by Lillie Vale
His lips quirk. “Okay, I won’t.”
Despite myself, I smile. “I wondered if we’d pass it on the way to the ferry parking lot. I hadn’t even thought about it consciously until we passed the WELCOME TO NEW BERN sign. Then I remembered the house Mom and Dad bought to flip. They used to watch all those DIY shows on television. That’s how Dad got into woodworking.”
Milan’s smile feels like a call for more information, so I find myself saying, “I used to beg them to let me paint, but they wouldn’t budge because Mom thought eight was too young to do it right. I would read Mom’s House Beautiful magazines in the car every time we went there, until I’d get carsick and she’d take it away.”
Little did she know that Dad had tossed me a wink and a package of grid paper in the back seat so I could play architect and interior designer, long before my days playing The Sims.
“How long has it been since they sold it?” asks Milan.
Sixteen years.
They bought it when I was eight, sold it a little after my tenth birthday.
I’d thought the second house was supposed to be a family project, but it just seemed to drive Mom and Dad apart. Most of my childhood, I’d wanted to see them laugh and giggle and kiss when I wasn’t looking, and sometimes even if I was. To hold hands when they watched romantic movies. To swat each other’s bums when they cooked in the kitchen the way I’d seen my friends’ parents do.
To say “I love you” to each other and not just to me.
I didn’t understand why my parents didn’t act in love. Why fixing the New Bern house made them fight and shout at me to leave the room, when my gentle father never raised his voice, not even in the heat of a football game.
It was only sometime in middle school when I started to join Mom and Aji in watching Bollywood movies that I understood what an arranged marriage was.
“What kind of marriage did you have?” I remember asking, pressing the mute button on the remote during a song-and-dance number. “What happened if you fell in love with someone you wanted to marry?”
Mom reached for another kachori from the coffee table and popped it in her mouth whole. She wouldn’t talk with her mouth full, so I stared imploringly at Aji.
“My parents told me no love match,” my grandmother said, wagging her finger. “Not in my day. They wanted a same-caste marriage with in-laws that they knew and trusted would treat me well. Shared values are important.”
I’d frowned, not liking the lecturing tone this conversation had taken.
Aji paused, looking at Mom, who wasn’t looking at her. “But even with an arranged marriage, love can follow. From both sides.”
That seemed encouraging. Had love followed my parents?
I waited for Mom’s reassurance, but she quietly sipped her tea.
“Rita, rewind. I want to listen to the song,” said Aji, voice a little cranky, except for the fact she took my hand in hers. She hadn’t done that for years, not since I was young enough to sit on her lap. “Eat a kachori,” she urged. “Enough questions.”
By this time, Aji was already living half the year with us. We never talked about it—and I wasn’t supposed to know, or remember—but there was one month Mom moved out and lived in New Bern, in the house she and Dad had given up on.
We’ve never talked about her leaving. Or about why she came back.
The house was just sold one day and that was that.
“Rita?” Milan’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
“What? Oh, sorry.” I shake the cobwebs out of my mind. “It’s been sixteen years. I think they bought the house because they were trying to repair their marriage.” My voice drops. “It took them a while to realize that broken things always leave a crack.”
We fall silent. Not an awkward silence, but the companionable kind where you don’t have to say anything and that’s just fine. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’ve already said too much that I can’t take back. The seconds pass with only the calls of the birds overhead and the gentle ebbs of the sea below.
“Hey, Rita.” Milan points left of us, grinning. “This is the exact spot we stood in when you said you saw a wild Banker horse.”
I follow his finger. “I really did think I saw one! It was dark!”
He presses his lips together, but his mouth gives a telltale wobble.
“You’re laughing at me,” I accuse, but I can’t stop smiling.
“Far from it,” he says, still unable to keep a straight face.
I roll my eyes. “You’re incorrigible. Come on, let’s make a list of everything that needs to be done to get this place ready to sell.”
Chapter 16
It’s unbelievable that, despite coordinating our answers almost three weeks ago, I still haven’t matched with Neil. Rubbing salt in the wound, MyShaadi keeps sending me daily notifications about Milan’s one-hundred-percent compatibility.
Unlike me, Neil’s ma leaves nothing up to chance. Armed with her son’s log-in information, she goes full-steam ahead in arranging his dating schedule and, after the requisite vetoes she deigned to allow him, she books his weekends with prospective future Mrs. Dewans. With the single-minded determination of an Asian kid trying to get an A, she gets to work screening them with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for political candidates.
As long as Neil’s weekends are double-booked, there’s no reason I can’t stay on Rosalie Island for a few weeks with Harrie and Freddie. If I drag out some of the salvageable furniture that came with Bluebill Cottage, now residing in the dusty shed out back, I can live on-site for a while. It’ll be easier to attract buyers while we’re still in the high season. Even with Milan’s head start, there’s still so much to do, and not a whole lot of time to do it.
“You’re not seriously going to live with another dude in that wreck, are you?” Neil had asked with a pretty significant amount of alarm when the shock had worn off. “It’s not like we won’t see each other. I can get awa—I mean, come over more during the week.”
“One, it’s not a wreck. It just needs some love. And two, Milan has a job and won’t be there for much except overseeing my progress. My contribution to this partnership is the elbow grease and know-how. Trust me, I’m barely going to see him.”
Neil had snorted, but he’d let it rest. I knew he would. He’d put up with anything so as not to blow his cover with his ma.
The last I’d seen Milan was approximately—I ticked off on my fingers—six paint cans and two weeks ago. After our first visit, we’d ferried everything over from the mainland. When we loaded up the rental van, we’d been mistaken for a newlywed couple and got an earful about how great it was that Bluebill Cottage was finally going to be filled with love again. Both of us had gone red and stiff, not correcting the gossipy older woman who’d spent forever inputting Milan’s ID into the computer and filling out the paperwork.
So we’d spent a very awkward fifteen minutes driving in silence until I couldn’t take it anymore and started saying, “Oh, look, a mom-and-pop clam shack! A real malt shop, did you even think they had those anymore? Holy shit, a seagull.”
That last one was pathetic, even for me. But he’d smiled, hummed in agreement, made little shocked noises (“Oh my god, really? Where?”), and peered out the window obligingly.
For a seagull. As if we’d never seen one before in both our lives combined.
Since helping me settle in, Milan has made himself scarce. Which is fine. This isn’t his full-time job. That’s what I’m there for. Well, me and my dogs. Even though we’ve missed two of their weekly Saturday playdates at the dog park with my friend Luke and his own fur babies, they’ve adored being on the island.
I knew Harrie wouldn’t be a problem, not with his nose for adventure and chasing birds who don’t want to be chased. Even Freddie is enjoying it; I caught him tentatively dipping a paw into the sea before yanking it back and looking
around surreptitiously to make sure no living soul saw him.
Harrie barks, his small feet making pitter-pats across the floorboards as he scampers to the front door. He stands, front paws pushing against the screen.
“Not again,” I say under my breath. He just went out ten minutes ago when I took my paint fumes break. A plaintive bark answers me. Yes, again, more outside time, please!
I rise from my crouch, my spine actually creaking as I straighten. If Milan had gotten this done at the same time as the painting, I wouldn’t be in agony now. I flex my fingers experimentally, wincing at the fresh ache of having to sand down the several years’ and layers’ worth of paint from the baseboards. While my electric sander can handle the bigger jobs, for more finicky work, fine-grit sandpaper smoothed by hand is the way to go.
“You poop more than anyone I know!” I shout, stomping from the living room to the front door. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”
Cough.
A very human cough.
I come to a screeching, anime-comical stop in the foyer.
“I can’t refute that I’m cute, but I’m not sure about the first part.” Milan smiles sheepishly from the other side of the screen. He looks casual in khaki shorts and a white linen button-down.
“I . . . ah . . .” I wave the sandpaper.
He nods as if it’s in any way an explanation, then scoots inside, nudging Harrie aside so he can’t run out to the beach. “Sorry to swing by unannounced. But I brought lunch?” He holds up a large brown paper bag like a truce.
Right on cue, my stomach audibly grumbles.
Even Harrie stops pawing at the door long enough to stare at me.
It’s ridiculous this should embarrass me when Milan’s heard me make far more embarrassing noises.
Stop thinking about that time you banshee shrieked in pleasure in his ear when he bit your neck at the same time you came.
God, why does that have to be the first thing that comes to mind.
“You feeling okay? You’re looking a little . . .” Milan takes a step closer, forehead ridged with worry lines. “Why isn’t the AC on? You’re looking hot.”
“What?” I give myself a mental shake. “No, I’m not hot, you’re hot.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Good job, Rita, that sure convinced him. If he hadn’t already replaced the floorboards, I would have welcomed them swallowing me whole.
“Who’s a cutie patootie?” Milan opens his arms toward me.
I stare in horror at his outstretched hands as he takes a step closer. Instinctively, I shuffle back just as Milan drops to his knees to scratch behind the terrier’s ears.
Of course Milan wasn’t calling me a cutie. Ridiculous that for a second, no, half a second, I thought he was. I snatch the bag and escape to the kitchen before he notices my face has turned tomato.
He follows me, sidestepping the dogs that circle his legs. “I got us each a spinach-beet salad and a crab cake with a basket of waffle fries to split,” he says. “And a couple cans of Arizona green tea. You still like that kind, don’t you?”
I must be imagining that nervousness in his voice. “Yeah, I’ll drink any kind of iced tea.”
His shoulders relax. “Cool. I would have just gotten a bunch of things to share, but I didn’t know if you . . .” He trails off, running his thumb up and down the side of the can, wiping at the condensation.
We used to split all our plates so we could have a little bit of everything. It’s strange to be reminded of how much time has passed.
I pop the tab on the can to take a long draw. My mouth is worryingly dry. I must be more dehydrated than I thought.
The spinach-beet salad is delicious, topped with chunks of tart and juicy blood oranges and thin cucumber slivers. The garnish of chewy dried cranberries and salty roasted pepitas is my favorite. It’s the exact kind of brown-bag salad I used to bring to high school, despite Aji’s deep suspicion of eating raw vegetables that weren’t camouflaged in bhajis.
My stomach backflips with the wonder that he remembered.
I fluff the salad to spread the balsamic vinaigrette, content not to talk, but Milan has other ideas. Over our working lunch, I go over everything I’ve crossed off the to-do list, ignore Harrie’s wide, pleading eyes when I break into the jumbo lump crab cake, and carefully dissect everything Milan says for the slightest indication he’s noticed that we’ve matched on MyShaadi.
Again.
But he doesn’t give anything away. It’s almost as if it never happened.
I tamp down my disappointment. I should be glad that he’s so oblivious.
Milan finishes eating first. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing creamy, tan forearms and a few scattered freckles. “Can I take your plate?”
I’d just shoveled in the last mouthful. My tongue pushes everything to my cheek, trying not get flustered. “Oh, I can—”
“Nonsense. You’ve been working hard all day. Doing the dishes won’t kill me.”
Before I can argue, he whisks everything away. In record speed, he does the washing up and even has time to get on the floor for Harrie’s belly scratches while I sit there and try to remember how to swallow.
I down the last sip of green tea, tipping my head all the way back to get the last drop. When I set the can down on the table, Milan’s looking at me. I bring my hand to my throat as a reflex. He darts his eyes away, ears turning red. Harrie whines, rolling around on his back to bring attention back to himself.
“Lunch was delicious,” I say, chucking my can into the recycling under the sink. “I was getting a little sick of the meal prep I brought over, so I was planning a trip into town later to get groceries. I would never have ordered that jumbo crab cake on my own, so thank you. I really enjoyed everything.”
Everything on an island is expensive compared to the mainland. The two morning walks into the town center I’d taken with the pups had taken me down labyrinthine, Europeanesque cobbled streets filled with fruit and vegetable sellers who left everything outside in baskets, old-fashioned general stores that sold nostalgia candy in vintage glass jars, and bakeries that smelled like the center of a cinnamon roll, but the prices made me reel.
Milan gets up. “No worries. You’ve been out here two weeks doing everything. This was the least I could do. And I, uh, know you love crab cakes.” A beat passes. “Actually, I don’t need to head back to the office, so why don’t I stick around to help? Give me a hammer and tell me where to point it.”
I try not to think about those taut forearms wielding a hammer. His lean fingers clenched around a smooth, thick wooden handle. I try not to think about any of Milan’s body parts in general.
“No banging required,” I say. “But I wouldn’t mind getting you on your knees.”
* * *
—
“That was a dirty trick, Rita!” I catch in a far-off, fuzzy way as my cordless electric sander powers down.
I glance up, squinting at the back door, where Milan is . . . shirtless. Bafflingly, wonderfully, dizzyingly shirtless. Even through the screen door, I can see that his once-lean abs have transformed into a defined four pack. His pink flamingo-print swim trunks hang low on his hips. Swim trunks that he just happened to have. Somewhere. Mary Poppins–carpetbag style.
Between tricking him into the backbreaking work of sanding the baseboards and now, we’d worked in silence. He’d done the hand sanding without complaint, deftly masking the baseboards off so he could prime them for tomorrow’s coat of fresh white paint. Almost like he’d done it before, though it’s a little tough to imagine Mr. Business Casual rolling up his sleeves.
Milan’s mopping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “Stay,” he tells Harrie, who’s bounding around his legs in anticipation of a walk. “I’m going to take a break!” he shouts to me, trying to keep Harrie from squeezing himself
out the door.
“Okay!” I’m set to turn the power back on the sander when I see Milan look down at Harrie, then back at me. They’re both wearing identical looks of longing.
It was always a sore point for him growing up that he couldn’t have a dog like the other boys. The arguments against ranged from “Your mother’s allergic and we just installed brand-new cream carpet” to “With all your activities and friends, you’re hardly at home, anyway, why can’t you play with your friends’ pets?”
It tugs at my heart before I can squash it. “You can take the boys with you if you want,” I call. “They’re fine off leash as long as someone’s with them.”
Milan’s answering grin lights up my neurons like a Christmas tree. Like he was just waiting for the offer, he disappears from view only to reappear a moment later with Freddie scooped up in his arms. With both dogs in tow, he jogs toward the water.
The tide is low, gently lapping at the sand, and Harrie splashes into it with the total lack of dignity I’ve come to expect from him. Freddie is rigidly unhappy in Milan’s arms.
He was never squirmy, not even as a puppy. It was cute the way he held himself aloof, with fixed ideas about how he liked to do things. I was charmed by his strange, sweet self-assurance. Harrie came along two years later, a rambunctious rescue puppy I’d fallen in love with even though I’d told myself I was just looking.
It would be so easy for Milan to favor Harrie with his emotive, vivacious personality.
But no. There he is, sitting on the sand, legs stretched in front of him with Freddie in between. With his back to me, I have no idea what he’s saying, but I imagine he’s trying to coax Freddie into getting his paws wet. Freddie just barely tolerates sand, and that took me days to accomplish. There’s no way Milan is going to be successful with Project Draw Freddie Out.
Even if my heart grows three times its size knowing that he wants to try.
The next hour passes in sanding back the ugly, uneven varnish on the bookcases I’m working on. Dad found them left out in front of a house in their neighborhood and made me crown molding for the top that I’ve already attached with wood glue, a nail gun, and some putty to fill in gaps in the seams.
