The Shaadi Set-Up by Lillie Vale
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.
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.