The Shaadi Set-Up

by Lillie Vale

  Chapter 10

  I’m at the Soulless Wonder five minutes early and he’s still here before me.

  Even from this distance, through the dusty, bug-spattered windshield of my truck, he cuts a striking figure. He’s wearing a navy suit, smart black aviators, and a dubious expression as he examines a bunch of wilted, straggly flowers in front of the house that someone, at some time, thought added some much-needed charm.

  I start to slow, but then panic seizes me. I’m nervous enough to see Milan, but what’s worse is if he sees what an absolute fraud I am.

  I’ve never interior designed anything, let alone a place this expensive. What do I even know about selling a house? If I go in there and tell him he got all the design wrong, I’m going to show my ass. Milan’s been selling houses for years and he’s just been made junior partner at one of the best agencies in town. My palms begin to sweat. What if my sketches are amateur and not to scale? What if my dimensions are totally off?

  Maybe I should have digitally rendered everything instead, brought it in a nice portfolio instead of the only folder I could find, an old and obnoxiously hot pink Lisa Frank with soft, peeling corners that no self-respecting adult should bring to a business meeting.

  I move my right foot to the gas pedal. Fuck this. I’m going to drive right past.

  But then Milan looks up. Recognition crosses his face. He takes off his sunglasses and waves them high above his head like he’s one of the guys on the runway bringing in a plane.

  My insides shrivel. Too late.

  I turn into the driveway without signaling to the car behind me. As I turn off the engine, the driver blasts me with one, two, no, three honks that take about ten years off my life.

  “I see your driving has gone downhill since I helped you study for the test,” Milan says playfully, tucking his glasses into his breast pocket. He takes in my truck as if he’s surprised to see it. “I wondered whose that was in your mom’s driveway on Thursday. Thought your folks were getting work done or something.”

  I scowl. Perspiration is already gathering in my cleavage and dotting my forehead. It doesn’t help that just being around Milan makes my temperature go up at least ten degrees.

  Just because someone has a sleek cherry-red Alfa Romeo parked next to my dusty pickup does not mean he gets to diss my vehicle or my driving.

  Heatedly, I say, “That honk was entirely unnecessary, and you know it. I’m sure he didn’t even have to tap his brakes.”

  “Honks, plural,” says Milan. “The second and third were overkill, I’ll give you that. But if I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn it crossed your mind to pretend you didn’t see me.”

  There’s a chuckle in his voice that’s hard to ignore. I whirl away to grab my stuff from the back seat, trying to cross my arms so he doesn’t see the rainbow that vommed all over this folder.

  I will be a professional about this. I will not rise to his bait. I will not banter with him.

  “Let’s get inside and get to work,” I say, keeping my voice cool and even-tempered.

  I start power walking to the front door.

  “You do realize I have the keys?” he calls after me.

  My shoulder blades tighten. I’m glad I wore my hair down so he can’t see me go rigid.

  Milan strolls up the walkway, tossing the keys high in the air. Probably higher than he meant to, because mild shock crosses his face for a split second before he fumbles for the keys with both hands instead of a suave one-handed catch. His cheeks bloom like spring roses.

  I fight a smile; the smile wins. “Yeah, you sure have the keys all right.”

  He keeps walking as if nothing happened. He slides the key in with the ease of someone who’s entered a lot of houses in his time, and opens the door. “After you.”

  It’s blessedly cool inside and smells like tart apple room fragrance and rubbery vacuum burn. We both wrinkle our noses at the same time before catching ourselves.

  “I’ll have a word with the cleaning crew,” says Milan. “We had a lot of people here at last Sunday’s open house. These carpets get a lot of action. I had all the old furniture moved out of here. Do you wanna walk me through your plan?”

  “Let’s go to the kitchen so I can spread it all out,” I suggest.

  He nods. “This way.”

  The house is open plan, which means the lack of any human touch is jarringly noticeable. The kitchen is straight ahead, all the way in the back of the house, cabinets arctic white and appliances shiny and high end. The limited counter space is made up for with a giant marble-countertop island with one of those fancy motion-activated sinks.

  “What you’re selling isn’t a house. You’re selling a way of life,” I say, opening my folder and taking out my sketches along with the photos I’d printed from the High Castle website.

  After spreading everything along the length of the island, I stab my pointer finger at the kitchen photos from the listing. “This glass table? Pretty, sure. But sharp edges. If I’m a mom, I’m not thinking how great this space is for entertaining. I’m thinking my kids are going to get hurt running around. The table corners are, like, eye level for children. These weird, ceramic petal-shaped bowl things on the island? Other than the very disturbing fact they look like a vagina lineup, again, I’m not congratulating myself on my artsy-fartsy taste, I’m wondering if it’s going to survive the damage if Billy throws a baseball in here.”

  “This all makes a lot of sense, Rita, but you’re forgetting the niche market of parents who want their kids running around in a demolition zone.”

  He’s grinning. It takes me a second to realize he’s making a joke. I’d been rambling. Getting excited about this project. Slipping into the familiarity of talking to a friend.

  “You’re making fun of me.” My face feels like a hot pan.

  Without thinking about it, I snatch at the papers, crumpling them between hard, rushed fingers. What a colossal mistake. He didn’t care about the hours of my weekend I’d spent sourcing the perfect paint colors and soft furnishings and tasteful art pieces. He wasted my time the exact same way he wasted all those years of my life back when I still loved him.

  “Rita, stop.” His hand lands on top of mine. His fingers settle between my knuckles, eliciting a strangled gasp from me. His thumb, just a little rough, grazes the soft part of my thumb. Slow, relaxing circles. The friction, the sensation, of his skin rubbing against mine is heady and familiar, bringing me back years and years to his warmth and comfort.

  It’s exactly how I remembered it.

  It’s the kind of small intimacy he probably didn’t even think twice about, but which I can’t stop thinking about now.

  I jerk away. We are not having a repeat of what happened in the elevator.

  “I’m sorry.” Milan swallows. His hands look strangely empty. “I was just . . . It was just a joke. The way we used to joke. I didn’t think that you’d take it as a dig.”

  It’s been six years since we used to riff like that. We aren’t those people anymore. The idea of sharing anything with him, even humor, makes this wide-open space seem cramped as a shoebox. My stomach tosses the way it hasn’t since my first time on a ferry, and my fingers close around the hard edge of the counter. I exhale until the room stops rocking and my heart stops pounding in my ears.

  My fingers relax and fall away from the island. “It’s fine,” I hear myself say, even though it’s decidedly not. I want to work up a smile, albeit a forced one, but I can’t seem to look at him.

  “I’m sorry, Rita. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to make you laugh.” His voice comes out small, which surprises me enough to look at him, because never in my life have I heard Milan speak in a library voice before, not even in an actual library.

  “Do you think I can finish my presentation without having to talk about us? Because, frankly, I’m not here to pick at old sca
bs.”

  Milan’s mouth twists to one side. “Right. That’s the last thing we want to do.”

  I dart a quick look at him. There’s nothing about what he said that indicates he’s offended, but now it’s his turn to avoid me. He busies himself with the forgotten sketches, keeping his head low. He’s fixed on the feature walls separating the living spaces. “I like this wallpaper,” he says finally. “What is it, a map of vintage London?”

  “Yeah.” My voice comes out a little croaky. I clear my throat, finding my voice. “So a roll of this actually runs pretty expensive, but if we just do the narrow wall with it, the warren of streets won’t look so busy, and we can prop a bike against it. It’s such a young, progressive neighborhood and so close to schools and colleges that I think buyers would appreciate the nod to sustainability. Living green, you know?”

  At his nod, I keep going, “And do you see how I picked out the gray and green and navy from the wallpaper to echo throughout the rest of the house? This bottle-green paint color would make a great feature wall for the living room and here’s a stone gray that would be perfect for the kitchen and dining area.

  “I want the living room to look really cozy and inviting, so the other main living spaces on this floor are a little pared back, color-wise. I’ve sourced these amazing, funky dinner plates to put up in the dining room to add a pop of color back in, though.

  “And, oh! See how the plates carry the story through the house?” I point to the living room sketch. “This cluster of round rattan wall mirrors on the opposite side of the house to the plates add the symmetry that über-modern houses usually lack.”

  Milan is staring at me.

  I smooth my hair, self-conscious with the way his eyes are moving between my sketches, the house, and me, because he hasn’t signed off on anything I said.

  He hasn’t said a word.

  In fact, all he’s done is stare at me like I grew a third head somewhere between my panic attack and my word vomit about paint chips. Oh my god, I butchered my whole presentation, didn’t I? I rushed through it because I was nervous and trying to get it over with, and he couldn’t keep up with anything I was saying, let alone get in a word edgewise.

  “What’s this?” He plucks a sheet sticking out from the Lisa Frank folder. I immediately recognize it as my mood board, but he doesn’t look at it right away. He flips my folder open instead.

  He didn’t need to open it if he’s already got what he needs to make a decision. I make a small squeak that I quickly mask with an indifferent expression when he shoots me a look.

  Because I’ve just remembered the pink gel pen heart with our initials I’d drawn on the inside flap when I was fifteen and heartsick with wanting to be boyfriend-girlfriend.

  Who knows what he’ll think if he sees it now? That I can’t splurge for a new folder in more than a decade or that I deliberately chose this one to use today?

  Oh god, there’s no upside to either scenario.

  I stiffen, trying to keep from anxiously rocking back and forth on my heels.

  Please please please don’t let him have seen it.

  He closes the folder with an expression that gives nothing away.

  “Well?” I burst out.

  His eyes widen. “I haven’t even looked at it yet! Give me a chance.”

  He turns his attention back to my mood board. It’s not one of those nice cardboard ones, either. It’s four sheets of computer paper laid lengthwise and taped at the back to make one giant rectangle. The front has glossy magazine cutouts, paint chips, fabric samples, inspirational words, and “notes to self” scrawled in my small, bubbly handwriting, a blend of cursive and print.

  Milan looks at it for so long that I can’t take it anymore.

  If he’s going to tell me none of this is workable, I hope he rips it off Band-Aid quick. Lingering disappointment is worse than a swift dropkick.

  He meets my eyes. “I love it.”

  “You do?”

  He shoots me a small smile. “Don’t sound so skeptical, Rita.”

  The way he says my name makes me think of his fingers smoothly slotting between my knuckles. The pad of his thumb moving in slow, languorous circles on my hand.

  I swallow. “Great. I’m glad you li—love it.”

  He flips through my sketches as if it’s just a matter of course, nods to himself, and tucks it all back into my folder. “Your mom was right to make me hire you.”

  My smile falters. Make him. His choice of words dims his earlier praise.

  Somehow he manages to hurt me without even trying.

  “Mmm,” I say in agreement, the only sound I can muster that he won’t read into.

  He looks at me sharply.

  “Um, so everything on the mood board that I haven’t already sourced has a dollar amount next to it,” I say. “And on the back is my total expected invoice for everything, including my time and labor. If you need me to keep costs down, there are some things I can get rid of, like—”

  “I’m happy with how it is.”

  “—the leather barstools, the jute area rugs, the wood entryway console table—”

  “Rita!”

  I break off midsentence.

  “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s great. Don’t get rid of a thing.”

  I slow blink. Granted, it’s my first time interior designing for anyone other than myself, but I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be some pushback on how necessary some of my choices are. I didn’t go for the most expensive items, mindful of the budget Milan had emailed me, but I didn’t scrimp, either. I didn’t actually expect him to sign off on everything.

  “Even the banana plant in the corner of the living room?” I ask suspiciously. Large houseplants can run expensive even when you’re friends with the local nursery owners like I am.

  “Everything,” Milan says, enunciating every syllable.

  Confused and a little annoyed with his obstinacy, I point out, “You didn’t even flip it over to see all the prices. Or the total.”

  “I don’t need to.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “I love what you’ve come up with. You came highly recommended, remember?” Then softly, “I trust you, Rita. I want you.”

  All the air is sucked out of the room.

  “I want you to do this for me,” he says, words stumbling out in a rush. “I mean, for High Castle. Do the job. Exactly like this.” He lays his hand across the mood board, fingers splayed wide.

  My eyes follow the movement. I crack a smile, daring to look at him again. For once, it’s nice to see him a little off balance.

  “My dream house isn’t this contemporary,” he says, “but if it was, I would want you to design it just like this.”

  “So in this dream reality, your dream house would still be designed by your ex?”

  His mouth drops the slightest bit. Then he offers me a smile that isn’t as open as the ones before. “When can you start?”

  “Now is good.” I came prepared to work in overall shorts and a tank top. I don’t want him to think I dressed to impress him. “All the furniture I got on consignment is in the back of my pickup already. Could I borrow you to help me move those things inside?”

  “I’m all yours,” he says without hesitation.

  God, is he saying this stuff on purpose?

  Ignoring those three little words, I go through my mental checklist. “I can pick up the paint from the hardware store and do two-day rush shipping on anything I need to order online, but as far as possible I’m sourcing look-alikes from local thrift stores and flea markets.”

  He didn’t ask me for a rundown, but I figure it’s important to assure him that I’ve got a handle on everything. I pause, letting the silence ring with So if that’s everything . . .

  “Wait.”

  Milan flips open my folder again to run a long finger down t
he sketch of the wallpaper in the master bedroom. My body imperceptibly shivers. The wall is a cream mural of a tree-lined vista, feathery, cloud-shaped trees in neutral shades of brown.

  When I’m done with it, that Ikea-white room is going to be chic and simple, with a calming nature vibe that brings the outside, inside. The kind of room that should not inspire the feelings rising in my belly and slinking over me, mirroring Milan’s traveling finger.

  The backs of my knees tickle. The way he’s trailing his finger over the gently winding trunks and branches reminds me of the way he learned the curves and dips of my body.

  I exhale to get his attention. It’s meant to be a huff, but it comes out as a pant.

  He draws his head up as though startled to see me. But what’s more surprising than that is the transparent look of yearning and regret in his eyes. It’s the last thing I expect to see there, and it swarms to fill the entire room until there’s no getting away from it.

  Even when I blink, I see that look imprinted on the back of my lids.

  “Do you . . . Do you want to do a walk-through of the rest of the house?” he asks.

  He’s stalling, I realize.

  He wants to linger here, in this safe space that has nothing to do with our past, nothing to do with each other. All those things we’ve never said, the closure we’ve never had . . . We can fill this space with everything left unspoken. Unload everything in my truck and make this concrete block of a house into a home.

  Like the one we should have had.

  “If you want,” I say, offhand, when what I mean is I do want, I reallyreallyreally do want.

  But I will deny it if anyone ever calls me on it.

  Chapter 11

  As promised, everything I ordered arrives on time. After that first day we met at the house, Milan stays out of my way. No surprise drop-ins, no follow-ups second-guessing my plan.

  Even though he gives me my own key, I spend all of Tuesday and most of Wednesday wondering when he’s going to drop in—but he doesn’t.

  He trusts me. Not regular trust, but blank-check trust.