The Shaadi Set-Up

by Lillie Vale

  Neil’s work-life and mom-girlfriend balance are two conversations we’ve had a lot.

  “Is it really fine or is it the kind of fine that’s going to keep you up?”

  Delight Bambi-prances down my spine. “See how well you know me?”

  He laughs. “Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to pester Daddy as soon as he came through the door?”

  “She always made me wait an hour for him to decompress,” I say. “I wasn’t supposed to ask him questions or beg for attention or chatter at him nonstop about my day. Although, if you just called yourself the ‘daddy’ in this scenario”—I give him a light, quick peck on the lips—“I’ll have to kick you out of this bed. Because, one, yuck. And, two, yuck.”

  Neil grins, grabbing his laptop from the nightstand and settling it on his lap. “Okay. Let’s do this.” He stifles a yawn. “I swear I’m awake,” he says when he catches me watching.

  “Thank you. I promise you won’t regret this.” I’d go in for a cheek kiss, but my nostrils are still tingling from his cologne. I tap start. “Question one—”

  “How about we just do it on our own? I mean, you said it yourself. If I majored in Rita, I’d be at the top of the class. A-pluses only.”

  His confidence is nice, but if we don’t match our answers to be equally terrible, there’s every chance we’ll get matches other than each other. But maybe that’s okay. I can reevaluate, I can adapt. The chances of only matching with each other was a long shot, maybe. If we show our parents all the people we want to pass on, it’ll just set us up better when we “find” each other.

  My mom will only be thrilled about Neil if she thinks he’s the only guy I find appealing. So maybe the best way to prove he’s my Prince Charming is to show her all the frogs first.

  I haven’t told Raj about this yet, but I know exactly what she’d say—that I have nothing in common with Neil.

  Wouldn’t filling out our answers independently and still matching, anyway, be the perfect way to rub her nose in her wrongness?

  “Okay,” I say, drawing the word out like the longer it took the most okay with it I’d be.

  “Great!” He turns his attention back to his screen, eyes skimming at a speed that makes me a little worried for him.

  It’s not like it’s a race.

  At least, I don’t think it is until Neil adds, “Last one done has to wake up early to get Little Shop of Hors D’Oeuvres’s donuts for breakfast on Saturday.”

  Oh. I work my mouth into a stiff game-on smile and start reading the first question, trying to ignore the loud click-click-clicks next to me. Neil’s already way ahead, typing with the ease of someone who was passed the answers before the test. He’s rough with his keyboard in a way that makes me clench my teeth, but I don’t want to interrupt him now that we’ve finally gotten started. And he does know me. So we’re fine. This is fine. It’s all going to be fine.

  Even if I can’t shake the thought that he’s rushing through it so he can go to sleep.

  Question #1: Why do you want to get married?

  Because I do not believe in premarital sex and I’m tired of waiting

  The sheer cheek of my answer makes me grin.

  Question #2: Are you spiritually strong?

  Yes, I can hold my liquor with the best of them!

  My jaw hurts from this dorky, inordinately-pleased-with-myself smirk.

  This time tomorrow, MyShaadi.com will deliver on their promise and tell me what I already know—Neil is the man for me.

  Chapter 7

  Still can’t believe Esha Auntie managed to pull a fast one on you,” Rajvee Delahaye cackles. “Indian moms are truly the most terrifying. At least tell me there was some”—she waggles her eyebrows suggestively—“under the table?”

  “Yes, Raj, in front of Mom, Dad, and Aji, I let him have his way with me,” I say dryly.

  It’s a busy Friday morning at her mom Una’s bistro, Little Shop of Hors D’Oeuvres, a mere ten minutes before nine a.m. When I was starting out and struggling to make ends meet on an artist’s unpredictable income, Una hired me part time. I still help out a few times a month for old times’ sake. The early morning rush is no time to gossip, but Rajvee’s not going to let a little something like dozens of expectant, hungry customers get in the way of hearing about my nonexistent rendezvous.

  “Attagirl,” she crows. As she bends to pry a mini Belgian waffle from the iron, her cut-at-home bangs flop into her eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bobby pin, would you?”

  It’s already fished out of my rattan circle purse. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I scold lightly, sliding the pin into the glossy black hair untouched by her cosmic Violently-Violet-#9-to-hot-pink-ends ombré. “You think my updo stays put with just the power of good thoughts?”

  That gets a deep, knowing chuckle.

  My fascination with pretty hair accessories goes all the way back to high school, and she knows it. I can always count on tortoiseshell barrettes, velvet scrunchies, and headbands that would have made Blair Waldorf jealous as stocking stuffers.

  Rajvee’s far from the most colorful thing in the bistro. Someone on Yelp called it kawaii goth for gauche hipsters. Which, fair. The walls of Little Shop of Hors D’Oeuvres are the same pink as her hair, broken up with peacock-green art nouveau picture frames and bottle-blue bookshelves filled with vintage cookbooks. Re-created classic horror movie posters and a cluster of Little Shop of Horrors off-Broadway Playbills make the bistro an iconic Instagram location for tourists and locals alike. Black wrought-iron tables and chairs are scattered over the checkerboard tile floor that leads back to the kitchen, invitingly angled, begging for someone peering into the storefront windows to sit for a spell.

  It’s my home away from home: the tables where Rajvee and I did our homework after school; the kitchen where we came up with the entire Halloween menu when Raj’s grandmother decided it was too gross at her age to make food look like eyeballs; and the place where I realized how much I loved, no, needed, color in my life.

  There’s a vintage pinball machine next to a Ms. Pac-Man, with the speakers overhead slithering out dreamy lo-fi hip-hop. At the front, an old-fashioned cash register takes center stage on the oak counter, glass domes of rubbery “fake cake” confections on either side. Devil’s ivy creeps along wall trellises and spills out of pewter cauldrons suspended from the ceiling, their green heart-shaped leaves prettily twining. And, in a homage to its namesake, a fake Venus flytrap with a placard that reads: PLEASE DON’T FEED ME HAMBURGER.

  This place was built as a Victorian hotel, but after a few mysterious accidents too many, it changed owners, tumbling from hand to hand until Rajvee’s grandmother inherited it in the seventies. She and husbands one through three fixed the broken banister and the rotted-wood staircase that had claimed the last owner. They threw out the creepy glass-eyed dolls with cobwebs in their hair, pulled the dead birds from the chimney. It took more than two decades of hard work and money they didn’t have, but by the time Una, who had just adopted Raj from India, took over, the family passion project had been restored to its original glory.

  “So you’re really telling me there was no”—Rajvee hums—“magic between you?”

  “Raj, it’s Milan.” Is it too childish to make a gagging sound?

  “Yeah, and? I have eyes, and objectively, Milan is . . .” She shoots me a knowing, played-up wink before sliding the last mini chicken-and-waffle appetizer onto a tray.

  My cheeks warm. Needing a topic change, I eye the already packed and ready-to-go trays on the kitchen counter. The labels read: CRISPY MAC AND CHEESE BALLS, BBQ MEATBALLS, FRIED PICKLES, FRIED GOAT CHEESE AND BALSAMIC PEACHES WITH BASIL, BLOOMIN’ ONION BITES, BACON JALAPEÑO DEVILED EGGS, and PIMENTO CHEESE-STUFFED FRIED OKRA.

  “Jesus.” I blink. “Someone order catering or a coronary?”

  “Very funny and not at a
ll avoid-y.” Rajvee clasps the waffle-iron lid on with a forceful click! “You might be interested to know that it’s a lunch spread for one of our very best regular clients.”

  I suppress an eye roll. “Why would I find that interesting?”

  Rajvee opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, like she thought better of it.

  “And,” I add, “you know I adore your apps, but if this is how they eat I’m surprised they’re still around for repeat business. Even Super Bowl parties have more veggies.”

  She smirks. “So I guess I’m best friends with a different girl who once ate a bag of shredded cheese over the sink so she wouldn’t have to wash a plate?”

  She’s talking about the first semester of junior year when I thought that after twenty-one years of being an only child, wouldn’t it be great to have roommates? So I called a number on a campus bulletin board (“Sketch,” Rajvee had proclaimed), accepted a room in a house just a street away from campus, which was clean at the time (“Bait and switch”), and then had to spend the next few months torn between just doing the dang dishes that kept piling up in the sink or yelling at the roommates who didn’t do a thing to keep our place clean.

  At least this time Raj didn’t tack on the “I told you so.”

  “One, that was during the depths of my Milan funk.” I grimace. Saying his name twice in as many minutes gives me a scratched-chalkboard feeling. “Two, it was, like, the bottom of the bag and there was hardly anything left. Three, it was finals week and I didn’t have time to go grocery shopping. Four, you know I was in that sink standoff with my roommates, none of whom respected my chore chart. And, five, I don’t tell you things so you can use them against me.”

  Rajvee pastes on a sorry-not-sorry smile. “Best friend prerogative.”

  My phone lights up in my hand.

  Reets, guess who’s got a MyShaadi match? ;)

  Oh sorry, nevermind . . . um it’s not with you?

  I squint at Neil’s message. Then glance at my mail app. Nothing.

  My first thought: He got a match before I did?

  The second: Ugh, I hate when he calls me Reets. Why would a person ruin Rita, a perfectly good four-letter name, into the objectively awful Reets-rhymes-with-beets? It’s one whole letter longer than my actual name!

  Raj snaps her fingers under my nose. “Earth to Rita! If you get a text, share with the class!” Her smile turns wily. “Or maybe that’s Milan texting you now?”

  “Wrong,” I say shortly. “Neil.”

  “Ah, him. The guy you sleep with but have nothing else in common with.”

  “Wrong again. We like the same things. Remember, Coco is our favorite movie?”

  She makes a doubtful scoff.

  “What happened to not inherently gendering things for girls and boys?”

  “Anyone can dig Coco.” She shrugs. “I’m just saying Neil doesn’t. He seems more like an action man.”

  Our stare off doesn’t have a clear winner, but when we both blink down on our strained, watery eyes, I change the subject from my incompatibility with Neil to the real subject at hand.

  “Anyway,” I say pointedly. “Like I said, Milan had no clue what he was there for. His mom sent him over with some bogus story about a friend of hers with an exclusive pocket listing. He didn’t even know it was my parents’ place. We agreed for my mom’s sake, but I’m pretty sure he’s not going to call.” My upper lip curls. “Even Aji thinks he’s too much of a ‘good boy’ to say no to my mom, let alone his.”

  “You said your mom gave him your business card,” she points out. “He needs help with that fix-it house, right? If he said he’s going to call, he’s definitely going to call.”

  Yeah, he said he’d call because my mom was sitting right there expecting him to say that.

  What is with these grown-ass men deferring to their mothers over everything?

  And it’s not like he always, finger quotes, does what he says he will.

  Exhibit A, our past.

  I fold my arms. “Slap a little paint on it. Get the bloodstains out of the carpet. Fumigate. There’s a million things he could do instead of asking his ex-girlfriend to help him.”

  Raj doesn’t even put up a good show of trying not to roll her eyes. She plants her hands on her hips, canary-yellow nails popping against her brown skin and cropped, high school hoodie. “Pretty sure if it was any of those things, he’d have fixed it already. He needs you.”

  Needs is a major overstatement.

  “Listen, if there aren’t bloodstains there already, there will be by the time this is over,” I grind out. “As long as we’re walking down memory lane, maybe we could revisit the part where he dumped me after six years of dating?”

  Her face blanches, but I can’t stop myself.

  Plowing on, I say, “On the very same day we had plane tickets booked to London. Just like that.” I make a sound of disgust that reminds me of a cat working out a nasty hairball. “We’d been saving ever since high school for this, Raj. High school. And he just, what, decided out of nowhere that none of this was what he wanted?”

  The noise that comes out of me is half sob, half gasp for air. “That I wasn’t what he—” I break off, breathing heavily.

  Her face softens. “Rita—”

  “No, I’m sorry, Raj, but he didn’t even have the decency to do it in person. He left me waiting at the departure gate. You have no idea how humiliating that was. Maybe you can still be friends or friendly acquaintances or whatever with him because you cater for his office, but I was doing just fine without him. I didn’t need this right now.”

  She’s on my side, always, but Milan is as much a part of her life as mine. From cozy autumn afternoons spent sprawled over a Little Shop table as we did our homework together to his wholehearted will-start-a-fight-with-bigots acceptance of her gender fluidity when she told us I feel masculine sometimes and Would you call me Raj as often as Rajvee from now on, please? He went shopping for cargo pants and men’s short-sleeve patterned shirts with her when she was figuring out how she identified, and felt uncomfortable by herself in the junior men’s section.

  They spent a lot of time together during the two years she went solely by Raj at their college, and only wore leather and plaid and boots made for stomping before deciding her pronouns were she/he/they and she hadn’t figured out any other labels yet and that was okay, but wanted us to take our cue based on her gender expression and social context. While I was in California, he was here for her. And later for Una, when he hired the Delahayes for High Castle’s catering after Raj’s grandma got dementia and times were hard.

  Our lives are a three-strand braided friendship bracelet, even if I pretend it isn’t.

  Anger and tears go hand in hand for me, and right on cue, my eyes start to sting. “Actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. He doesn’t get another chance. I’m fresh out.” My throat sticks. “I’m happy with Neil. So please stop shipping us. My mom I get, but I can’t deal with it from you, too.”

  Rajvee looks stricken. “You don’t have to put on your armor with me, babe.” She pulls her lower lip into her mouth. “I know he hurt you, but you’re—”

  “I’m not in love with him anymore,” I fill in before she can. “I’m one hundred percent over him and even if he does call, nothing’s going to happen.”

  The sympathy vanishes. She arches an eyebrow with a knowing look. “Who said you weren’t and that anything was going to happen? That’s so not where I was going. I was just going to say that you never exactly got closure and regardless of what your mom wants to happen here, maybe this is what you need.”

  My face burns. Even though we never talk about him, at my request, she’s hinted a few times over the years that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if we got it all out in the open between us. “I—”

  I’m saved from pulling something out o
f my ass by the arrival of Una Delahaye, Rajvee’s mom, who glides rather than walks into the prep area. She styles herself like a Mod Cloth–esque Victoriana It Girl, and today’s no different. She’s wearing a black high-neck dress with amethyst paisley flowers and a ruffled yoke, pointed black boots, and a hassled expression.

  “Raj, I just got off the phone with CariDee and her kid’s been vomiting since—” Una breaks off as soon as she sees me. “Rita!” She swoops toward me with a wide smile, giving me a tight squeeze before pulling away to scrutinize me. “Have you eaten yet?” To Raj, “Baby, give her a waffle. Did I just hear you two arguing?” Then, rapid fire as always, “Rita, are you on the schedule for today?”

  “Hi, Una,” I say with a fond laugh. “Yup, I’m all yours today.”

  “We weren’t arguing.” Raj smirks. “Rita needs my unparalleled, unsurpassed expert dating advice.” She strikes a pose, all angles and sass.

  It’s hard not to envy them their easy mother-daughter relationship.

  “You know, I gave up watching soap operas when my daughter and her best friend became teenagers,” says Una, kissing Raj’s temple. It’s not the first time she’s caught us gossiping in the kitchen. “You girls gave me way too many real-life story lines to keep track of.”

  The difference was that in high school, most of the dating drama had come from Raj, who was once in a short-lived love triangle with the star quarterback and the head cheerleader. Milan and I thought we were so grown up, above the petty jealousies and irritations that broke our peers up after week one. We didn’t even celebrate monthly anniversaries because we took it for granted we were together for the long haul. There was no need to celebrate baby steps when we were running in miles.

  “You’ve got to admit, Mom, our shit was way better than TV!” Raj says cheerfully, and she slides me one of the leftover mini chicken-and-waffles cooling on the rack.

  My taste buds burst as my teeth sink into the finger food. I can make out the thinnest glaze of manuka honey, just enough to add a touch of sweetness to balance out the smoked paprika and secret spice blend in the beer-battered fried chicken. It’s absolutely orgasmic.