by Lillie Vale
“Hmph.” Aji turns to me like she expects me to side with her.
I keep my face neutral. “That’s true. That’s why seared steak tastes so good.”
“Shee!” Aji exclaims, vegetarian sensibilities properly ruffled. “Steak!” She frowns at Mom in reproach, like she’s to blame for this. Then, just as quick, she gets her own back. She gives me a self-satisfied smile. “At least you’re staying for lunch.”
Wait, when was that decided? I open my mouth to protest, but Aji’s already scooted from the kitchen, face buried in her phone.
Mom waves a hand. “Honey, set the table, would you? And call your dad in? And are you sure you don’t want to change? It must be hot out there. You still look so flushed.”
Why on god’s green earth is she trying to beat this into the ground?
I open the cabinet to pull out three plates and three steel vatis for the daal. “I’m not staying,” I remind her as I start to set the kitchen table. “And, FYI, I love this shirt!”
“No, no, not there,” says Mom, using one hand to make a shooing gesture. “I thought it would be nice for all of us to eat in the dining room.”
Weird. We never eat in there unless there’s company coming.
“I mean it,” I stress. “Eating in the fancy room isn’t going to tempt me into staying.”
She calmly reaches for the top cabinet, pulling out my favorite carrot-chili pickle.
“Mooooooom.”
“What? Maybe this is for me.”
I’m not buying it. “You said your stomach can’t handle it after fifty.”
She smiles. “Maybe I’m open to reevaluating my opinion.”
Right. My mom, giving a second chance to anything? I should be so lucky.
I try to say it casually. “So now that I have a super-evolved mom, I guess she’s totally okay with forgiving her old boyfriend and his mother?”
Her face hardens. “Never,” she snaps, thunking the bottle of pickle down on the island.
I flash my palms at her. “Okay, okay, I was just testing you.”
Her voice rises, trying and failing for casual, too. “Why are you bringing up—”
The doorbell rings.
Mom almost jumps. “I’ll get it.”
“No, I will.” I dart out of the kitchen, heart thumping. I just needed to get out of there before she saw an inkling of truth on my face.
Neil was wrong about this. Nothing good could come of telling our parents.
My mother’s grudge notwithstanding, there is every reason in the world his parents wouldn’t love the idea of me, either. I’m the daughter of the woman Amar had wanted to marry. In another life, I could have been his daughter.
Would Neil’s ma want her husband’s ex’s daughter in her family as a daughter-in-law? Would a woman who wanted fresh round, round rotis for her son settle for a girl who bought it frozen from the grocery store?
I yank the door open.
And promptly wish I hadn’t.
Because standing in front of me, face drained of color, is Milan Rao.
He takes a half step back, glances at the house number, then back at me. He blinks.
My mouth goes dry. How is he here. At my front door. Twenty-six instead of twenty.
“Rita?” He says my name like he’s not sure it’s mine, and for a stunned, awful second, I gape at him. His voice sounds nothing like the way it used to when it was murmured into my ear or ghosted across my skin. “Rita?” he tries again, staring into my eyes.
I think I’m going to throw up. “No,” I manage to gasp before slamming the door.
Chapter 4
Hindsight being twenty-twenty, it’s pretty stupid to deny it, because of course he recognized me as instantaneously as I recognized him. You couldn’t kiss the same mouth for six years without ingraining the face into your memory.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, leaning against the door.
Knock, knock.
Right next to my ear.
I leap away, tripping over the shoes and my own jellied legs.
This isn’t happening. This is some heat-induced fever dream. I’m still at home in bed. I’m still in bed. I’m still—
“Rita?” he calls out, this time sounding more sure of himself.
My chest heaves. I feel like I’m in one of those Saturday morning cartoons I used to watch, heart bounding comically out of my chest.
The doorbell peals, shooting goosebumps down my arms.
There’s no way I’m opening that door. Nope, no way, sorry, no can do.
What is he even doing here? How did he find out my parents’ new address?
First the realty sign. Now this. Did the universe summon him?
A hand lands on my shoulder. I jerk.
“Rita, kohn ahey?” says Aji, peering intently at the door like she has X-ray vision.
“Aji, don’t!” I hiss, but she’s already pounced to the slim vertical window to the left of the door. As usual, she does what she wants and pulls aside a lacy curtain to peer out.
Milan’s face is pressed to the window. “Hi, Aji,” he says sheepishly.
“Arey!” Aji drops the curtain like it’s on fire. She spins, hands on her hips, wild eyed.
“Ididn’tinvitehim,” I say, words bumbling over my tongue.
“I did,” says Mom coolly, gliding across the foyer to join us. I double take. She’s—somehow—found the time to change into a hot pink Nanette Lepore shift dress, wavy brown hair slung over one shoulder instead of its usual cooking ponytail, and a Relentlessly Red M.A.C. lip.
“Why?” I whisper-shriek.
She tsks as she unlocks the door. “Rita, you left the poor boy out there in this heat?”
“Mom, that is not an answer! And he is not a ‘poor boy’!” I say with finger quotes.
I exchange a look with Aji. She looks surprised, too, and not a lot gets by her.
Mom purses her lips and takes me in from head to toe, settling on the grungy black tee with a can’t-be-helped sigh.
Oh no. This is why she was so adamant that I change?
I gesture to my shirt. “Mom. Please tell me you didn’t want me to look cute for him.”
Mom’s face goes innocent. “I have a beautiful daughter,” she says. “Shouldn’t I want her to look her best?” She reaches for the doorknob.
My heart lurches. “Nononononono.”
There’s no way he’s seeing me for the first time in six years with hair plastered to my scalp, dog hair on my shirt, and nothing on my face but SPF.
Before Mom can turn the knob, I flip my head upside down to fluff my haven’t-washed-it-in-three-days hair. Mom smiles with approval, but Aji stares like she’s not sure who I am.
I’m not even remotely ready to see him, but I force a smile to my face while Mom swings the door open like I didn’t just slam it in his face two minutes ago. You’ve got this, Rita.
“Mil-uhn,” Mom says warmly, hostess face on, pronouncing his name the right way, even though he’s only ever gone by Milan, like the city. “It’s good to see you again.”
He clears his throat. “Thanks, auntie. You, too. But I thought my mom said—”
“Please, Milan, you’re not a teenager, anymore. Call me Esha.”
“I didn’t know this was your hou—I thought I was meeting a client.” He hovers in the doorway, looking more awkward than I’ve ever seen him. With three generations of Chitniss women to greet him, I guess I can’t blame him for his squirrelly eye contact and feet shuffling, but I can relish in it for a moment. “When did you move?”
He’s the one asking questions when he showed up on my doorstep? That’s exactly the kind of cheek that I didn’t miss from him. Not that there’s anything I miss about him at all.
I cross my arms and try not to scowl as I tell him, “A few years ago. Da
d lectures at UNC’s medical school now, so he wanted to be closer.”
Milan follows the movement of my arms, lingering on my chest. His eyebrows scrunch. There’s a long pause before his cheeks redden and he says, “He’s still got his practice, though?”
I give him a tight nod. Dad loves his work way too much to quit.
“You’re letting the AC out,” Aji says in a crotchety voice.
Mom takes hold of his arm and hauls him inside. “Rita, Milan’s in real estate.”
“Really?” My voice comes out too high. “Wow, I had no idea.”
Milan glances at me like he’s not sure if I’m kidding. A gentle (disbelieving?) smile curves his lips. “I have signs up and down this street. Kind of impossible to miss.”
“Wouldn’t know. I keep my eyes on the road when I drive,” I reply, uncrossing my arms.
“Rita’s a good girl,” says Aji. She wags her finger, voice swelling as she comes to my defense. “An excellent driver. First try she passed her test.”
“Yeah, I know, I was—” Milan breaks off.
There.
The memory hangs between us, wavering like a maybe truce, a maybe something.
Milan is looking everywhere but at me. So it could also be a maybe nothing.
It’s been years since I’d thought about it, but now I remember Aji, Milan, and me squished shoulder to shoulder in the back seat of my parents’ car as we drove to the DMV for the written test. He didn’t have to do that, he wanted to be there for me. Quizzing me on homemade flash cards he’d made for his test a few months earlier. Giving me the biggest smile every time I nailed an answer.
I press my palms to the sides of my clammy thighs (or maybe it’s my palms that are clammy) to keep myself from folding my arms again. Something tells me he’d read into that.
Mom takes hold of Milan’s arm and herds him toward the kitchen. He casts a look back, but I determinedly don’t make eye contact. Aji looks disgruntled, muttering something under her breath as she follows them. Ever since we broke up six years ago, she hasn’t been his biggest fan.
Please don’t let her say anything embarrassing. I trail behind her, dragging my feet.
“Milan, lemonade?” Mom bends into the fridge. “We also have orange Fanta, coconut water, La Croix sparkling water, and prosecco. Oh! And I picked up a whole crate of Limca from the Indian store. You still like lemon-lime soft drinks, don’t you? I remember you ran on Sprite during AP testing week. Ah! And here’s the Coke. Well, not Coke Coke. Store-brand cola.” She frowns. “I didn’t buy this. Who bought this? Ruthvik!”
“Mom,” I say. Read: chill.
“Regular water’s fine,” says Milan, cheeks a little pink.
Mom holds a glass under the refrigerator’s cold water dispenser. “Like Milan was saying, he’s in real estate.” She’s straight faced. Doesn’t bat an eye.
“Milan was saying, huh,” I drawl, noting the none-too-pointed way she’s pulled the conversation back to him. What was she thinking inviting him here?
He turns to me with a secret smile. Like he knows I’m embarrassed and he is, too, but we’re in this together and we’ll get through whatever shenanigans my mother has cooked up.
Betrayal sucker punches me.
He has no business making it out like we’re a team here. Smiling at me like that. More importantly, I shouldn’t be smiling at him, either.
We are not in this together.
I tear my gaze away, severing the moment. I feel him looking at me for a beat longer, but I don’t look back. Stay strong, Rita. He was the one to let you down first, remember?
Mom’s kohl-blackened eyes zero in on me with a don’t-trifle-with-me steely glint. “I spoke to Milan’s mother at the Deshpandes’ potluck last Saturday, and she mentioned he’d been having some trouble with a listing, and I thought, Well, that’s something my Rita could help with, isn’t it?” She plows right on. “Milan, you’ll stay for lunch?” She hands him the glass.
He looks at me before opening his mouth. “I—”
“That’s settled then.” Mom beams.
He snaps his mouth shut. His expression is stunned.
I’m a little taken aback, too. She ripped that move straight from Aji’s playbook. It’s clear this situation has been a masterminded set-up from the moment I texted Dad and told him I was coming over today to use his band saw.
Now that the shock of seeing him again has worn off, I’m left with a potent cocktail of emotions, shaken not stirred. But the most identifiable feeling is anger.
At Milan, for being here. For not being there when I had needed him.
At myself, for still caring—even if it was only the tiniest bit—what he thought about me.
At Mom, for chasing down a happy ending for me because she didn’t have her own.
I meet her eyes, willing her to see what she’s putting me through. This is the woman who gave birth to me, whose heart once beat with mine. She should be able to read me better than anyone else on the entire planet. One look at my face used to be all it took for her to know when I’d bombed a test, lost out on a solo in choir, or got in a fight with Raj.
Mom mistakes my silence for agreement. “I told his mother you would stage that house for him.” In an aside to me, she adds, “You could use the money.”
My cheeks flame. Pinpricks dot my scalp.
I don’t need the band saw. I can go home, forget all about the curved wood legs I planned to make for an end table. I’ll work with the metal hairpin legs I already have.
“I’m doing fine for money,” I tightly tell Milan.
“Rita is just about to expand her business to include full-service interior design.” Mom grabs additional plates and cutlery from the drawer.
It takes all my willpower not to reel back. I’m about to expand to what, now?
The glib lies falling from her tongue amaze me, even though they shouldn’t.
Between my scare at the intersection and this, the universe is officially in cahoots with my mother to reunite us.
“I actually wasn’t—” I start to say, but Mom jumps in with, “You’ll be her first.”
Her words hold a double meaning that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t get, but by the telltale blush and tiny smile on Milan’s lips, he totally does. He runs a hand through his thick brown hair, all hot and casual, and I hate so much that I notice. I make sure to look away quick before he notices me noticing.
“It’s a real problem house from what I’ve been told,” continues Mom. “On the market for two hundred and sixty-two days, which your mom tells me is the longest listing you’ve ever had.” She clucks her tongue. “And this is a seller’s market, too.”
Even though she doesn’t see me, I see her. She thinks she’s doing this for me, but at least part of it is for her, too. I can see it in the way she holds herself, poised with anticipation, eyes round and hopeful the way they get only when we watch rom-coms together. This is her falling-in-love face. She’s never looked at Dad with her heart in her eyes like this.
Not that I needed a reminder, but this hammers home how very much I can never tell her about Neil. Not unless I want to be the one responsible for breaking her heart a second time.
I settle on a barstool at the island counter, hunching my shoulders and keeping my voice flat so everyone is aware I’m here only as an unwilling participant. There’s no point in showing my anger, not when it would only wound her. That’s the last thing I want to do.
“Maybe the house is priced too high,” I suggest, even though that’s probably Realtor 101.
“No, it’s a fair price,” Mom jumps in before Milan can answer.
His face is aghast. “Did my mother tell you everything?”
Mom waves her hand. “Oh, the basics. Only that you need help with this house and your job depends on it, you make six figures and don’t live a
t home, and you’re currently single.”
She eyes me. This is an opportunity, Rita.
I squint. Nope, can’t see it.
Milan swallows. “Right. Just all the info you need to file my taxes or make a dating profile. Nothing important or anything.”
I choke back a laugh. Because Milan isn’t funny. Definitely not.
“I wouldn’t recommend putting your salary on a dating profile,” says Mom. “Unless you’re trying to attract gold diggers.” Without preamble, she says, “Did you know Rita restores furniture? She doesn’t care about money at all. She followed her passion and does this for love. She even told me she doesn’t want to marry for money. See how well you’d work together?” She blinks, the picture of innocence. “Professionally, I mean.”
Dear god. She’s not even trying to be subtle.
One way or another, this is going to happen. The only question is how much I fight it.
Milan glances at me, then down to my black tee like he’s trying to read the faded letters.
Jeez, I’ve filled out since he last saw me, but he could be a bit less obvious about staring.
I return his interest, taking in his appearance for the first time. Broad shoulders, slim hips. Slight build. Ankle-length black pants, gray V neck, and an unbuttoned blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, one that makes me wonder if it’s as soft as it looks.
In high school, Milan mostly stuck to classic black athleisure and Levi’s jeans, while my entire wardrobe screamed discount Serena van der Woodsen. Sometime in the last six years, his style leveled up big time.
He’s dressed so nice and he didn’t even know I was going to be here, which means he just . . . looks like this all the time.
Great, now he’s going to think I’m dressed like I don’t care because I don’t have money. Maybe I should have listened to Mom and changed, after all.
I make a mental note to put some effort into my outfit the next time I see him—
NO. Emphatic, all caps NO. What am I thinking? I dress for me, not for men.
I don’t have to roll over and go along with this set-up. There isn’t going to be a next time.
