by Lillie Vale
“This is Rita,” says Milan.
“The Rita?” says a young smirking white guy, standing there like a man who thinks he’s inherited the world, so I automatically decide not to like him. The way he up-downs me validates that impulse.
Milan’s cheeks flush and he darts his eyes away.
“You’re the young woman who’s going to help my firm out,” says an older man with ice-chip blue eyes and graying brown hair. He sticks his hand out. “Josh Bell.”
Help out High Castle Realty? It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the house that Milan hadn’t been able to sell for two hundred and sixty-two days. Now sixty-three.
Bell’s the boss, I realize, taking his hand. His grip is firm and doesn’t linger, and he doesn’t bat an eye when one of the containers on my arm bumps his knee.
“Milan tells us that you design furniture and are a rising star of the interior design world,” he continues, his tone warm. “We’re very glad to have you on board.”
I wonder what he thinks about a “rising star” making deliveries.
“Ha! That place?” Smirky Dude snorts, and it sends a ripple of anger over my chest. “Good luck. I don’t usually believe in cursed properties, but if I did . . .” He looks at Milan meaningfully. “Hey, boss, shoulda maybe held off on the promotion until that place sold, huh?”
Almost everyone scowls, including the boss.
“I have every confidence in Milan,” says Mr. Bell, who’s so dignified looking I can’t even think of him as Josh. He glances at me as if he’s taking my measure, but without an ounce of creep.
Milan’s cheeks bloom a patchy red. “Would you like to stay for the party?”
I really would not, but the question requires a circumspect answer. “I have a lot on today, so I better jet,” I say. “Congrats on the promotion.”
“Yeah, no. I get it. Thanks.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll walk you out?”
I mean, I’m pretty sure I could find the exit on my own, but he’s already at the door.
As we head for the elevator, he makes a swipe for the catering containers, which I swing out of his reach just in time (Rita: 1, Milan: so in the red he’ll never dig himself out).
Victorious, I pick up my pace, power walking like Aji at the mall when she wants to calorie-blast after too much Diwali mithai.
“Rita, are you trying to outrun me?”
“No.” I walk faster.
“You remember I run two miles every morning, right?” he drawls.
My blood pressure spikes. Oooh, his nerve. His smug nerve assuming my brain hasn’t already recycled all the stored info about how he only likes the obnoxious novelty creamer flavors in his coffee, the two ABC sing-throughs he does when brushing his teeth, and the abject refusal to order a salad at a restaurant even if he really wants one because of the hideous markup, let alone remembering his cardio routine. I mean, really.
“Why would I”—I huff—“remember that kind of inconsequential detail?”
He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat that could pass for a growl, but I just can’t imagine Mr. Brooks Brothers behind me doing something that flagrantly uncouth.
I whip around to search his face, but he’s smoothed away his frustration into a picture of Bambi-eyed innocence as he once again lets me get into the elevator before him.
After a soft warning chime, the doors slide closed. But for me, the sound is the kickboxing bell popping off.
I cross and uncross my arms. “Why did you tell your boss I’m working with you?”
“Because you are?” Milan stretches out the sentence, head cocked to the side.
My mouth, primed and ready for a sharp repartee, snaps shut.
He lifts a brow. “Oh, are we not?”
I try not to squirm. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely asking or throwing a challenge. When my mom accepted a job on my behalf that he didn’t even intend to offer, I’d assumed, by some unspoken agreement, Milan and I were just being good sports about her interference.
I grind my molars. No one wants to work with their ex.
Especially when it’s not even their decision.
His eyes appear darker in here with the harsh fluorescent light that casts us both in a sallow yellow tint. They drink me in, no longer syrupy, leonine brown, but infinitely more intense. And yet his voice, when he asks, “I thought it was settled?” is unsure.
I can’t help it; I relish that hesitation in his voice, so unlike his hotshot real estate agent confidence.
It only takes one moment to unsettle something. He, of all people, should know.
Milan pushes the emergency stop button even though we’ve already hit the first floor.
I startle. It’s a very Milan-from-high-school move, and I have a feeling that Rita-from-high-school wouldn’t have taken long to push him against the wall and muss his coiffed hair into disheveled make-out oblivion.
When will I stop thinking about all the Ritas I used to be?
“You said something before about this being weird,” Milan says. A flush climbs up his neck. “And don’t get me wrong, it totally is. But I wasn’t kidding when I said it was only a matter of time before we were in the same room together. I didn’t expect it to happen, uh, quite like that, though.” He lets out a short laugh. “But I can’t deny that I am happy about how it worked out.”
It’s not because he still has feelings. It’s because he needs help.
I swallow past the sour film on my tongue and try not to hate him.
“I was hoping we could stop by the house before the next open house.” He touches my shoulder, electricity zapping us both. “Sorry.” He guiltily draws his hand back to his side, then against his chest, then up to scratch his shaved-smooth chin, as if in afterthought.
I draw back, horrified to find that I’d instinctively leaned into his touch. He doesn’t seem to notice, which makes it worse, in a way.
Rajvee’s voice rings in my ears: Stop being such a messy bitch, Rita.
Okay, so she’s never actually said that to me, but whenever I need to give myself a WWJD moment, it sounds like her.
Milan chews his bottom lip. “But if our history makes this too hard for you . . .”
It goes silent so fast that I swear I can hear the soft, even clicks of his watch hands.
Anger flares under my skin, turning my arms hot. He’s got some nerve thinking this is one sided, that I can’t handle working with him without my heart re-ripping along its fault lines.
And what about him? Thinking back to his awkward chin scratching, there was something about the piecemeal movement that tells me it wasn’t what he intended. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, like he didn’t want me to see how discomfited he was in my presence. Sure, he’s giving me an out, but it’s not one I want to admit. Especially now that I suspect he’s trying to give himself an out, too.
“Please, we were six years ago. Pretty sure I’m over it.” My laugh is brittle as I punch the door open button. I shrug. “It’s just business. A one-off.”
His face turns a little pained.
Aha! So I was right. He was hoping I would be the one to blink first.
“And then we go back to our own realities,” I finish. First. I give him the condescending-dude-pat on the shoulder, delegating the task with victory smooth as Macallan single malt whisky. “Just shoot me an email and we’ll set it up.”
And then I step out of the elevator before he can say a word, heart sledgehammering, making sure he can see just how good the view is watching me walk away.
Chapter 9
To make up for missing dinner last night, Neil brings over all my favorite Chinese takeout for our usual Friday night date, plus apology strawberry Pocky and shrimp crackers. It takes him forever to pick out a movie—even though I’m pretty sure it’s my turn to choo
se. So while he browses the trailers of the newly added blockbusters, I check my email.
There’s a small red bubble on my mail app.
Could be nothing. Could be 5/$35 panties. Could be my match with Neil.
I tap the screen.
Palpable relief whooshes through me. As promised, MyShaadi had delivered on their guaranteed match within twenty-four hours. Even if they only sent it with one hour to spare.
Sender: MyShaadi.com
Subject: You have a match!
Preview: Love is in the air tonight, Rita! Log in to your account to chat with . . .
“Neil!”
“Huh?” He glances over, swears under his breath, and rewinds the explosion he missed.
I fist pump. “We’ve matched! Check your phone!”
He shoots me a distracted smile before pulling his gaze back to his movie.
I work my mouth side to side. A little excitement would be nice, but I guess it’s easy to be blasé when he’s had not just one match, but three. Still, I’m stoked. My plan fucking worked.
“You should check your phone,” I say, telling, not asking.
This time he listens, pressing pause. I follow the email link to the web page, glad I asked the site to “remember me” so I can skip the annoying password step.
You have a match! runs across the banner on my home page in a Devanagari-style script.
“Let’s read it at the same time,” I say, biting my lip to hold back the victory cheer. I’m in the mood to be corny, to pretend confetti and trumpets are bursting all around us.
“Want some fanfare?” Neil offers.
“Always.”
He grins and begins to drum his palms against his thighs. “And now . . . the moment . . . we’ve all been waiting for . . . the moment . . . of truth!” he bellows, like a ringmaster.
I click the link, holding my breath.
Any second now, the name and face are going to pop up.
And it does. It’s just not Neil’s.
“Uh, Reets?” He squints at the screen. “That’s definitely not me.”
Congrats, Rita! You have a 100% match with Milan Rao!
Normally I’d listen to the universe when it sends a sign as big and glaring as this one, and normally I’d never accuse fate of rigging itself against me, but there’s nothing normal about being informed that the man who broke my heart is my perfect match.
This is the guy who started a lawn-mowing business with his buddies when we were in high school in order to afford our college sophomore summer backpacking vacation. Who left me waiting for him at the departure gate until he finally returned one of my many texts to say he’d meet me at our connecting flight in Jersey.
I had turned on my phone as soon as we’d landed at Newark. As soon as the wheels bumped the tarmac. Was Milan already here? Would he meet me at the arrival gate?
It would be our first time meeting since Christmas. My family had gone to India during spring break to see the cousins and Aba, my grandfather. He never stayed in the U.S. as long as Aji, who was determined to get every possible day out of her tourist visa.
Milan and I had been disappointed we wouldn’t be together IRL, and with the time difference we’d only be able to talk during his mornings and my nights, and vice versa, but it actually hadn’t been that bad.
I was over the moon to finally see him. Even though I was seated in the middle of the plane, I’d jumped into the aisle to grab my backpack out of the overhead bin as soon as the fasten-seatbelt light turned off. I didn’t want to spend a second longer in my seat, forced to wait as the aisle crowded. Not when Milan was out there.
Only he wasn’t.
I speed walked out of the skybridge, heart in my throat, phone in my hand. I’M HERE!!!! CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU!!!! typed out and ready to go, except he wasn’t standing at the door with a goofy sign the way boys always did in movies. He wasn’t slumped in one of those crumb-lined airport seats, earphones in, fishing the last crumbs out of a Pringle can like the other young men in the arrival’s lounge.
He wasn’t there at all.
And that’s when I saw the voicemail.
Hey, you’re probably already in the air so you’ll only get this when you land at, um, Newark, but I wanted to— Shit. My parents. [heavy sigh] It all just hit the fan over here.
I had to ask them for the money to pay for summer classes when we get back from Europe, because I’d spent my money on the plane ticket already and I needed the rest for food and hostels and stuff. [long pause] They didn’t buy my wanting to do school over the summer and Dad was on my back until I finally had to tell them that I’d failed three of my classes and I wasn’t doing too great in the other— [staggered breathing]
Rita, I . . . I lost my scholarship. I don’t know what I’m going to do. My parents, they’ve never been so disappointed in me. I’ve never been so disappointed in myself. This isn’t me, or at least it didn’t use to be? I don’t know how it got to this. I mean, I do. But. [loud exhale]
But, um, anyway, that’s not the point, I just wanted to say— [voice rises] I have to stay here. Stay home. This summer. Mom wouldn’t stop crying, I’ve never seen her— And Dad. He . . . I think it would have been better if he’d shouted at me. The silence was worse. Then Mom started giving me a rundown of everything they’d paid for college and how much I’d wasted, and how was I going to pay them back, and I just— [choked sound, long pause]
Dad calmed her down. They’re going to pay for me to retake the classes I failed, but I can’t go with you, Rita. None of this would have even happened if I hadn’t been thinking of you all the time. I need to focus on school and get my grades up. It’s not fair on you when you’ve spent all this money, but you don’t know how pissed my parents are and it’s because of you, and I think maybe we should take a break—
It was lucky I had a four-hour layover for my connecting flight to Paris, because the second I heard his voicemail—his rambling, messy voicemail—all the way through, my legs were incapable of moving beyond my gate.
I collapsed into the nearest seat, almost dislodging the tuna sandwich balanced on the knee of the woman next to me. I was too out of it to apologize when she huffed at me, could only squeeze my phone to my ear and listen to Milan’s voice over and over until it made some sort of sense. My phone was hot enough to turn my palm pink and leave a fiery rectangle on my cheek by the time I realized that it didn’t make sense.
He was failing three classes?
He lost his scholarship?
He wasn’t here in Jersey?
He only worked up the courage to tell me while I was midflight?
And somehow—somehow (!!!)—he had the gall to say it was my fault?
My heart slammed in my chest. Over and over.
It’s because of you, and I think maybe we should take a break—
Every time I heard that sentence, I waited for him to complete it.
I waited for there to be more. Something to come after it that would make it all click into place, the Aha, so that’s what happened moment. There had been so many stops and starts in his voicemail, a jumble of blame and accusation that arrowed straight through my heart.
Maybe this was just another stop. A pause for breath.
But no. It just ended there.
We ended there.
When my phone slipped from my hand, cracking against tile, I was too numb to even notice.
* * *
—
Unable to sleep after the horror of matching with Milan, I’d stayed up past midnight tweaking my MyShaadi questionnaire to ensure I got Neil the next time. After tossing and turning the rest of the night, skin clammy and head throbbing, I was late getting to Little Shop for our usual Saturday morning pickup and it was slim pickings.
A sugar rush was a surefire fix for my migraine, and by some stroke of luck—the s
ole, single, solitary stroke I’d had this week—Una had already set aside my favorite dark chocolate iced donuts with icing googly eyes and candy-corn teeth.
After fending off Harrie, who started barking his head off as soon as a sleepy Neil wandered into the kitchen, we had breakfast together, but instead of him spending the day at my house, he had to go back to his mother’s for the rest of the weekend, something she insisted on.
“You can get some work done without me here to distract you,” Neil had said, pecking my nose. “I’ve gotta do this, but I’m all yours next weekend. Promise.”
I didn’t wave him goodbye from the front door like usual. Talk was cheap. I should know.
Neil was right about one thing, though—I did have work to do.
Milan had already sent an email with more details about the Soulless Wonder listing. He’d staged the empty rooms himself according to the style of the house and a Pinterest deep dive into interior design after the owner moved out, taking everything with him.
So I spent the rest of Saturday sketching mock-ups and finishing up my mood board; going to Lucky Dog Luke’s, the flea market my friend worked at, to pick up some accessories; and trying not to refresh my Shaadi account every five seconds.
Can I get the key? I’d like to get in there to get a feel for the space, I’d emailed Milan. When’s a good time? I had zero intention of seeing him in person again so soon.
I hit send before I mean to, just so eager to get this over with. Fingers racing faster than my heart, I shoot off a follow-up: I can send you my designs once I have the floor plans and dimensions.
Better to keep it strictly professional. The more technical-sounding words I throw at him, the more barriers I have between me and whatever smug, arrogant thing comes out of his mouth.
No worries, he sent back a minute later. I canceled the Sunday open house and removed the furniture so we can check it out together. I’ll meet you there tomorrow morning.
