The Shaadi Set-Up by Lillie Vale

Chapter 14

I don’t call Mom right away, just WhatsApp her that we’ll talk tomorrow.

She sends me back the middle-finger emoji.

Since I’m cajoling Freddie to pick up the pace, I don’t see it until after her follow-up message, the see-no-evil monkey emoji and an Oops, didn’t have my glasses on. Clicked the wrong one. Meant to do a thumbs-up. And then, to prove her innocence, three halo emojis.

Wrong one, my ass. My right eyelid twitches.

When did my mother learn to troll me?

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her, but since she invited Milan over two weeks ago, it’s literally all we’ve talked about. She sees us as her chance to right the wrong that happened to her, to give me a happy ending—and I love her for it, but I’m also exhausted.

Harrie’s pulling ahead, straining against the leash. He turns around every few minutes to make sure we’re still there and yips to make us walk faster.

Freddie tips his head back to look at me. Unlike Harrie, he never begs for anything. Not food, not cuddles, not attention. But his expression right now plainly pleads with me to pick him up, French bulldog eyes growing big.

“Freddie, you’ve barely been walking for ten minutes,” I scold.

Harrie comes running back, but even his encouraging nuzzles won’t coax Freddie.

I give in with a sigh, bending to scoop him up. His perked ears tickle my chin, and his head butts against my chin as we keep walking. I get a few amused looks and snickers from the neighbors, who know Freddie’s reluctance to be taken on walks all too well.

It’s a little tough to carry a dog, albeit a small one, and hold my phone, but somehow I manage. Hey, want to pick up some takeout on your way over to my place? I type out. Your choice. I’m good with anything.

Send. It whizzes off to Neil.

Takeout means I don’t have to do any cooking or washing up. We can watch the next Die Hard in the franchise, we can try to tweak our MyShaadi answers so we get a match, we can hit “decline match” on the other girls that he apparently did match with, and enjoy ourselves.

My phone starts to ring.

I answer without glancing at the name on the screen, assuming it’s Mom. “Hello?”

“Rita, hey.”

“Neil?” I furrow my brow. “You didn’t have to call me. I told you, I’m really okay eating anything you choose.”

“No, it’s not . . .” His voice is rough, frustrated.

“What’s going on?”

“I need you to not freak out, okay?”

Worry whittles at me, my mind racing with all the things that send me into panic mode. “Neil, whatever it is, spit it out,” I say sharply.

“Okay, so you know how”—he blows a long breath straight into my ear—“I got all those matches and none of them was with you?”

My voice comes out tighter than my throat. “Yeah.”

“I have a date tonight.”

Singular pronoun.

It takes a moment for my mind to grasp the subtext: not with you.

“With a MyShaadi girl?” I ask, drawing out each word until it’s a question.

“It’s not, like, a big deal or anything,” he rushes to assure me.

“No, of course not, it’s perfectly normal, my boyfriend going out with someone he met on a matrimonial website.”

“You’re mad.”

“Obviously. What the fuck are you thinking? Why would you— I don’t even get why that would even cross your— WE WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO GO OUT WITH OUR MATCHES, NEIL. HOW DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN?”

“It’s not my fault.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and from the short inhale on his end, he knows it, too.

“Neil.” My voice is flat. “What the fuck.”

“It’s Ma! She’s been hounding me all week to tell her what I thought about that girl I met at dinner. What was I supposed to do? She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had to finally say I wasn’t interested in meeting that girl again, and then Ma said because I’m not being proactive in finding somebody, she has to set me up with eligible girls. So I had to tell her I joined MyShaadi.”

In other words, he’d rather face my anger than hers.

Bitterness twists my voice. “Bet that just made her day.”

“I mean—” Neil sighs. “Yeah.”

“So you just . . . what? You agreed to go out with all those girls?” And there were a baker’s dozen of eligible young women to choose from. Thirteen dates? At least?

“Not . . . exactly.”

“Don’t hedge,” I snap, tightening my arms around Freddie, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder. I squeeze him close and take deep breaths. Harrie stands close to my leg, brushing against my ankles to remind me he’s there.

“Ma wrestled my log-in away from me.”

“As in, she pinned you down and grabbed your phone?”

“No, of course not.” He has the nerve to sound affronted. “She asked me for it.”

We obviously have different definitions of the word wrestled.

“And,” I say slowly, “you gave it to her?”

“Well, yeah.”

The silence stretches between us.

“Why the hell did you even make us do this?” he asks, frustration in every word.

I walk faster. I need to be home, not out here, exposed and alone and with nowhere to curl up and cry. “How is this my fault?”

“You made us those profiles on MyShaadi!”

“Yeah, for us,” I grind out. “So we could date in peace instead of bringing on the band baaja baaraat. Not so you could go tomcatting around because you’re too gutless to tell your mother to back the fuck off and let you be a grown-ass man.”

He scoffs. “You want to talk gutless, Rita? Seriously? The whole reason we did this was, yes, to convince your mom. Because you didn’t want to tell her whose son I was. Because you thought she’d care about some grudge from a lifetime ago more than she cares about her daughter’s happiness. How’s that for gutless?”

This is our first actual fight. And it’s objectively terrible.

I don’t know what to say. I can hear him breathing. It’s out of sync with mine.

“It’s not my fault,” he says finally.

“You could have said no.” My voice is small.

More silence.

“I’m sorry,” says Neil.

But I don’t think he knows what he’s sorry for.

I hang up without saying anything.

My chest burns and my eyes sting, but my house is within sight. I can cry as soon as the door shuts behind me. Hold it together, Rita. Just another few yards.

That’s when I hear the sad “Oh, honey” behind me.

I freeze. Turn slowly.

Paula Dooley is behind me in hot pink, zebra-striped leggings and a matching sports bra. Water bottle in one hand, phone in the other. One earbud is in, but the other dangles over her glistening chest. She must have heard everything.

Harrie yips at high volume, even though our walks have taken us past a speed-walking Paula hundreds of times.

Rallying, I say, “Hi, Paula.”

She comes closer, clucking her tongue. “You poor thing.” Before I know what’s happening, she’s hugging me. Freddie makes an unhappy cry squished between us.

“Really, I’m okay. Thank you, though.” I pull back, eyes dry.

She couldn’t have just let me escape inside?

Thatwould have been the more sympathetic thing to do.

Paula’s mouth forms a you’re-so-brave smile, but then her attention is caught by something beyond my shoulder. “I think your boyfriend’s here,” she stage whispers.

“No, it can’t—” I start to say, turning. The words shrivel on my tongue.

A red Alfa Romeo has slid up to the curb. Classic black-and-white Adidas emerge first, then charcoal-gray joggers and a fitted white tee.

I close my eyes. Milan.

Paula looks with curiosity as he approaches, the car beeping as it locks behind him.

Freddie feigns disinterest, turning his head away, but I can still see his eyes peeking.

Harrie’s head perks toward the newcomer and he takes a few steps forward, glances back at me. I brace myself for an onslaught of barking, remembering his contentious on-again, off-again relationship with Neil.

But then he begins wagging his tail, being a Very Good Boy.

“Hey, Rita,” says Milan. He crouches and holds his hand out for Harrie to sniff before scratching Harrie’s chin. “What a handsome pup, yes you are.”

Warmth swells in my belly. A man and a dog shouldn’t be so cute, and yet, here we are.

I guess introductions are in order.

“That’s Harrie with an ‘-ie,’ ” I tell him. “And this is Freddie with an ‘-ie.’ ”

Harrie’s named after three of my biggest teenage crushes, all named Harry: Prince Harry, Harry Potter, and Harry Styles. Likewise, Freddie: Freddie Mercury, Fred Weasley, and Freddie Prinz Jr.

“You’re not her boyfriend,” states Paula, who’s seen Neil often enough to greet him on her morning jogs.

He looks up at us with an unsure smile. “I’m not.”

“He’s a colleague,” I say, because I can’t tell her who he really is to me. Reluctantly, I add, “And this is Paula, my neighbor.”

“ ‘A colleague’?” Paula’s thin eyebrows skyrocket to her hairline. “I see.” She glances between Milan and his expensive car, then comes back to me. “I see why you turned down my renovation offer,” she says with a wink. With a wave, she continues on her way, earbuds back in place.

I squint at Milan. The setting sun casts him in bronze and he looks a lot more like the boyfriend from my memories than he did in those expensive threads. “What are you doing here?”

That’s when I notice the scrunchie on his wrist. It looks like the one I wore Sunday to—

My lips part. Oh.

“I wanted to tell you in person that the house got an offer. Actually, it got a lot of offers.”

There’s no way I can play cool about this. “It did? How many?”

He grins, straightening up. “Four offers, and a fifth that blew the others out of the park.” He pauses for effect. “Above asking price. They made an offer, scheduled the inspection, and we’re all set to close the deal.”

“That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you. I guess you’ll want the house cleared out?”

He shakes his head. “They want everything as is.”

“Fully furnished?”

Harrie makes a soft whine to get Milan’s attention, tail wagging ferociously.

Milan gives an obliging scratch-scratch-scratch. “The new owners love your design. I knew they would.” His smile takes over his entire face. He seems even more thrilled than I am. “They even asked for your card in case they want you to do anything else. And, of course, we’ll pay you for everything they’re keeping. I know you made a lot of it yourself, so just let me know tomorrow what you’re charging and I’ll send a check your way.”

Before I can respond, he darts his eyes down to his wrist. “I almost forgot about this.” He snaps the parakeet-green velvet scrunchie against his wrist, and I don’t even panic about him loosening the elastic. “You left this the other day.”

“I didn’t even notice it was missing.” I take the scrunchie, still warm from his skin.

Milan returns to a crouch so he can ruffle Harrie’s head. “Yeah? Doesn’t surprise me. You had about a hundred even in high school. How has the hoard grown since then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say with a laugh.

The smile fades from his eyes. “I would, actually,” he murmurs.

Involuntarily, my gaze drops to his lips.

“All right,” I find myself saying.

He tips his head back, forehead scrunched. “To what?”

For one wild moment, I want to tell him: everything. Just to see what he’ll do.

“I’ll go into partnership with you. I kind of want to get away from here for a while.”

“Anything wrong?” He says it like he’s the one to make it right.

I shake my head. “Nothing that some time on Rosalie Island won’t fix.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What about ‘lost causes’?”

“I’m up for the challenge. Besides, with the money coming in from the new homeowners, I’ll be able to invest into flipping the place.”

“You’re actually agreeing to do this with me,” he says, his voice low, stunned. As though in all the possible ways he imagined this would go, my agreeing wasn’t even top ten.

“One hundred percent in,” I dare to say.

Our eyes meet. Looking at him too long is like staring into the sun.

I tear my gaze away. But that’s when I notice he’s staring at my chest. Goosebumps skitter down my arms. There’s nothing that cute about what I’m wearing, since I knew I’d be out in the sun. An old loose black tee, knotted at the waist, and denim mom shorts.

“I was meaning to ask you,” he says. “Why are you holding him?”

Of course.Embarrassment washes over me. He wasn’t staring at my boobs. He was wondering why I was carrying Freddie.

“I take it you’ve never met a diva dog before,” I say with a laugh.

Milan sticks out his hand. “Hello, Freddie,” he says with a disarming amount of gravitas.

Freddie extends his paw to touch Milan’s fingers, every bit as solemn.

Mom would be appalled that I haven’t invited him in, especially on a day this hot. It’s bad manners, Rita, she chides. Let the poor boy in and offer him a drink. Let bygones be bygones.

But if I invite him in, it’s crossing the threshold into my life, too.

I take the plunge. “Would you like to come in?”

Milan seems surprised. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. Let’s talk about the future.”