The Shaadi Set-Up

by Lillie Vale

  “Hey, I gave you fair warning I was gonna be chicken if I saw him.”

  “This is an ideal time to make another rooster joke, but I’ll refrain. Please clap.”

  Raj lightly thumps the dash. “There you go. So, do you know what you’re going to say to Neil yet?”

  I squirm in the front passenger seat, throwing up a prayer. “I wish I did. Then at least I could rehearse it. You know I’ve never had to do this before. Most of my relationships just kind of fizzled out before the three-month mark. It was never a big deal since neither of us thought it was serious. Like serious serious.”

  “But Neil’s out here wanting to introduce you to his ma almost from the start.” Raj clucks her tongue. “Jesus, Rita. How did you miss the warning signs that he was ready to settle down?”

  We’re slowing down. I can see my house up ahead, small and rented, but mine.

  “I like him, Raj,” I confess, “but when we met on Tinder, I wasn’t expecting forever. I liked the right now. I didn’t see—didn’t want to see—that he was already looking to the future.”

  “I wish I had some advice,” she says. “But between you and me, I would never have bet on the Shaadi scam when there’s a Desi mom in the ring. What can go wrong, will go wrong.”

  Speaking of, Neil’s car is in my driveway. Right on cue, he gets out of the car, hand up.

  “Someone’s early,” she comments, gliding to a stop. “It’s too late to keep going like we didn’t see him, right?” She reluctantly waves at him without letting go of the steering wheel.

  I step out to gather my stuff from the back seat, sliding my bag of thrifted treasure from Lucky Dog Luke’s up my arm so I can grip my takeout box of falafel pita leftovers in one hand and my keys in the other.

  “Tell me how it goes,” Raj says from the corner of her mouth.

  “You don’t have to talk like that. He can’t hear you.”

  “He’s looking right at me,” she says anyway, barely moving her lips.

  “Good job not looking suspicious,” I say, shutting the back door. “Thanks for the ride.”

  When Raj leaves, there’s nothing left to do but face Neil. He’s hovering by his car like he wanted to come over and say hi, but talked himself out of it.

  “Hi,” I say, not sure how to greet him, so I lean in for a kiss on the cheek. Somehow the wires get crossed and his lips smoosh against mine for a millisecond before he pulls back.

  “Oh, wow,” he says.

  He’s not talking about the unintended kiss.

  “Sorry. I, um, had a lot of pickled onions on my falafel.” (And garlicky zhoug, a spicy green-chili-and-cilantro herb sauce. And harissa. And tangy mint yogurt.)

  I unlock the door for us. Before, Neil would have gone in and held the door open for me, but now he waits for me to go in first. Waiting to be allowed in, as if he’s a guest and not someone with a key who’s slept over here at least twice a week for months.

  Harrie’s underfoot, barking at Neil with a vigor he’s lately reserved for Mrs. Jarvis’s fence-scaling cat and door-to-door salesmen. Another reminder of the Before that seems so foreign and far away.

  “Harrie, no,” I say firmly. “No.” When Harrie downgrades to suspicious looks and mild yips, I say to Neil, “Sorry, he never did this to—”

  He never did this to Milan.

  “To?” Neil closes the door and waits by the couch.

  I recover fast. “To . . . anyone on Rosalie Island.”

  “Oh. Did you have a lot of neighbors? The pictures you sent didn’t look like it.”

  I busy myself with putting the leftovers in the fridge. “Thanks for coming over. You didn’t have to leave work early, though.”

  “No, I didn’t. I . . . I took today off. There were things I needed to think about.”

  Things? Me and him things? “Oh,” I say, turning around. “Sit, please. You don’t have to be so formal.” It puts me on edge, the way he’s poised like he’s ready to drop onto the couch, but isn’t yet because he’s waiting for my invitation.

  He exhales, then sits, slow enough to give the impression he thinks there’s a minefield under the sofa cushion. My heart clenches to see him act like a stranger. Feel like a stranger.

  I fill two glasses with tap water and bring them over, sitting cross-legged on the other end of the sofa. He’s not quite looking at me, even though I’m facing him, so I talk to his profile instead. “I owe you an apology, Neil. I should have come home earlier to talk about this. You were right. I-I-I was using work as an excuse. I was hiding out on Rosalie because I didn’t know how to have this conversation with you. How to tell you . . . god, so many things?”

  I blow out a breath, bracing myself for the next sentence I have to say. “Part of me fell for you before we even met. I fell for the version of you I saw on a screen. Handsome, funny. You were the only Indian guy—guy in general—on Tinder who wasn’t a creep. Do you have any idea how many dudes saw ‘furniture restorer’ in my bio and messaged me with some ridiculously unoriginal jokes about wood?”

  I pull a face, thinking back to all the “Wanna get your hands on my grade-A wood, baby?” and “I bet I can get you hot and hammered” jokes.

  Neil gives me a sidelong glance before angling his body toward me, more open now. “And the bar was so low that I seemed like a good choice.”

  “No!” I shake my head, fingers squeezing around my glass. I take a hurried sip. “You are a good choice. You’re a great guy, Neil.”

  He leans in a little closer at the same time I hesitate. We both know the “but” is coming.

  “But you’re ready for marriage, or your mom’s ready, and I literally want to puke at the thought of telling my mom that I’m dating the son of her first love. I can’t break her heart, Neil. It would be different if . . .”

  If I was in love with you.

  I don’t say it. I hate that I even think it.

  “. . . If I was ready to take the next step, but I’m not. You’re my longest relationship in years. I told you that after my high school boyfriend, I never . . . I mean, they were nice guys and everything, but they weren’t my epic love.” What I mean is, they weren’t Milan.

  Neil brings his fist to his chin. “Then what was I?”

  “Fun,” I respond. “Sex-on-the-first-date fun. Keeping-it-a-secret fun. It was easy to be with you. It was dating without the incessant questions and badgering and everything that comes with dating in our culture.”

  I take a sip of water. “But your ma is the number one woman in your life. You can’t say no to her. You agreed to date other girls while you had a girlfriend, and you didn’t see a problem with it. You go along with everything she wants. After what happened with your dad and my mom, you know why that’s a problem for me.”

  I can see from his face that, just like the first time I told him, he still doesn’t quite get it.

  He can’t see it as a bad thing when his parents got their happy ending.

  “You had it right, Neil. MyShaadi. It’s in the name. I thought it was so clever, so foolproof. Stalling our parents from the marriage melodrama long enough to keep dating to see where things went, but . . . your ma really grabbed the bull by the horns.” I give him a wry smile. “I didn’t count on her being a wild card.”

  His forehead scrunches into a half dozen creases. “What if we dropped MyShaadi and kept seeing each other? I could tell Ma I’ll find someone without her help?”

  The trouble is that what he calls help, I see as intrusion. He’s telling me what he thinks I want to hear. He’s okay with his ma pushing him—us—toward the predetermined next stage in life.

  I’m not.

  Neil reads it on my face. His shoulders slump and his sigh fills the room.

  My nose itches and I rub it fiercely. “The girls you went out with,” I say, swallowing. “I should have been jealous. It
should have been driving me bananas that you were making jokes, rolling out all the charm to impress a cute girl. And it’s not that I don’t trust you, because I do. It’s that I should have wanted to be in their place . . . and the thing is? I was okay that I wasn’t.”

  His fingers flex around the glass and he leans forward to carefully set it on the wooden coffee table without using one of the crotcheted cat coasters. “You know, when you called me . . . I had the feeling you were going to break up with me. I couldn’t think straight at home, so I came here early. I thought, even if I was just in your driveway, I’d find the words, the magic words.”

  I open my mouth, about to tell him I’d searched for the right words, too, but there aren’t any. There’s only the truth. He holds up a hand, Let me finish, please.

  “The only thing on my mind was how to talk you out of it, but I didn’t know what to say until now.” He takes the half-drunk glass from me and sets it next to his. He clasps my hands in his and utters, in the gentlest, softest voice I’ve ever heard him use: “I understand.”

  I go absolutely still. “You understand?”

  He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah, I mean, weirdly, I think I do. I won’t lie, Rita, I’m not against marrying you. You know, growing up, it’s like Desis just have two options: have a love marriage with someone family approved that you probably met in college, or some kind of arranged marriage. Even if it’s not done via MyShaadi or the old-fashioned way with our parents arranging everything, it always involves somebody conspiring. It’s like this uncle has a niece who’s here on a work visa and hint-hint, nudge-nudge, or that auntie I randomly met in line at Patel Brothers used to live on the same street in Mumbai and”—his voice lifts dramatically—“guess what, she has five single daughters!”

  I try not to laugh. I get the feeling both of his examples are from lived experience.

  “When I met you,” he says, lower now, “on Tinder of all places, I thought I could still have a love marriage. Someone I met by chance who I could see a future with. It didn’t have to be one or the other. And for so long, I thought it did. The one girl I brought home for winter break sophomore year of college, it’s not like Ma ever came out and said it, but she wanted me to be with an Indian girl. I could tell from everyone’s frozen smiles when we walked through the door. She could tell, too; there’s a reason we didn’t make it to next Christmas.”

  “Neil,” I say, a little taken aback. He’s never revealed any of this to me before. “You’re twenty-seven. You can absolutely still meet somebody a thousand different ways. There are always hot girls at the gym, getting ice cream at the marina, getting groceries at the store.”

  “Who would dump me in ten seconds flat once they figure out I can never stick to a cardio routine, don’t own a yacht, and basically live off ready-made deli sandwiches, frozen pizza, and Cheerios because Ma cooks double and brings half over to my apartment.”

  “Okay, I did not know that,” I say. “Jesus, Neil, is that why you never help me cook?”

  He has the grace to look sheepish. “I never had to learn.”

  It makes sense now why our couple cooking always turned into me cooking.

  “Anyway,” he adds, “people only meet like that on TV. In real life everyone keeps to themselves and stares at their phone to avoid making eye contact.” He eyes me, weighing something. “To tell the truth, I thought you were my meet-cute.”

  I can give him this. “If it wasn’t for our parents, maybe you’d have been mine, too.”

  His smile is rueful. “Maybe. But maybe not. Either way, thanks for saying it.”

  “Some of those things you think people would break up with you for? You can change them. You can do your own grocery shopping, learn how to cook. I can help.”

  Even as I offer, I know he’s not going to take me up on it. He’d rather go from his mom to his wife, not lifting a finger. Not because he’s lazy or sexist, because he’s neither of those things. He’s just used to seeing himself as a little helpless when it comes to doing things for himself. When it comes to thinking for himself.

  And even if we continued dating, what if tomorrow his mother tells him I’m not the right girl for him? Will he listen? Will he fight for me? Or will he be his father’s son?

  Either way, I want more.

  “You’re sweet, Rita,” says Neil. He presses his lips together and tries to smile. “I wish I was as brave as you. But I like things simple and easy. If it’s not for you, I’m not looking to go up against Ma. She and Dad were arranged, and they made it. And they made it look really, really good. I don’t think I ever thought they weren’t in love with each other a silly amount.”

  He bites his lip. “Maybe MyShaadi had us pegged from the start.”

  There’s no use trying to talk him out of re-creating what his parents have. And who knows, maybe one of his MyShaadi dates might actually be the One. I hope so.

  Neil comes to the same realization as I do.

  He pulls his key from his pocket, rests it in his palm for a moment like it weighs the world, and then places it gently on the coffee table.

  I lean forward and graze his cheek with my lips. “I wish you all the best.”

  Chapter 18

  I take the first ferry out of New Bern in the morning, the thermos of coffee still hot after the hour-and-a-half trip to the port. This early, it’s barely half capacity and peaceful.

  I dump my duffel bag on the seat next to me, Eiffel Tower keychain dangling from a zipper next to the god Ganesh, remover of obstacles, a carved wooden figurine that Aji had bought from her temple shop in India to bring me good fortune.

  My aviators have been on since the second I stepped out of my car. As I walk past some familiar faces, I return their smiles, but push my sunglasses higher up my nose and take an empty bench farthest away.

  After Neil left, I spent the rest of the night curled up on the couch with Harrie and Freddie, shoveling in forgotten freezer-burned mango sorbet. It might not have been a heartbreak, but my heart still hurt. We watched one of the shows that had been on my Hulu list for months, and it was unmitigated trash, but I didn’t change it.

  While Harrie was glued to the TV, Freddie laid his head and front paws on my lap, eyes on me. His French bulldog face was gentle and concerned, as if he wanted to make sure his human was going to be okay. I pulled him onto my lap and didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

  The ride doesn’t make me seasick anymore, but I still don’t feel quite myself. Eyes puffy and longing for sleep, it doesn’t take much for me to succumb to the gentle rocking of the ferry. With my dogs leashed and dozing on the floor, I shut my heavy eyelids, hoping to sleep through the next forty minutes.

  Harrie’s tail brushes against my bare calves. It happens a second time, then a third.

  I ignore it, keeping my eyes closed, but then there’s a tug on the leash. So much for sleep.

  “Why is your timing always the worst?” I murmur, yawning without covering my mouth.

  “I wasn’t aware it was,” comes the amused response.

  Since Harrie obviously can’t speak English, I startle into consciousness. Through my tinted sunglasses I see Milan sitting next to me, with only the smallest of space between us. He’s bent forward to pet the dogs, looking altogether too awake and cheerful this early in the morning.

  “Hi?” I cast a glance around the ferry. There are plenty of empty seats.

  But the one he’s currently occupying is the one right next to mine.

  “Morning.” He grins and raises his transparent coffee cup to me. It’s more ice cube than anything else, a ring of whipped cream remnants clinging near the top.

  I straighten, self-consciously pushing my aviators higher up my nose. “You’re here on a Sunday? Don’t you have open houses?”

  It’s a reflexive question, but I immediately want to kick myself for starting a conversation wh
en all I want to do is keep to myself and not talk.

  He shakes his head. “We generally only host an open house when it’s an exclusive property, otherwise the cost of organizing can get pretty up there. No luxury listings today.”

  “Mmm.” I close my eyes and prepare to go back to sleep.

  Just when I think we’re about to settle into silence, Milan says, “Most people don’t know this, but open houses are more for the agent than the homeowner.”

  Making conversation is the last thing on my mind, especially about something as dry as realty. “Ah,” I say, hoping if I don’t show any interest, he’ll stop talking.

  He gives Freddie a final pet before leaning back in his seat. “For me, the biggest payoff is the free networking. Sure, some people who show up are just nosy and know they wouldn’t qualify for the bank loan, and I get the occasional neighbor poking their head in, but these meet and greets are prime time to prospect for more clients for my other properties. Serious home buyers usually already have an agent to arrange a private showing. Otherwise it doesn’t really move the needle.”

  “But what about the Soulless Wonder? It sold for big bucks. That wouldn’t have happened without—”

  “You,” he says, soft enough that it’s not an interruption, not really. “It would never have happened without you. I had that house on the market for almost a year, my longest listing ever, and it didn’t move until you came along.”

  “You mean when my mother conscripted me.”

  At my gripe, his smile reaches his eyes. “Regardless of how we were both recruited, you can’t deny we got a great result. One could even say we made quite the dream team.”

  “One could.” But one wouldn’t.

  “If one didn’t wake up on the grumpy side of the bed this morning, maybe one would,” he says lightly. “Late night?”

  I freeze. There’s no way he can tell how tired and red-rimmed my eyes are.

  “It’s just . . .” He taps where sunglasses would sit on his face if he were wearing any.