniffled. “I want Uma. Why can’t she stay?”

  Why, indeed?

  I ask Uma that exact question at the bustling Terminal 2C just before she checks in her luggage.

  “We’ve been over this, Zach,” she says. “I won’t have you and Noah pay so much money to make my staying in France possible.”

  “There’s another solution.”

  She puts her hands on her hips and arches an eyebrow.

  I stare into her eyes. “You could marry me.”

  “What?”

  “Marry me.” I smile, trying to make light. “That way, no one will have to pay anything, and you’ll get an EU residency permit.”

  She blinks.

  “And I’ll get to keep you in my bed,” I add.

  She surveys my face for a long moment. “How is fake marriage with you better than arranged marriage with Giriraj?”

  “It won’t be fake.”

  Uma presses her palms to her eyes.

  Will she say yes?

  My heart races, and my hands are clammy with sweat. I don’t think I’ve felt so anxious in my entire life.

  “What about Colette?” she asks. “Weren’t you giving her a second chance, welcoming her back into Sam’s life?”

  “I was,” I say. “But I no longer will.”

  “I don’t want your sacrifices.”

  “What sacrifices? It’s you who’d be making a sacrifice if you marry a single dad with a sick kid.”

  “I love Sam,” she says, “with all my heart—”

  A uniformed airport employee plants himself next to us. “Which flight, please?”

  “Kathmandu,” Uma says.

  “You have to check in right now, Madame, or your plane will depart without you.” He motions her to one of the counters before shouting, “Anyone else for Kathmandu?”

  Uma grabs one of her roller bags and rushes to the smiling check-in lady.

  “Fuck the plane,” I say, hot on her heels with her second bag and backpack.

  She doesn’t turn around. In fact, she doesn’t so much as glance at me until her luggage is checked in and she’s told to hurry to her gate.

  She practically runs to it.

  I stride beside her until we reach the corded lane leading to passport control.

  “Uma, please.” I grab her shoulders and spin her around. “Give me one reason why you won’t marry me.”

  She looks down, refusing to meet my eyes.

  I wait.

  When she finally looks into my eyes, hers are filled with something… a question… an expectation… Hope.

  Say it, man.

  Open your mouth and make the confession you’ve been wanting to make for weeks now. The confession you’ve had tucked away into the deepest recess of your heart, too chicken to voice it. Too scared to even acknowledge it.

  The tension on Uma’s face gives way to profound sadness. “Good-bye, Zach. Thank you for everything.”

  Before I can stop her, she whirls around and flashes her boarding pass to the security man who lets her pass.

  “Wait, Uma!” I try to run after her, but the man blocks my way.

  His voice is cold and official when he says, “Your boarding pass, please.”

  “I don’t have one.” I step aside, scanning the crowded lane for Uma’s petite figure. She couldn’t have gotten far.

  There she is, just a few meters away.

  “I love you,” I say, my voice cracking.

  She doesn’t turn around.

  “I love you!” I cry out.

  Can she hear me? There’s too much noise in this damn place.

  “I love you, Uma,” I yell. “I love you!”

  Where has she gone, for Christ’s sake?

  I holler at the top of my voice, “I love you! I love you! I love you!”

  Nearly everyone turns their heads to look at the dork who’s picked the world’s least romantic place for a love declaration. Except Uma. I spot her in front of the passport control booth. She pushes her papers through the slit in the glass and waits for the guard to scrutinize them. She won’t turn around. A moment later, the guard hands her passport back to her and says something with a smile. Probably, bon voyage. She sticks the documents in her purse and dashes behind the booth.

  “I love you,” I whisper again as she disappears.

  TWENTY

  Uma

  Sitting behind Aama and Baba, I stare at Zach’s face on my phone screen.

  The reason this Skype call is taking place in my parents’ presence is that it’s them Zach has called this time around. I’m just a silent “extra” in this show. I’m t
he party who, if we were doing this properly, wouldn’t even be present on this occasion.

  “I love your daughter, and I would very much like to marry her,” Zach says before adding, “if you’ll agree.”

  Ever since his public declaration at Charles de Gaulle, Zach has said and texted “I love you” to me every single day. It’s as if his floodgates burst open and now there’s no stopping him.

  Not that I would ever want to stop him from saying those words.

  Aama and Baba don’t respond immediately, even if I know they’re going to say yes.

  Over the last month, we’ve discussed this almost daily, and I’ve managed to get them to move from “no way” to “all right, then.” It helped that Priyanka took my side. It also helped that after I turned down Giriraj, my parents couldn’t reasonably expect more Brahmins to scramble to offer for the picky Dalit girl… who may have been ruined during her unsupervised stay in Paris, anyway.

  I didn’t tell my parents I’d given my virginity to Zach. Call me weak or a hypocrite, but I knew I’d rather elope with him and risk their wrath than hit them over the head with that confession.

  I’d almost given up and was about to suggest elopement to Zach when Marguerite came by our house and vouched for him. With my sister, her husband, Marguerite, and Noah all championing Zach, Aama and Baba finally caved in.

  Trouble is, they don’t seem to be in a hurry to inform him of their consent.

  “Can we see some proof that you aren’t already married?” Aama says. “Last year, we were assured you were. We even talked with your wife.”

  Zach sighs. “I’m very sorry about that charade. Colette and I aren’t married. In fact, we never were.”

  Too much information!

  I should’ve warned him not to mention that detail.

  Baba knits his brows. “You made a child out of wedlock.”

  Zach drops his head to his chest, realizing his gaffe.

  “It’s common in Europe,” I say. “People date, make a child or two, and then get married.”

  “Or not,” Aama says pointedly.

  Zach looks up. “In my defense, I did propose when I learned Colette was pregnant. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to tie herself down.”

  Aama’s eyes widen. “With a baby on the way?”

  “She wasn’t sure she was having the baby,” Zach says. “The only reason she didn’t get an abortion was her fear of hospitals.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence, but then Baba speaks. “We have yet to get over the fact that you’re the reason Uma refused to marry Giriraj.”

  “I don’t think so,” Zach says. “She refused to marry him because she didn’t love him.”

  Aama shakes her head.

  “It’s true,” I say. “I never loved Giriraj.”

  She sighs. “In the Hindu tradition—your tradition, Uma—love is something that comes after marriage.”

  Baba gives me a hard look and points his chin to the phone. “So, you love him?”

  I nod, realizing that even if Zach knows it, I’ve never said those words aloud.

  “I do.” My voice is loud with no hesitation. “I love him more than anything in the world. More than life itself.”

  Even without looking at the phone, I can feel Zach’s hot stare on me.

  Baba gives me a quick nod before turning to Zach. “All right, then. You have our permission and blessing.”

  Finally!

  “The wedding will be held in Nepal,” Aama says, shifting from resigned to businesslike with surprising ease. “We’ll ask an astrologer to find an auspicious date.”

  What?

  There was no question about a wedding. It was supposed to be a no-fuss, courthouse marriage.

  Zach blinks and glances at me.

  “Aama, Baba, we don’t want a—” I begin.

  Aama shakes her head. “Don’t you think you owe us a proper ceremony?”

  “Of course,” Zach says, clearly over his initial surprise. “I’ll be happy to travel to Nepal and marry Uma according to the Hindu tradition. May I bring my son and my parents?”

  Aama grins.

  “You should bring them and anyone you can round up,” Baba says. “The more the merrier. We don’t want a lonesome groom with no family or friends to support him on such an important occasion. It would reflect badly on Uma.”

  I cover my face with my hands.

  “Got it,” Zach says. “Expect a small army.”

  When the conversation winds up, the mood and my parents’ tone are light-years from where they started. They make jokes, laugh at Zach’s jokes, and look mighty pleased.

  After dinner when Priyanka stops by to hear the outcome, Aama says, “He’s very amiable, your sister’s beau. I can see why Uma fell in love with him.”

  “Err… I’m not sure it was his amiability.” Priyanka gives her a sly smile and fishes her phone out of her purse. “I looked him up the other day.”

  I lean over Aama’s shoulder as Priyanka pulls something up for her on her phone. It’s a video of one of Zach’s games. My sister pauses it when Zach propels himself out of the water in all his muscular, virile glory, ready to slam the ball into the opponent’s goal cage.

  Pointing at his torso, she smirks. “This is why she fell in love with him.”

  My face feels like someone just set it on fire.

  Aama claps her hand to her mouth in pretend shock and erupts in laughter. Priyanka howls, holding her sides. They double over. Looks like my mother and older sister just regressed to teenagers.

  “More tea, anyone?” I mumble and scurry to the kitchen.

  My phone beeps as I fill the kettle. It’s a text from Zach.

  When you said you loved me, I thought I’d explode. I want to kiss you, every bit of you, starting at the top of your head down to your toes. I’m the luckiest guy alive.

  I reread the message several times before sticking the phone in my pocket and praying to the gods that the astrologer finds an auspicious date this month. Or, if that’s too much to ask, next month.

  If it takes any longer until Zach can execute his threat, I might expire from yearning.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Zach

  The only time I’d seen a Hindu wedding ceremony was on TV in a Bollywood movie. I remember the well-coordinated dance numbers of the flash mobs that the newlyweds and the guests performed every ten minutes or so. And the songs. The plot is fuzzy in my mind, but what stayed are the bright colors, exotic rituals, and beautiful costumes. And mouthwatering food.

  Uma said I should expect all of that—barring the flash mobs—at my own Hindu wedding.

  My bride’s family compressed the celebrations into two days, kindly considering my status as a foreigner and tight game schedule.

  On the first day, my “party” travels from Marguerite’s to Uma’s place in a festive and loud procession. A marching band leads the way, and passersby line the sidewalks to watch and cheer. While many of the guests walk—including Mom, Dad, and Noah—I am driven in a convertible decorated with flowers like some modern-day maharaja.

  Luckily, Sam rides with me.

  When we arrive at Uma’s, my jaw drops at the sight of my bride in her red silk sari embroidered with gold and beads. Around her slim wrists, she wears multiple glass bangles. Her hands and feet are covered in red henna patterns that snake up her wrists and ankles like magical tattoos.

  She’s sexy as hell.

  Then again, I find her sexy even in her oversize flannel pjs with green teddy bears on them. But dressed like this, all made up and tattooed… She blows my mind.

  Uma’s relatives throw flower petals at me. After that, a man marks my forehead with a dot and motions me to a special seat in the middle of the courtyard.

  Food is served.

  When everyone has eaten and drunk, Uma sits next to me. She has a sheer veil over her face, pinned to a puffy top bun that she wears like a crown.

  “Your majesty,” I whisper. “You’re stunning.” />
  “You aren’t too shabby yourself,” she whispers back, surveying my tailored three-piece suit.

  We are told to take our shoes off, and Uma’s relatives bring out a large copper bowl filled with water. I must admit I was nervous about this ceremony and weirded out by the prospect of my future in-laws washing my feet.

  “Can we maybe skip that part?” I’d asked my intended.

  The answer was no.

  So I brace myself and suffer through it. When the bowl is taken away, Uma and I are led into the house for another ceremony. I give her a new sari. Her parents give me a new set of clothes to change into.

  Ten minutes later, I emerge from the bedroom decked out in a long, brightly colored tunic cinched with a red belt, and comfortable pants.

  “Positively dashing,” Uma says. “How are you holding up?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “I survived public foot washing by my soon-to-be mother-in-law. You got yourself one tough cookie for a husband.”

  This is bravado, of course.

  The number of ceremonies still ahead of us today and tomorrow is daunting. Luckily, there are priests and elders on Uma’s side to keep track of what should be done, how, and when.

  Dad’s eyes are filled with wonder.

  Mom cries at nearly every ceremony.

  Sam gets excited when we get to the part where Uma’s sister “steals” my shoes, and I have to bargain a price to get them back. Then he almost falls asleep when the priest recites endless prayers to various Hindu gods.

  Next, I tie a gold diamond necklace around Uma’s neck and add gold bracelets to the glass bangles on her wrists. She gives me a thin gold chain and a new watch. After that, we exchange rings.

  But we aren’t officially married until I take a pinch of red powder and spread it on the part of Uma’s hair.

  My second uncomfortable moment comes when Uma bends down and touches her forehead to my feet. I presume this gesture is supposed to indicate her submission to her husband—something all religions seem to require of women.