by Lillie Vale
He hisses when I adjust myself over him, pressing into his hardness. His fingers press against my hips, sliding under my black tee. “I’ve wanted to rip this off you the first time I saw you wearing it and every time since.”
And then he does.
Chapter 25
I wake up on the floor rug with Milan’s arm around me, tucked into the dip of my waist. My chin is warm from his chest as I wriggle off my stomach, yawning against him. The blanket slides down my back and I try not to yelp at the sudden cold. I have a vague memory of him pulling it off the settee in the night to cover us.
It’s still dark outside, but with a silvery strip gleaming on the horizon, it must be early morning. I gingerly root around for one of our phones to check the time.
“What is it?” he mumbles, voice groggy and sleep heavy.
“I was trying not to wake you,” I whisper back.
“Check between the cushions,” he says with a yawn, not opening his eyes.
It’s cute how sweetly boyish he looks, face slack and lips pouty. Hair tousled from my fingers. His chin is tucked into his chest and there are pillow marks on his cheek from the settee cushion he pulled off last night. I’m not ready to wake up, either, not if it means facing the day after what we did in the dark.
Everything could look different now.
But I don’t feel any differently, my brain argues. If I had a chance to redo last night, I’d do everything the same.
Milan’s arm tightens around me, nuzzling close. “I can hear you.”
“I didn’t say a word.” I cast my eye around for my clothes and find my bra slung on the armrest behind his head and my black tee puddled on the floor along with my oxblood shorts.
I feel him smile into my hairline. “You think loud,” he says.
I tilt my chin up, about to kiss him, when I remember the way Neil would freeze for a split second before returning it. “Sorry,” I say swiftly. “Morning breath.”
Milan’s eyebrow quirks upward in a Yeah, so? expression. His eyes wear an expectant gleam, a what-are-you-waiting-for urgency, and I want to go for it, but something holds me back.
And then it’s too late to recapture the moment.
“I need to pee. Have you”—I look around us—“seen my thong?” My nipples have pebbled hard enough to cut glass and shivery bumpies have prickled my breasts.
He shakes his head, lips downturned, so I pull my bra and shirt over my head and slip into my shorts.
I peck his cheek. “Back in a jiff.”
He shoots me a slow, drowsy smile that morphs into a huge tonsil yawn.
When I get to the bathroom, I do more than that, brushing my teeth vigorously to get rid of the sour aftertaste. I rub my thumb to clean the bristles and make up my mind to offer my toothbrush and what’s left of the squeezed-out toothpaste to Milan if he wants.
When I get back all the lights are on, flooding the downstairs with light.
“We got electricity back,” says Milan, wearing only his boxers. “I started breakfast.”
The cheap coffee machine is sputtering away on the counter next to the food we didn’t stick back in the fridge, the microwave’s clock has reset to zero, and my annoying seven a.m. alarm is going off with no sensitivity to the fact we only fell asleep a few hours ago.
“Ugh, would you turn that off?” I ask, massaging my temple.
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Oh, and you can use my toothbrush if you want to, uh—” I use a finger to mime the back and forth motion.
My finger so close to my mouth brings back memories of last night for both of us, if his heated stare is any indication. Looking at him in the bright light of day is weirdly uncomfortable considering where his face was last night, but I can’t look away. Heat suffuses my cheeks.
“It’s okay. I finger brushed over the sink,” he says, sounding hoarse.
While Milan starts cracking eggs, humming some catchy tune from the radio, I fold the sheet and start rearranging the settee cushions, mentally kicking myself for acting like an awkward first timer.
It’s not like there weren’t guys along the way, but my god, his moves last night were absolutely nothing like our first time. Where did he learn how to—
The memory of last night’s double orgasm threatens to rock me again.
I want to know about the other women, but I also don’t want to know.
The house is so goddamn cold. The fire went out sometime between sucking him off and his getting me off in several different ways, because with only one condom, we could just go the one round of missionary.
“See?” he had said, smug as a cat, head between my legs. “I can get creative.”
A+++ for tremendous pluck and outside-the-box thinking in the face of adversity.
I try not to giggle; his boss truly has no idea what kind of asset he has in Milan Rao.
His shorts are still damp and his shirt is hopelessly wrinkled, and he’s making scrambled eggs in the kitchen shirtless, with the same hands he did things with last night, and it’s all so surreal that for a moment I can’t breathe.
We said so much last night that I think we both feel inexplicably shy this morning. Milan plates up leftover cold salami and hot-from-the-pan scrambled eggs in silence, turning red when I mumble my thanks. His eggs are surprisingly soft and fluffy, unlike mine which end up either too wet or too dry.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence as I spear some eggs on my fork.
He glances up.
I don’t know where I’m going with this, so I let it stand at So.
He returns to eating, sneaking shy little peeks at me when he thinks I’m not looking. I guess I’m not the only one feeling a little out of sorts.
But then I catch him making a face at the coffee like it’s rancid before swallowing.
“Did the creamer go bad?” I ask.
He struggles to clear his expression. “No, it’s just . . . you bought the regular unflavored creamer.”
“It’s hazelnut.” I take a tentative sip. “Milan, it’s fine. You had me thinking it’d spoiled.”
“You’re still such a coffee purist,” he says with a crooked smile. “Café Bustelo, cane sugar, and ‘a creamer that won’t compete with the flavor of the coffee.’ ”
That does sound like something I’d say.
He pushes the rest of the mug toward me. “I gotta admit, though, it’s a relief that you’re still exactly the same. Popsicle toes and too-strong coffee.”
Something about the way he says “still exactly the same” gives me pause. Sure, there are parts of me that are still fifteen and sixteen and all the years leading up until now, but we have to be different, don’t we, if we’re going to make it work this time?
He thinks it’s a good thing, a comforting thing that there are parts of each other that we still recognize. But we have to learn each other again. Map out more than just our bodies, but our hearts and minds, too.
I’m not sure he gets that.
I roll my eyes. “You can’t even call it coffee with how much creamer you use. Do you have a new novelty flavor favorite?”
“Toasted marshmallow. No, wait. Cinnabon. Nah, it’s gotta be peppermint.”
I groan. “Milan.”
We finish breakfast, half-heartedly arguing about the top ten list of flavors Milan has put entirely too much time into narrowing down. And since he cooked, I wash up.
My phone chimes while the water’s still running. Figuring it’s Raj updating me on last night, or this morning, depending on whether Luke’s still there or not, I let it go.
“The sky’s clear,” says Milan, pushing aside the white linen living room curtains to peer outside. He had gotten dressed while I was at the sink. “I wish I had some fresh clothes.”
I come up behind him to wrap my arms around his middle. “You
know, you could just leave a spare outfit here.”
He twists to look at me. “We’re not going to be here much longer, Rita.”
“No, there’s still—” I falter, unable to think of more than a few things we have left to do.
He’s right. Another few days and the house will be ready to list.
“Hey.” He cups my face, his thumb tipping my chin up. “Don’t be sad,” he says softly.
I hug him to me a little tighter. “It’s bittersweet, is all.”
He inclines his head, agreeing. “Sure, but it doesn’t mean the end of you and me. We made this house strong, set it up to last. Just like us.”
How is he so confident? We weren’t strong six years ago, the first time we were tested. Is it just faith that we’ll make it another six years?
At least.
“Hey, got something kinda cool to show you.” Milan pulls his phone from his back pocket. “I logged in to MyShaadi last night.”
“Oh?” I already suspect what he’s going to show me.
The screen faces me. I’m his newest match, my name and photo at the very top.
I’m in a knee-length pink chiffon dress with a nipped waist, caught in motion looking over my shoulder, hair styled piece-y and askew, blurred rows of vineyards behind me.
It’s an old photo, but a favorite, and one of the few where I’m wearing a dress, looking like an Anthropologie girl.
“Is this from the trip to your roommate’s family’s vineyard in the Bay Area you took sophomore year?” he asks softly.
I nod against his back before remembering he can’t see me. “Yeah. It was a good trip.”
“We’ll have to plan something of our own pretty soon,” he says, giving me a quick glance to gauge my reaction.
“Yeah. I’d love that.”
The smile splits across his face. “Great.” His thumb hovers over the accept button. “Wanna make it official?”
Without waiting for an answer, he pushes the button. Fireworks explode around my picture, something I’ve never seen before, and linger around the frame.
I blink. “Is that what happens when you accept somebody? It’s so . . . cheesy.”
“I don’t know, it’s kind of sweet, isn’t it?” Milan shrugs. “Celebrating that you could have found the One.” He twists around to face me, arms enveloping me into his warmth. “You’ve always been that person for me, Rita. I didn’t need MyShaadi to tell me that.”
I feel like we’re on the precipice of something big, and rise on my tiptoes to brush my nose against his. “Good.”
I ghost my lips over his, a featherlight barely-there caress, but the moment shatters at a loud, familiar WhatsApp beep from one of our phones.
“It’s not me,” he whispers against my mouth.
“I should check who it is.”
He groans, tightening his arms around me. “No, don’t. I promise you it won’t be as important as this.”
I laugh at the abject disappointment on his face. “I’ll be right back.”
But when I open the app, all color drains from my face. I think I’m forming words, but what comes out is a series of unintelligible mouse squeaks.
Milan surges forward. “Rita? What is—”
I show him the message from my dad, too shaken to even make a smart-ass quip about how my dad signs all his messages -Dad as if he wasn’t a saved contact.
Hi, chinu-minu, Mom wanted it to be a surprise (shhhhh) but we just stepped off the ferry. Getting a taxi with the Raos to visit the house we keep hearing about. Hope the warning helps. -Dad
* * *
—
“Hurry up!” I hiss, sweeping the curtain aside. “The taxi’s here already.”
I tamp down the terror when not just Mom and Dad pile out, but a grumpy-faced Aji, too. Milan’s parents get out from the other side, and both men start to argue about who’s going to pay the driver. That’ll buy us a minute or two, at most, before they climb up to the house.
Milan’s thrown all the cushions off the couch. “Rita, I still haven’t found your underwear.”
My hair starts to sweat at the thought of one of our dads finding the wisp of red lace. Or worse . . . Aji. She’d probably pick it up and ask what it was.
Would anyone believe me if I said I’d been folding laundry and lost it? Somehow?
“Oh my god, this is how we die,” I moan.
Thanks to Dad’s message, we had some time to frantically clean up, but we’re cutting it close.
“Listen,” says Milan, “in no way am I saying one of our parents finding your panty is an ideal situation—”
“Ha! You think?” I scoff.
“But what’s the big deal if they know we’re back together?”
I let the curtain drop. We’ve been dancing around it, but it’s the first time it’s been crystallized.
Back together.
My brow furrows. Is that what we are?
“We already know our parents want it to happen,” he says, getting up. As he rearranges the cushion seats, he flashes me a grin and dangles the condom wrapper between two fingers. “Success!” he crows, carrying it to the trash. “Hey, maybe we could even fill out one of those MyShaadi testimonials, huh?”
It’s a joke—I think—but the warning bells go off, panic sprinting in my chest as Neil’s voice echoes It’s in the goddamn name. Just because Milan and I reconnected yesterday doesn’t mean we’re anywhere close to having a shaadi of our own. Why would he even go there?
I can’t not say something.
Slowly, I say, “Milan, those testimonials are for couples who have decided to get married. Shaadi success stories. Not dating stories.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, fluffing a throw pillow before setting it back on the couch at an angle. “But our parents stopping by the morning after we work everything out? That’s pretty coincidental.” His grin turns teasing. “One might even throw the word fate around.”
“Oh, might one?”
He hears the caustic bite to my words and peeps at me from under lowered eyelashes.
Tempering my voice, I say, “We talked, sure, but I wouldn’t say we worked absolutely everything out. ‘One’ might even say we didn’t work anything out.”
“But we slept together.”
“Milan.” I give him a look. “Sometimes sex can just be sex.”
“Not to me,” he says. “And you said you wanted more than just sex.” He goes still all of a sudden. “No, wait,” he says haltingly. “You made a joke. You didn’t actually say you wanted to get back together. You knew what I was asking, but you sidestepped it.”
“I wasn’t sidestepping anything,” I tell him. “Last night was step one. But you’re racing to step, oh, I don’t know, five?”
Confusion clouds his eyes. “I thought we were on the same page,” he says carefully, like the wrong words might spook me.
“I do want another chance with you, Milan,” I say. “But we need to talk about our past. I don’t want to pretend that the last six years apart didn’t happen.”
“Why not? I don’t want to waste another second. You’re the same girl I loved then and the same woman I love now. You’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with, Rita.”
I love him for his conviction. But Rita-from-then and Rita-right-now are two separate people, and he doesn’t see it that way. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it.
“I don’t want to jump into anything,” I say. “I want to keep this for ourselves right now. Can you imagine how insufferable our moms will be once they find out that they pulled this off?”
Tension snaps into his shoulders. His jaw takes on a mulish set. “So you can pull the Shaadi scam to trick your mom, but our moms joining forces to set us up, to get us in the same room again, that’s a step too far?”
&nbs
p; I didn’t tell him about Neil and MyShaadi so he could use it against me. I flatten my lips into a thin line. “That’s not even close to the same thing. What I did was a defense tactic. Our moms’ play was totally on the offensive.”
“But it worked out,” he argues.
“Worked out? We only talked, for real talked, yesterday. It hasn’t even been a full day yet. We haven’t even given this a chance to see where it goes.”
“ ‘Where it goes’?” he repeats.
He says that like it was already a foregone conclusion.
Didn’t he hear anything I told him about Neil? Didn’t he listen when I said I wasn’t looking to be rushed into marriage?
There’s a loud one-two, one-two thump at the front door.
We’re out of time.
“Just tell me this,” he says as I move to open the door. “Do you even love me?”
Another knock. Women’s voices blur together. I can hear my mom ask whether she should call me, make sure I’m even here. In a moment, my phone will ring.
Milan’s waiting for my answer.
“Yes,” I say. My heart plummets into my stomach.
Joy blooms over his face. He doesn’t see the but coming.
I wish I didn’t have to say it like this. I wish my next words won’t rob that walking-on-the-moon elation that crinkles his eyes, curls his lips.
“But it’s like my furniture, Milan,” I say in a rush. “You can’t just take something broken and magically decide to fix it. You have to sit with it, figure out if it’s even doable. Some jobs need glue, some might need a stronger fix. Some things are too broken to be fixed at all, but you can—”
When my WhatsApp ringtone goes off, he cuts in. “Got it. We’re the broken furniture. You think at the slightest provocation, the slightest weight, we’re going to collapse.” His mouth twists. “Like a badly assembled flat-pack dining table.”
My heart crumples like an unwanted love letter. “No, that’s not what I was saying at all.”
Just as I’m about to explain where I was going, what he didn’t let me finish, he beelines to join me at the front door with an arm outstretched, about to let our families in. His hand glances mine, a surreal echo of meeting at High Castle when he tried to open the door I was perfectly capable of getting for myself. This time, though, he doesn’t prolong the moment, the shared limbo of not breathing for a second because we’re standing so close.
