The Shaadi Set-Up

by Lillie Vale

  By the time I finish cleaning away the wood dust, Freddie is ankle deep in water while Milan floats on his back, Harrie doggy-paddling around him. I get the feeling he’s trying to show off. It’s a sweet, arresting sight. The way the setting sun makes Milan’s droplet-dappled body shimmer. Like a Twilight vampire, I think, and immediately want to tell him this. It would make him laugh to tease me about my old obsession, I know it would.

  Instead, I keep my head down and get back to work.

  I start to prime both bookcases so all the natural wood is covered. I’ll leave them to dry overnight before following up with a few coats of soft white semigloss paint tomorrow. They’ll slot perfectly on either side of the chimney breast, giving the effect of faux built-in shelving. It’s one of those luxurious extras that adds so much character to an old house, and something that can be updated on the cheap.

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me that it’s almost time to start prepping dinner. I can cook for two, if Milan’s planning to stay, but it occurs to me that I don’t know an awful lot about what he does when he’s not here or at work. Does he grab beer with the guys? Go out on dates? Do the Raos still have their weekly family dinner?

  Most Fridays mean date night at my place with Neil. But he’s spent the last three with other girls, and I’ve spent mine alone.

  You wanted it that way, says Devil’s Advocate Rita, who is nowhere as nice as literally any other version of Rita. You wanted extra time to match on MyShaadi. And then, in a sneering little voice, And how did that work out, Rita, hmm? Did your brilliant plan work out the way you thought it would? Has anything in your life happened the way you thought it would have?

  God, I want to vote this bitch off the island so fast.

  When my phone rings, I grab on to it like a lifeline. “Hello?”

  “Rita, hi.” Neil’s voice is relieved. “I’ve been calling you for the last ten minutes.”

  There’s no hint of suspicion or accusation. I can think of at least three exes who would have jumped down my throat about whether I’d been with Milan.

  “Yeah, sorry, reception out here is spotty,” I say. “Not the most reliable. So what’s up?”

  “Can’t a guy call his girlfriend because he misses her?” His voice lilts, teasing now.

  I smile. “Of course he can. How’s work and everything? Oh, and did you get a chance to look at the Before and After house pictures I sent you?”

  “Loved them,” he says, enunciating every syllable a ridiculous, silly amount. “So listen, about tonight . . .” My heart launches into my throat. He’s going to ask me if we’re on for date night. “I have a dinner lined up with this girl from MyShaadi, but do you want to do something after? I could come over to your place.”

  It’s a forty-minute ferry back to New Bern, plus more than an hour’s drive on US-70 to Goldsboro. I’m looking at two hours in travel, assuming I don’t get stuck in traffic.

  “I’m not going to be in the mood if you’ve just come from a date with another girl,” I say flatly. Without thinking about it, I dig the paintbrush into the details of the crown molding. “I’m in the middle of a project. I can’t just drop everything and rush home right now.”

  “No, of course, I didn’t mean I just wanted to fuck.” Neil exhales noisily. “I just thought it would be nice to see you, is all. You know, Rita Chitniss, my actual girlfriend? The girl I’m actually hoping to match with so I can tell Ma we can stop looking for a suitable girl? She’s going to love having another daughter-in-law.” He laughs, like he hears himself say it a beat too late.

  The bristles squash, splaying out every direction. Shit. At least the brush isn’t ruined.

  “Neil, you get that we’re not getting married for real, right?”

  The hesitation comes all the way down the line. “What do you mean?”

  I swallow. “We did this so we could date hassle free for a few more months. Buy ourselves some peace without your mom hounding you about settling down.”

  As though that’s the milestone for being a real-life grown-up.

  “Yeah,” says Neil, drawing the word out, “until I pop the question.”

  I stare out at the beach. At Milan laughing as Harrie vigorously shakes himself dry, spraying Freddie with water. He readjusts his trunks, slung low across his hips, before flopping on the sand with his hands tucked behind his neck.

  “Rita?” Neil’s voice parts my thoughts. “You do want to marry me, don’t you?”

  I’m remembering that time we went out to this seafood restaurant in our first month of dating and a woman sitting at the table next to us shrieked so loud that my bottom tooth cracked on a mussel shell. While I was cupping my jaw and trying not to cry, the woman triumphantly slid a goopy, chocolate-covered ring onto her ring finger and screamed “Yes, I’ll marry you!” to the man sitting opposite her. It was loud enough that even the chef poked his head out of the kitchen.

  All Neil had to say on the ride home, after I’d left a voicemail at my dentist’s for an emergency morning procedure, was, “That chocolate cake was kind of a cool way to propose, wasn’t it?”

  And then he’d looked at me with this secret smile, like that would be me someday.

  How many other times had he been looking at me with that wistful smile when I wasn’t looking? My blood shouldn’t be running cold at the thought of him proposing.

  “We haven’t even been dating for six months,” I say, hoping he’ll see reason.

  “So what? My parents hadn’t even been around each other for six minutes before they agreed to get married.”

  He makes it sound so reasonable, but I really don’t need another reminder of how easy Amar found it to break my mother’s heart.

  “And you don’t think that’s a problem?” I grind out.

  “I agree it’s a hassle to go through this whole song and dance, but I mean . . . our parents want what’s best for us. Sure, it’s a little antiquated, but what’s wrong in making our parents happy? We like each other. We get along. The sex is— I mean. You know.”

  How is he so okay with this? Getting married because it’ll make Ma happy? Marrying a girl based on a few months’ worth of good sex?

  “Neil, that’s not enough. I thought you understood this was just so we could date. I’m not ready to marry you—to marry anybody. In a vague future-y way, yeah, one day, but not with a ticking clock hanging over my head.”

  I don’t say it, but I hope he gets that the ticking clock is his ma.

  He’s silent for so long that I think our connection cut out, but then he sighs.

  “So what are we doing here?” His voice comes from far away. “Why are you with me? Why did we even join MyShaadi if it wasn’t— I mean, fuck, Rita, it’s in the goddamn name.”

  He’s right. Maybe MyShaadi had it right all along not to match us, despite our trickery.

  “Neil, can we talk when I’m home?”

  Delaying this conversation won’t change either of our minds, but at least we don’t have to do this now, when I’m feeling a little too peeled back, a little too brittle.

  “Fine,” he says, more sad than mad. “When will that be?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. There’s a lot left to do here.”

  He interrupts, voice edged with aggravation. “You’re not using working on the beach house as an excuse to hide out there, are you?”

  Raj’s voice hisses at me to go home tonight, to have this conversation out with him in person. To not hide here, out of reach of Neil and my family.

  Without my realizing it, my gaze lands on Milan. The sand sticking to his hair, Harrie nudging his ribs with his nose to get attention, the sun dappling man and dogs in a beatific glow.

  Is Neil right? Am I hiding?

  “Should I come over there?” he asks, hesitant. “We can grab dinner on the island. I— I think I can catch the next ferry. I�
�ll cancel the MyShaadi date. You and me could talk things out.”

  My skin itches. Is that what I want? Part of me thinks it would just be easier to call it quits, instead. What’s left to work out if he’s ready to get married but I’m not?

  We should call the whole thing off.

  Even I don’t know whether I mean us or the scam.

  Neither. Both.

  “No, I’ll let you know. It might be a few days,” I tell him. “We’ll talk then.”

  He makes a sound of agreement, or maybe it’s disbelief, but I can’t tell the difference anymore.

  When we say goodbye, I’m the first to hang up.

  Chapter 17

  Listen,” says Raj as we mill through Lucky Dog Luke’s flea market the next weekend. She stops in front of a painted dresser and vanity set. “This fight had to happen for you both to realize what you want. Out of your relationship, out of the scam.”

  I fidget with the vintage white-and-gold mirror tray I’m holding, hooking my thumbs into the tiny handles. “I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him. I feel so guilty. I’ve never broken anyone’s heart before.”

  “I’ve had plenty of practice.” Her dramatic purple metallic eyeliner catching on the dim fluorescent lighting, looking not just Extra, but extra sparkly. “And it’s never easy.” She stops me to tighten the bow scrunchie in my high ponytail. “Just be honest.”

  I groan and dive into one of the many little shops branching off the main walk. Booth #293 has stacks of lace and thick, folded quilts on rickety tables and tall bookshelves. The space is fragranced by cut glass bowls of potpourri and giant vanilla candles. QUILTS $20/EA reads an index card taped to the shelf below some homespun cross-stitched proverbs. While Raj frolics in the aisle or does whatever she does, I sift through the stacks.

  There’s a beautiful patchwork quilt with black, rust, and khaki stripes, something that would be far more at home in a rustic log cabin than in a beach house. But below it is a quilt in soft shades of blue, with solid cornflower squares and floral calico.

  It’s practically made for Bluebill Cottage.

  Raj pops her head in to finger an ugly moose cross-stitched on a pillow. “Classy.”

  I set my mirrored tray down on a doily-layered end table. “Hey, help me hold this one up, would you? I need to examine it for stains.”

  She releases a long-suffering sigh, but takes the quilt by the opposite corner, pinching it between two fingers. “It smells a little funky. Plus, it’s kinda . . .” She side-eyes me as she searches for a polite word. “Grungy. And I thought you said bedrooms look fresher in white.”

  “Sheets, definitely. But fold this up on the bottom third of the bed and it makes a room look super cozy, super fast,” I explain.

  “I regret letting you drag me out here to pick up stuff for a house you’re not even going to live in,” she grouses. “You used to be so sentimental about giving away your pieces to people like Paula because ‘I want them to go to a good home,’ ” she says with finger quotes and a falsetto voice that sounds nothing like me. “And now you’re all, like, ‘Let’s buy this sexy mirror box thing that can look up someone’s nose and these cottage-core not-your-grandma’s-quilts I love that people I don’t know are going to have lots of sex on!’ ”

  I cringe, but luckily we’re the only people nearby. “The point of the tray is not to look up anyone’s nose.”

  “Then why do you need a mirror on it?” She flashes me an I’ve-got-you-now grin.

  Fond exasperation and Raj go hand in hand. “It’s for the aesthetic,” I remind.

  “Oh, the aesthetic,” she says gravely.

  That does it. It takes every single muscle to keep the delicious smirk off my face as I widen my eyes and do an exaggerated peer around her shoulder, hugging the quilts against my chest. “Hi, Luke.”

  She pales. Wide-eyed, she slowly turns around.

  I hold my snicker at bay until she rounds on me.

  “I deserved that,” Raj admits, a rueful grin pulling at her mouth. “I can’t even be mad. Actually, wait, yes, I can. Because you totally bamboozled me into making a pre-lunch stop here when you know I only look deli-cute right now and not seeing-hot-guy-in-bad-lighting cute.”

  “There’s no such thing as deli-cute,” I inform her. “Also, you have a full face of makeup on so quit your mental gymnastics.”

  She hmphs. “Fine, but I’m telling you now, if I see him, I’m gonna duck and cover.”

  I bump my hip against hers. “When did I get braver than you?”

  After picking out a few more blue-toned quilts, we head to the front to pay. It’s a win that we get sidetracked only once when Raj stops to model in front of a wall of rusted license plates and stolen road signs, insisting that I get her “good angle” (which, let’s face it, is all of them).

  Luke’s working the counter wearing his “Ask me my name” name tag and a yellow Henley that brings out the color of his hair and the warmth of his summer tan. He’s wrapping a customer’s glass swan paperweight in brown paper when he catches sight of us.

  Raj stiffens and turns aside to another booth, like that’s where she was heading all along.

  “Rajvee!” I hiss.

  She all but presses her face to a glass showcase filled with costume jewelry and brooches. And one hideous life-size rooster with a chipped beak, glass eyes that follow you around the room, and a successful Mardi Gras’ worth of shiny beads looped around his neck.

  “I’m just looking,” she mumbles. “I’m an interested customer. I would love to grace my home with this”—visible twitch—“fetching fellow.”

  I give up, figuring she’s gotta be nervous if she’s lying about the most hideous creation known to man. I awkwardly return Luke’s grin as I wait in line, shifting the quilt-laden tray in my arms.

  After snapping pictures for Milan and getting two thumbs-up, I couldn’t resist the charm of these handmade quilts. They’re just coastal chic enough to be draped over a rocker in the master bedroom or thrown cozily on the armrest of the sofa. Soon, we’d be moving into the kind of weather that made people snuggle up with blankets, and these are so, so perfect.

  “Find everything okay?” Luke asks when it’s my turn to be served.

  I suspect he enjoys playing up the helpful employee bit when it’s me. It’s sort of become our inside joke after all these years.

  I give him a gratified thank-you-so-much-for-asking smile. “Oh, yes. No problems at all.”

  Except, of course, maybe for my little problem still feigning interest in the jewelry case to avoid coming face-to-face with Luke.

  He nods toward her. “Is this because we matched on Tinder?”

  I pull out my wallet. “Partly.”

  “ ‘Partly’?” With a bemused smile, he pulls my purchases across the counter to peer at the seller’s tiny white price tags.

  “She’s also a Sagittarius.”

  He laughs as he punches numbers into his printing calculator. “That explains everything.”

  I glance at Raj, who’s shuffling toward the door and freezes guiltily when I catch her. “Trust me, I know how weird it gets when you run into someone you know online.”

  He rings me up with a small, secret smile. “Hey, I don’t know about that. Could also look at it like the universe is giving you a little nudge in the right direction. And it’s eighty, even.”

  “You believe in signs?” I ask, surprised. I’d calculated the total already, and have my bills ready to hand over. I try not to dwell on the fact that unless I hit up an ATM soon, I’m down to a couple of ones and a ten.

  “I mean, I don’t read my horoscope every day or anything.” Luke shrugs and hands me my receipt. “But I don’t ignore the obvious, either.” He cushions the tray with a wad of brown wrapping paper and piles the quilts on top. “All this for that new place of yours?”


  My eyes fly to his. “I mean, it’s not mine. But the place I’m helping the owner flip, yes.”

  “That’s what I meant. Kinda surprised me, if I’m being honest. Never known you to take on such a big job like that. You’ve turned down so many others for— Was it artistic reasons?”

  I can sense the question inside the question. “Something like that,” I hedge. “You know how I feel about giving too much of myself to a place. It’s weird when everything I do is handmade, to leave so much of my work behind in someone else’s house.”

  “No, right, I get that. But how is this any different?” He runs his hand over the quilts before sliding them into an oversize plastic bag. Gently, he says, “I’ve been to your place before, Rita. I’ve seen all your thrift hauls on your Instagram Stories. This stuff is exactly the style you’d buy for yourself.”

  He’s reading too much into a few pieces of decor. So what if I’m revamping Bluebill as if I’m the one about to move in? It doesn’t mean anything other than the fact that I have really excellent taste, which any prospective buyer will love.

  I can let go of the house. I can. I will.

  “Thanks, Luke,” I say, snatching the bag from the counter. “I’ll tell Raj you said hi.”

  “By the way!” he calls after me. I turn. “The gang’s missed seeing you at the dog park on Saturday mornings. Alanna and George miss their buddies.”

  “Harrie sends kisses,” I say with a grin, slipping through the door Raj holds open for me.

  Luke clutches at his heart. “And Freddie doesn’t?”

  * * *

  —

  “Maybe I should get a dog,” muses Raj as she turns onto my street. “Then I’d have a reason to go to the dog park.”

  “Maybe you should get a rooster, instead, since you like them so much.” It’s hard to keep a straight face when she gives me a dagger-filled stare. “It was painful to watch, babe,” I say. “That thing was absolutely cursed and you eye-sexed it for five minutes.”