The Shaadi Set-Up by Lillie Vale

Chapter 5

When lunch was over, Milan was able to dash off a quickly mumbled thanks before he made his escape, while I was stuck there longer, letting Mom talk at me. While we cleared the table, during the dishwasher’s rinse cycle, even following me out to the workshop, all the while keeping up a nonstop stream of one-sided conversation outlining Milan’s good qualities.

She can list all the pros she wants; they’ll never outweigh the seen-from-space con.

Dad, who had already snuck out to the workshop during the boy talk—something he’d never been that comfortable with—takes one look at my pained face and wordlessly begins cutting the large sweeping curves for my end table legs, the powerful blade of his band saw making quick work of the blocks of wood.

My phone dings, lighting up the screen.

“Who is that?” Mom tries to peek at the screen, making no secret that she’s hoping it’s Milan texting to set up our collaboration.

“No one,” I say. “Raj.” I whisk the phone to my chest before she sees Neil’s message.

I’ll help you move the dresser over to the neighbor’s house before dinner.

A sweet offer, even though I can do it myself and never expect my boyfriends to do the “manly” lifting.

Then comes a barrage of notifications. Every sentence is its own message.

And don’t think you’re off the hook, Reets ;)

We really should pick up the conversation from yesterday . . .

If we’re not going to be honest with our parents, where is this even going?

Plus, I’m pretty sure Ma doesn’t even know or care about what happened . . .

My dad loves her.

Of course his mom wouldn’t care. She won.

My mom was the one left behind.

The distinction seems lost on him, why his mom doesn’t get to be the one upset.

I promise it won’t be weird if our moms meet?

Indians don’t do Jersey Shore catfights hahaha.

My right eyelid twitches the way it hasn’t done since finals week in college.

I leave him on read, swiping away the notifications.

“What’s Raj saying?” Mom asks, leaning forward to peer at the screen I’m angling away.

“Nothing.” I stick my phone in my back pocket.

Her smile turns cat-who-ate-the-canary pleased. “Is it Milan?”

“No! I told you, it’s Raj. Dad, here, let me do the next leg.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Hurt flashes over Mom’s face. She feels excluded from the hobby that had me spending so many hours of high school learning from Dad. Like every other emotion, she wears this one on her sleeve, too. “I’ll just pack up the food I made you,” she says, blinking fast. “I already set aside extra daal.” She turns away hurriedly, heading back to the house.

Dad looks at me. “Go easy on her,” he says, and it’s not quite a rebuke, but also it is.

Aji cajoles me into staying for tea and digestive biscuits before I head home with leftovers from lunch: a mixed vegetable korma, and piping hot onion and mirchi pakoras.

Even as I accepted Mom’s Tupperware I knew I wouldn’t be digging into her food tonight, no matter how delicious it smelled the entire car ride home. It was a small, childish rebellion, but it was the only one I could let myself get away with.

And maybe I felt a little guilty, too.

Back home, I got to work mounting the new legs on the end table and painted its first black coat, leaving it to dry in the garage while I started to make my favorite comfort food, masala mac. I vented to Raj on speakerphone about the total absurdity of Mom’s scheming with Milan’s mom to set us up—they were both watching entirely too many Bollywood soap operas if they thought I’d fall back into his arms after all this time. After years of forbidding Raj to mention his name in my presence, “Milan” fell from her lips with a dizzying, pseudo-unpleasant regularity.

My chest was still heaving from my rant when my phone chimed with Neil’s apology text. He wouldn’t be home in time for dinner, but would try to get away from work at the earliest opportunity. For once, at least, his ma wasn’t the excuse.

Too hungry to wait for him, I went ahead and started scarfing down a bowl of masala mac while making my side salad. But right after mixing in the dressing, Paula’s husband, Rick, knocked on the door to ask if I needed any help delivering the dresser. By the time I loaded it up on my truck, dropped it off, and came home, I knew there would be nothing crisp about my Caesar.

Just as I step back through my door, my phone dings.

On the wayreads Neil’s text message. I leave him on read because he’s not on the way, probably not even heading to the parking lot; he only spells it out when he’s still spinning in slow circles in his office chair at work because something came up and he knows he’s going to be late.

His tells are easy. If he was really on the way, his text would have read “On my way!,” the predictive shortcut of “OMW” that he uses when he’s already behind the wheel, because he knows I hate it when he texts at length while waiting at stoplights. Normally I’d tap back a thumbs-up, but I’m fresh out of understanding tonight. Not when he stuck around at work—I check the time on my phone—two hours later than he needed to be, missing the dinner he promised to be there for and the delivery he offered to help me with.

Just as expected, by my return the romaine leaves are soggy, the thin radish slices have bled pink into the dressing, and the croutons squish into pulp with the tiniest pressure of my tongue.

If I’m waiting on Neil, anyway, might as well have another bowl of masala mac to change the bad taste in my mouth. But no, better not. If I have even one more scoop, dinner will be too heavy in my gut and I won’t feel sexy enough to be on top tonight.

And yet, I’m not sure even solid B+ sex is better than the cheesy, creamy homemade macaroni spiced with diced tomato and onions sautéed in chili powder and garam masala.

I send the picture of my second bowl to Raj and the family WhatsApp group: a judgmental “baap re, so much cheese” and shocked cat face from Aji; a thumbs-up and heart-eyes from Dad; a reproachful “then how come you didn’t like the tomato Maggi noodles I made?” to which the only possible answer is “that was a crime against instant ramen, Mom.”

Which is followed by “Have you and Milan fixed a time and date, yet?” Yellow heart, red rose, emoji with heart eyes, cat with heart eyes, giant red question mark.

All she’s missing is the engagement ring.

I send back a string of vomit emojis. The only rational response, obviously.

Later, Raj messages me a flurry of shocked cat-face emojis and tongue-out emojis right as I get in the tub for a soak with a fizzy bath bomb and even fizzier Moscato d’Asti.

IT’S MEAN TO SHOW ME WHAT YOU’RE EATING IF YOU’RE NOT SHARING IT WITH ME!!!

Talking with her always brings on the rush of serotonin and endorphins of a full-body, gut-busting laugh.

I relax in the tub with my wine until the water cools and my glass runs empty. By the time I’m out, most of the tension has ebbed away like the remnants of the bath bomb on their descent down the drain.

Cheeks flushed from my scrub, eyelashes wetly clumped, shampooed hair clinging to my neck and coiling over large pinky-brown areolas, I look nothing like the self-conscious teenager who pretended not to hate taking her bra off to have sex with Milan. As I gather my hair into a fist to squeeze out the excess water, I brush a nipple, sparking arousal down to my belly.

I let my hand trail lower. My skin is soft and dewy, and I wonder what Milan would say if he could see me like this.

Confident. Proud. Sensual.

Then I think, Oh god I absolutely do not want Milan seeing me naked. So I splay my palm over my torso, imagining Neil pressing close, and twist side to side to find my best angle, indulging in a tiny having-sex-while-watching-ourselves-in-a-mirror fantasy.

Now should be the moment he comes home, wraps his arms around me from behind, and takes me. I stare at the steamed mirror like I’m willing him to appear, like a hero emerging from the fog of the moors, dark overcoat flapping open to reveal a shirt with a deep V neck and a slim but toned chest I can run my lips over.

Thick brown hair blowing away from his face. Thin lips crooking into a smile full of wicked promise. Bright honey-brown eyes that could draw a bear. A cute butt-chin where I could nestle my thumb when I cupped the side of his face, drawing him closer . . . closer . . .

Mouth dry, I almost jump at the soft scraping against the bathroom door.

Lightning-rod anticipation shoots through me, heading straight between my legs. My heartbeat slams in my ears. For one unnerving second, I don’t know who I expect to be on the other side of the door.

But then I hear a plaintive woof, and I drop my hands from my body, slumping with disappointment. It’s only Harrie.

I try to grasp on to the moment of arousal again and discover it’s well and truly left the building. Like dandelion fluff floating away before I can remember to make a wish, it slips between my fingers.

I need something to grab on to so I don’t float away, too. My fingers clasp the stem of my wineglass nestled in the corner of the tub and backsplash. I toss back the dregs. I’m such an idiot. The only man I’m sleeping with who has the keys to my front door is Neil.

Your boyfriend, Neil, remember?

Deliciously shivery from the chilled wine and still warm from the tub, I slip into a black allover-lace panty, forgo the bra, and wear an oversize flannel so soft and old that the inside collar’s more pill than fabric, fastening only the button above my navel.

I consider my reflection, wondering if there’s part of me that should feel guilty that Neil wasn’t exactly the leading man in my fantasy. I read somewhere once that when we fantasize about people it’s not necessarily them we’re seeing, but aspects of ourselves. So maybe I’m just horny and need to own that.

I wasn’t thinking about Milan, obviously. He was just . . . there. Like the new growth of mildew in the grout between my bathtub wall tiles. Appearing anywhere that’s susceptible to, uh, excess moisture. My cheeks burn. God, it’s hot in this bathroom.

Better open the door and air it out. The steam coating the mirror has already started to dissipate, revealing the “Hey Sexy!” with a generously proportioned penis stand-in, the infamous eggplant, that I drew on the fogged-up mirror days ago, but which Neil hadn’t even noticed.

I sigh and scrub it away.

Harrie lightly growls as I pad back into the bedroom, attuned to my mood as ever. He’s like the best friend who’s always prepared to no-context hate the same guy you do.

“It’s okay, bud,” I say with a sigh, scratching him behind the ears and ignoring his whine to join me on the bed. If he gets comfortable, by the time Neil gets here, Harrie will have very definite ideas about whose space this is. I can deal with only one boy pouting tonight, not both.

Freddie’s read my mind because he ambles into the room with a knowing expression before circling his favorite spot on my rag-rug and elegantly folding his limbs under him.

Unlike Harrie, who flops on his back, arms and legs akimbo, and tongue out. His eyes beseech me: I’m cute, Mom, take pity on me. My baby’s making a statement, but it’s one I don’t fall for and Freddie pretends not to see, because Freddie, unlike the rest of us, is a grown-up.

“You two don’t know how lucky you are not to have girl problems,” I inform them.

The wily look Freddie gives me says clearly: You’re our girl problem.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, falling on my back, only marginally less sprawled than Harrie.

Freddie doesn’t give up on me, marching himself right between my dangling feet and fixing me with an imposing that’s-bad-posture-young-lady stare that would make Aji proud.

I straighten without thinking about it. God, he has me well trained.

With one last, suspicious look, he pivots back to his spot on the rug.

And because I can’t help but annoy my young-but-old-man-at-heart pupper, I slump my back and feign inching back down again. At once, his head pricks forward. He opens his mouth, about to bark, but then catches himself.

Because Freddie does not bark for anything shy of an intruder, and since I’ve never had one—knock on wood—there’s no proof he’d do it then, either, but I’d like to think he loves me enough to deign to do so.

“I’m so sad,” I say to the ceiling. “Pestering my dog because I’m bored and pent up and missing him.” I want to mean Neil, but as soon as the confession is out there, I know I don’t.

I miss youI type to Neil, anyway. And once I’ve hit send, I know it’s the truth.

He isn’t perfect, but he wouldn’t hurt me. Not on purpose, anyway.

He starts typing back right away. SRY!!! Ma’s being a drama queen as usual. Steam-coming-out-the-nostrils emoji. Clenched-teeth emoji.

Then, Can’t talk. Tell you later. Blowing-a-kiss emoji.

I resent this woman, his ma, for so much more than just the principle of replacing my mother. This faceless woman I have never seen, never met, and her control over her son, terrify me to a visceral degree. In my mind, she plays the predictable villainous mother-in-law in a Bollywood script, the Indian saas ready to browbeat any girl who dares marry her son.

Without meaning to, I remember Milan’s mother, to whom I was already as good as a daughter. His parents were so embarrassed by what he did that they avoided us for years.

Until now.

Tears catch in the corner of my eyes, slide down the side of my nose, tremble over my upper lip, and finally crash-land in the valley between my breasts. I’m ridiculous, driven to literal tears because of some asshole I dated in high school and college. The pressure builds in my chest like a shaken can of soda until finally a laugh bubbles out.

I told Milan I was on MyShaadi.com to meet reliable men. Me, Rita. I said that.

I really was a mess if I threw that in his face.

My amusement peters away.

Of course, Mom wouldn’t have believed me for a second. Despite Aji’s harping, I’ve held my ground on not believing in the divine intervention of the matrimonial website. I’d rather put my stock in the magic of meet-cutes than in algorithmic kismat connections.

Like meeting a guy on Tinder who happened to be the son of the man who scorned your mother, hooking up with him, and hiding your relationship for the next three months because you’re pretty sure it makes you a terrible daughter?

Now that I think about it, the only way Neil would be accepted is if MyShaadi.com proved he was my perfect match. Hell, my only match. If Neil was literally the last man on earth, my family would give him the red-carpet, cherished-son-in-law treatment, never mind that we’re not actually getting married.

“Holy shit.” I say it so loud that Harrie and Freddie both raise their heads.

“Holy SHIT.” Again, louder.

Ignoring Harrie’s confused yips, I grab my laptop from the nightstand and flip it open. Hunched over on the bed, I navigate to the MyShaadi website. The page populates with a huge graphic that reads Helping You Find Happiness! and a glossy header with a brown couple sporting beatific smiles, arms loosely around each other, decked out in wedding regalia.

And their promise: At least one match guaranteed in your first 24 hours!

Gross, the site remembers me. Welcome Back, Rita! We’re So Glad to See You Again! What’s New with You? Please Log In to Update Your Profile.

Scrolling down, I find dozens of satisfied customer testimonials as well as search options based on mother tongue, caste, and religion. I frown. It feels like I’m basically customizing an online shopping basket, especially when a pop-up tells me I can upgrade to a premium account for more personalized matches based on age, education, and skin color. This is so cringe.

Almost ready to talk myself out of this this-is-either-brilliant-or-brilliantly-bad plan, I swipe my thumb across the trackpad, about to close out of everything. But then I think, no, this is fighting fire with fire. If Mom can use trickery to get me and Milan in a room together, then why can’t I use my own cunning to devise a ploy to get both my family and Neil’s off his back?

I can see the Hallmark—if it wasn’t so white—movie trailer right now:

Rita, a single twenty-six-year-old woman, gives MyShaadi.com another chance.

Neil, a single twenty-seven-year-old man, signs up for a new account hoping to find love.

In a surprise plot twist that will surprise exactly no one, they match with no one else except—gasp—each other?

My idea has gained steam, enough to play whack-a-mole with my heart. I’m thinking of possible problems that could rear their ugly heads and fucking annihilating them. We’ll have to fake it, of course, so we can match our answers to each other. Fill our personality profiles with outrageous traits and bomb the compatibility so hard that no algorithm would even think we were suitable for other human beings.

We can’t assume our parents won’t demand access to our accounts so they can check up on eligible spouses—not with a mom as helicopter as his and an aji as nosy as mine.

So all we need to do is be the most troll-worthy versions of ourselves so not even one other person matches with us, and even if by some wacky coincidence, one does, they’ll be so D-list that Neil will look like Prince Charming in comparison.

I probably look like a total goon, if Harrie’s concerned puppy-dog eyes and Freddie’s alert, perked ears are anything to go by, but I can’t stop smiling.

My scam will buy us a few months, maybe even a year, of dating, if we want it, before either of our families start grumbling about marriage and grandchildren. How didn’t I think of this before? The workaround of using a matrimonial site as a defense tactic, a literal shaadi-block, is a sheer genius way of letting Neil and me figure out if we’re going anywhere.

I can just imagine the crushed expression on Milan’s face when he finds out that not only have I met my dream man online, but I’m thinking about marrying him. It would serve him right to see exactly what he’d let slip away.

It can’t be too obvious. I can’t flaunt how great my life is without him; I have to play this right. Casual and effortless, like his hair always seems to be. That’ll show him precisely how okay I am. How not hard at all I find his unwanted reappearance in my life.

The past is the past, and that’s exactly where it’s going to remain.

I smile a feral kind of smile.

And of course, he is going to find out.

Because when my plan works, and it will, Milan Rao is going to have a front-row seat to my boyfriend bliss.