The Shaadi Set-Up by Lillie Vale

Chapter 8

I feel the guillotine descending inch by excruciating inch the closer I get to the red destination pin on my GPS. Even after I pull into High Castle Realty’s parking lot, an imposing mirrored glass-and-concrete four-story building next to a high-end sushi restaurant, I circle like I don’t see a prime spot right in front. Part of me wants to just zip right on out of there, but I can’t.

Time to grit my teeth and get on with it, and not be such a chickenshit.

I exhale and slide neatly into the spot. You have arrived at your destination trills from my phone. I pull it from the air vent mount, close the map app, and remember that I’m not just a professional doing my job, I need to do this for me, too. Closure.

“Time to put on your big girl pants, Rita,” I say out loud, then cringe. I sound like a mom trying to convince her reluctant child to eat their brussels sprouts instead of a full-grown woman doing what should be an incredibly simple errand.

Step one, turn off the engine.

Or I could just stay put.

Step two, undo your buckle.

Or I could just stay put.

Step three, open the door.

Or I could just stay put.

Squaring my shoulders, I step out of the car, and by some miracle, my legs don’t give out from under me. It’s not the building itself that’s scary.

It’s the boy, now man, inside it.

Ignoring my inner Rita horror movie–screaming at me not to go inside, I take off at a brisk march, almost forgetting to look left and right. And then I’m at the door, pushing it open, and somehow, in what feels like all of two steps, I’m . . . there.

In the belly of the beast.

The AC hits me squarely in the face, drying out my contacts. I blink away the sandpaper feeling and head for the young woman at the front desk who’s twirling a limp blond curl around a ballpoint pen and yawning without covering her mouth.

“Hi, I’m Rita from Little Shop of Hors D’Oeuvres,” I say. “I have a catering delivery?”

Her expression brightens. “Finally. Lunch. Do you need help?” Before I can tell her I’m fine, she’s pressing one of the many buttons on her multiline phone. “Little Shop delivery out front,” she says. “Can I get someone down here to help the caterer?” She hangs up with an awkward smile.

I look around me: at the gold sparkle in the gray marble tile; the white Casablanca lilies peeking out of the floral arrangement on her desk; head shots of realtors lining the far wall. But in true universe-screwing-me fashion, the first Realtor’s picture I land on is Milan’s, somewhere in the middle.

“That’s our High Castle ‘Royalty’ wall,” she says, following my gaze. “Cool pun, right?”

I stare at it a moment longer. How is he ahead of people who look so much older than him? Wouldn’t this be based on seniority? It’s clearly not alphabetic.

The elevator dings. “Oh hey, here’s someone now,” the girl chirps.

I make the mistake of turning to look.

My heart bullfrog leaps into my throat.

Milan.

It all happens in slow motion, our eyes meeting even before the elevator doors glide fully open. His mouth drops open and his whole posture changes. His casual slump against the back wall straightens with a quick, hard jerk. I would laugh if I had any air in my lungs at all.

Seeing him in his natural environment is weird in a way I can’t put into words.

Has he grown taller since he came over? I wouldn’t put it past him.

I can only imagine his eyes are as wide and startled as mine must be, but he recovers faster. He’s wearing a three-piece black suit with a slim cut that shows off the impossible length of him. His lean fingers are toying with the half-Windsor knot of his mustard-gold tie.

It’s not like one my dad would wear, it’s a skinny two-inch that brings out the warmth of his beige skin. I’m quarterback-tackled by the overwhelming, annoying urge to wind that tie around my wrist and pull him closer.

The impulse isn’t real. It can’t be. It’s a fragment of the attraction left over from Rita ages fifteen through twenty. We’d been together as long as we’ve been apart. There were bound to be feelings I haven’t exorcised.

Milan’s long legs reach us in a few short strides, crossing the gray marble floor without hesitation. Without a stumble in his step. Professional and collected. How are his legs not jelly?

The fact that he looks amazing—again—isn’t lost on me.

I’m relieved to be wearing something significantly cuter than the old tee he saw me in last. Expensive taste and an unstable income stream don’t mesh well unless you trawl through clearance racks and end-of-season sales. I look hot and I know it: 7 For All Mankind distressed high-waisted skinny black jeans and a loosely tucked pink satin cami; face-framing layers of hair pulled back with a thin strip of black velvet left over from a handmade curtain; a rose quartz pendant just shy of dipping into my cleavage. I look like my high school senior year photos instead of the college-student-going-to-an-eight-a.m.-class comfy that I’ve grown to appreciate.

“Hey, Kerstin,” says Milan, shooting me a quizzical look. I open my mouth to say hi back, then clamp my mouth shut when I realize it wasn’t me he was addressing.

“Aw, the boss sent Mr. Big Shot out for the hard labor?” Kerstin asks teasingly. She perches on the corner of her desk closest to him and crosses her slim legs. “Rough.” She turns, including me in her smile, but I’m still looking at him.

“Yeah, turns out that being made junior partner doesn’t get me any special treatment,” says Milan, dimpled smile as careless and easy as if he’s just a boy talking to a girl.

Her laugh spills out of her like a can of soda shaken hard.

When was the last time he looked at me like that?

I shake off the unwanted spikes of jealousy. I am made of way sterner stuff than this, and yet, right now, it’s so hard to remember that.

Milan finally flicks his eyes toward me in silent question, smile fading. “Hi.”

“So this is Rita,” says Kerstin, voice dropped conspiratorially, not realizing we don’t need any introduction. “She’s here to drop off your promotion yummies.”

“They’re in the car,” I say, hearing the desperation and hating myself for it. “I’ll just go grab everything.” I jerk my thumb at the door and start to edge toward blessed escape.

“I’ll help,” he says.

Oh no, you won’t.Determined, I push the door open before he can reach me.

His hand lands on top of mine. Shock zings through my fingers, ricocheting up my arms like a pinball arcade game. My grip on the door slackens enough for his fingers to slot between mine, and everything stops.

My back goes ramrod straight. He’s touching me. And not just that, we still fit. I suck in a breath and hope he doesn’t notice, but I know he will.

I dare to look at him. The light streaming in through the glass door turns his brown eyes, thickly lashed, into liquid honey. He’s staring at the tiny outline of a lotus flower on my right pinky finger, an exact match for Rajvee’s on her left.

“I thought you hated tattoos,” he says, like a question.

And I hate that I still know him well enough to know that’s not what he really wants to ask.

According to best-friend logic, I needed to do something totally out of my comfort zone following the breakup, and yeah, that made total sense, putting myself through actual pain to get over the heart-ripped-from-my-chest actual pain. So I got the tattoo (her idea), but only if she did, too (mine).

But I don’t feel like explaining any of that to him. He doesn’t have the right to know.

Taking advantage of his lull, I push the door the rest of the way and slip outside.

“Rita, wait.”

I don’t turn around.

“Rita.”Desperation thickens his voice into a deep rumble behind me.

I unlock my car from a yard away. “What?”

“What are you doing here?” Milan pushes his hand into his hair. His ears are a rosy red. His gaze trails down my neck, singeing electricity following the path his eyes take.

It occurs to me that he doesn’t know I help out at Little Shop from time to time. My chest squeezes with love for Raj, who must have been so careful over the years to make sure I never had to make any deliveries here. She’d even tried to talk me out of coming today.

“I work there sometimes,” I inform him, in as brusque a voice as I can manage while in the supremely awkward position of bending over to haul the insulated food storage containers from the back seat. “Believe me, I’m only here because their regular couldn’t make it.”

When I make a soft grunt lifting one of the thermal boxes, Milan gets there fast, gently nudging me out of the way with his hip. His lean fingers grip the containers, hoisting them with upper-body ease. His caring boyfriend is coming out, which means my hackles are, too.

“I’ve got it,” I grind out.

“I know you do, but since I’m here anyway,” he says with a shrug.

Fine, but we don’t have to talk.

Kerstin holds the front door for us as we trek back in, loaded down with heaps and heaps of fried food. Suddenly, this whole menu makes sense. This is absolutely the kind of frat-boy food I imagine a bunch of office bros eat.

The elevator doors close with a ding of finality and we start the ascent.

My biceps ache so I put everything on the floor, trying to forget about all the dirty soles stamped over the steel. I glance at Milan to find, to my sour displeasure, he’s got everything balanced in his arms and doesn’t look tired at all. In fact, the fabric’s pulled taut over his triceps, drawing my attention to his slim wrist and soft brown hair and the band of the watch—

He’s wearing the Daniel Wellington watch I gave him for his twentieth birthday.

The stinging, spiny pricks of a durian fruit roll under my breast, tearing at my heart.

I’m beyond thankful for the silence; if I have to make small talk, I’ll lose it.

Milan’s standing close to me, friend close, not strangers-in-an-elevator close.

When our arms brush, I flinch away.

He smells delicious, like citrus and old-school Cary Grant.

No, Rita. Bad Rita. You’re not supposed to notice that.

I try to draw Neil’s face in my mind, instead, but give up one floor in.

Milan’s eyes are on me, I can tell, because goosebumps skitter up my arms and chest, tickling the base of my throat the way his kisses used to.

I scoot three inches away.

His smile is amused, like he knows exactly what I’m doing, and why.

I forgot that he knows me, too.

It occurs to me that I’m behaving like a brat. The child that wouldn’t eat their brussels sprouts and threw a tantrum instead, who’s now counting down the agonizing minutes of their time-out like it’s an hour instead of just ten minutes.

“Sorry,” I say on an exhale. “This is . . . This is weird, right?”

“Not really,” he says, signature lazy yearbook smile back in place. “Our moms are still friends, kinda. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other sooner.”

He doesn’t sound upset about it. Which annoys me all over again.

Does he think this makes us friends?

“Speaking of our moms,” I start to say, about to make sure he knows he’s off the hook, but the elevator lurches to a stop and the doors slide open. Men’s raucous voices overwhelm our small space, and Milan motions for me to precede him.

My first thought is: This is a nice office.

The carpet looks plush and the lighting is flattering, with plenty of sunlight coming in from the abundance of naked windows. Tall plants in heavy planters in each corner of the room, and gleaming walnut desks paired back to back. Family pictures line most of them, along with half-empty bottles of Mountain Dew and mugs with the company logo.

If he’s made junior partner, would his desk be out here, or does he get his own office? If we never broke up, we’d probably be married now. He’d have our family’s pictures on his desk.

I try to banish those thoughts before I start imagining little girls with his honey eyes.

A loud, obnoxious laugh peals out.

The room is empty, but the chatter is coming from somewhere.

“This whole building is High Castle?” I ask. “This is the third floor.”

“Commercial and residential real estate are on the first and second. This is luxury,” Milan explains, and if it were anyone else, I’d think it was a brag. He leads the way across the room to a glass partition with the words BOARD ROOM emblazoned in gold on the door.

I hang back while the room erupts in whoops and cheers. While Milan is swarmed by his colleagues, I take all the food out and set it up on the long conference table, and I do it all without looking at him. I refuse to dawdle in what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.

I’m about to duck out without saying goodbye, the straps of empty insulated containers dangling off both arms, when I hear my name.

Ugh, what now. They’ve already paid. I just wanna get out of here.

Milan’s waving me over, his circle of silver foxes, handsome young men, and chic women with ridiculously good blowouts all looking at me with interest and polite smiles. None of these people seem to have heard of casual Friday dress code.

“This is Rita,” says Milan.

“The Rita?” says a young smirking white guy, standing there like a man who thinks he’s inherited the world, so I automatically decide not to like him. The way he up-downs me validates that impulse.

Milan’s cheeks flush and he darts his eyes away.

“You’re the young woman who’s going to help my firm out,” says an older man with ice-chip blue eyes and graying brown hair. He sticks his hand out. “Josh Bell.”

Help out High Castle Realty? It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the house that Milan hadn’t been able to sell for two hundred and sixty-two days. Now sixty-three.

Bell’s the boss, I realize, taking his hand. His grip is firm and doesn’t linger, and he doesn’t bat an eye when one of the containers on my arm bumps his knee.

“Milan tells us that you design furniture and are a rising star of the interior design world,” he continues, his tone warm. “We’re very glad to have you on board.”

I wonder what he thinks about a “rising star” making deliveries.

“Ha! That place?” Smirky Dude snorts, and it sends a ripple of anger over my chest. “Good luck. I don’t usually believe in cursed properties, but if I did . . .” He looks at Milan meaningfully. “Hey, boss, shoulda maybe held off on the promotion until that place sold, huh?”

Almost everyone scowls, including the boss.

“I have every confidence in Milan,” says Mr. Bell, who’s so dignified looking I can’t even think of him as Josh. He glances at me as if he’s taking my measure, but without an ounce of creep.

Milan’s cheeks bloom a patchy red. “Would you like to stay for the party?”

I really would not, but the question requires a circumspect answer. “I have a lot on today, so I better jet,” I say. “Congrats on the promotion.”

“Yeah, no. I get it. Thanks.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll walk you out?”

I mean, I’m pretty sure I could find the exit on my own, but he’s already at the door.

As we head for the elevator, he makes a swipe for the catering containers, which I swing out of his reach just in time (Rita: 1, Milan: so in the red he’ll never dig himself out).

Victorious, I pick up my pace, power walking like Aji at the mall when she wants to calorie-blast after too much Diwali mithai.

“Rita, are you trying to outrun me?”

“No.” I walk faster.

“You remember I run two miles every morning, right?” he drawls.

My blood pressure spikes. Oooh, his nerve. His smug nerve assuming my brain hasn’t already recycled all the stored info about how he only likes the obnoxious novelty creamer flavors in his coffee, the two ABC sing-throughs he does when brushing his teeth, and the abject refusal to order a salad at a restaurant even if he really wants one because of the hideous markup, let alone remembering his cardio routine. I mean, really.

“Why would I”—I huff—“remember that kind of inconsequential detail?”

He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat that could pass for a growl, but I just can’t imagine Mr. Brooks Brothers behind me doing something that flagrantly uncouth.

I whip around to search his face, but he’s smoothed away his frustration into a picture of Bambi-eyed innocence as he once again lets me get into the elevator before him.

After a soft warning chime, the doors slide closed. But for me, the sound is the kickboxing bell popping off.

I cross and uncross my arms. “Why did you tell your boss I’m working with you?”

“Because you are?” Milan stretches out the sentence, head cocked to the side.

My mouth, primed and ready for a sharp repartee, snaps shut.

He lifts a brow. “Oh, are we not?”

I try not to squirm. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely asking or throwing a challenge. When my mom accepted a job on my behalf that he didn’t even intend to offer, I’d assumed, by some unspoken agreement, Milan and I were just being good sports about her interference.

I grind my molars. No one wants to work with their ex.

Especially when it’s not even their decision.

His eyes appear darker in here with the harsh fluorescent light that casts us both in a sallow yellow tint. They drink me in, no longer syrupy, leonine brown, but infinitely more intense. And yet his voice, when he asks, “I thought it was settled?” is unsure.

I can’t help it; I relish that hesitation in his voice, so unlike his hotshot real estate agent confidence.

It only takes one moment to unsettle something. He, of all people, should know.

Milan pushes the emergency stop button even though we’ve already hit the first floor.

I startle. It’s a very Milan-from-high-school move, and I have a feeling that Rita-from-high-school wouldn’t have taken long to push him against the wall and muss his coiffed hair into disheveled make-out oblivion.

When will I stop thinking about all the Ritas I used to be?

“You said something before about this being weird,” Milan says. A flush climbs up his neck. “And don’t get me wrong, it totally is. But I wasn’t kidding when I said it was only a matter of time before we were in the same room together. I didn’t expect it to happen, uh, quite like that, though.” He lets out a short laugh. “But I can’t deny that I am happy about how it worked out.”

It’s not because he still has feelings. It’s because he needs help.

I swallow past the sour film on my tongue and try not to hate him.

“I was hoping we could stop by the house before the next open house.” He touches my shoulder, electricity zapping us both. “Sorry.” He guiltily draws his hand back to his side, then against his chest, then up to scratch his shaved-smooth chin, as if in afterthought.

I draw back, horrified to find that I’d instinctively leaned into his touch. He doesn’t seem to notice, which makes it worse, in a way.

Rajvee’s voice rings in my ears: Stop being such a messy bitch, Rita.

Okay, so she’s never actually said that to me, but whenever I need to give myself a WWJD moment, it sounds like her.

Milan chews his bottom lip. “But if our history makes this too hard for you . . .”

It goes silent so fast that I swear I can hear the soft, even clicks of his watch hands.

Anger flares under my skin, turning my arms hot. He’s got some nerve thinking this is one sided, that I can’t handle working with him without my heart re-ripping along its fault lines.

And what about him? Thinking back to his awkward chin scratching, there was something about the piecemeal movement that tells me it wasn’t what he intended. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, like he didn’t want me to see how discomfited he was in my presence. Sure, he’s giving me an out, but it’s not one I want to admit. Especially now that I suspect he’s trying to give himself an out, too.

“Please, we were six years ago. Pretty sure I’m over it.” My laugh is brittle as I punch the door open button. I shrug. “It’s just business. A one-off.”

His face turns a little pained.

Aha! So I was right. He was hoping I would be the one to blink first.

“And then we go back to our own realities,” I finish. First. I give him the condescending-dude-pat on the shoulder, delegating the task with victory smooth as Macallan single malt whisky. “Just shoot me an email and we’ll set it up.”

And then I step out of the elevator before he can say a word, heart sledgehammering, making sure he can see just how good the view is watching me walk away.