Chapter 26
ALIA
Me:
You’ve got to stop.
Hockey Boy:
***
Me:
This is the third bouquet you’ve sent this week. Irsia is starting to get suspicious.
Hockey Boy:
Did you like them?
Me:
I love them. Thank you.
Hockey Boy:
You’re welcome
we any closer to finding a favorite?
Me:
Tulips are still topping the chart.
Hockey Boy:
It’s too soon to make that decision
You need a larger sample size
Me:
What does that mean?? I don’t need more flowers.
I appreciate how sweet you’re being, but I don’t need them.
Hockey Boy:
Has anyone told you men don’t like being called sweet?
Me:
Don’t change the subject. Please promise me. No more flowers.
Hockey Boy:
I never make promises I can’t keep
Gotta get to practice! Bye!
Me:
Cal, don’t.
Hockey Boy?
Hello??
***
Iflip through the dessert menu in front of me and jab at it.
“Mango cheesecake. I need it,” I declare, grinning at Irsia who sits across from me, spooning the risotto she ordered for lunch. Between her work and my random schedule at the shelter, it’s been a while since we’ve had uninterrupted girl-time together.
“You’re not even done with your meal,” she comments, chewing the large mushroom she bites into. My cooling plate of gnocchi stares at me, the red sauce not quite as vibrant as the one served by a green-eyed man who’s ensnared my every waking thought.
I push the half-eaten plate away. “I’ve had better.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“Just. . . somewhere else,” I hedge. “I’m glad we’re spending time together this weekend. You’ve been really busy.”
Irsia looks guilty. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around, Aloo.”
“Don’t be, not at all.” I reach over to squeeze her arm. “I’m glad you have your photography to keep you occupied.”
“And you?” she asks.
Like it’s running a loop it will never tire of, my mind turns once more to Cal. “I’ve been picking up more shifts at the animal shelter. Helping them organize an adoption event, actually.”
“Do you see yourself working there long-term?”
“No,” I sigh. “I need to decide if I’ll be staying in Monterey or moving back to Mumbai.”
She stills, unblinkingly staring at me. “You’re leaving?” she asks, shocked.
“Amma and Baba keep asking me to come back. They’re worried I’m alone.”
“But we’re here,“ she says, mildly outraged. “Your family is here.”
“How long can I live with you? I have a marketing degree I could leverage to find work there,” I reason, even as the pit in my belly gapes into a hollow hole.
“You could find work here with that degree, too.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, not wanting to discuss this. It’s too hard, and I’m still in limbo, unsure what the right move is.
“Leaving Mumbai didn’t fix your problems before. Leaving Monterey won’t make things better either.”
“You don’t know that,” I protest, even though I know she’s right to call me out. I’ve run away once. Do I really want to do that again?
“How much longer do I have you for, then?” Irsia’s sadness isn’t hidden and the lump in my throat makes it hard to speak.
“I’m not leaving just yet. I don’t have a job to go back to, but I’m going to start applying.”
“Give me time to prepare myself, okay?”
“Prepare yourself for what?” I ask, brows lowering.
“To live alone.” She says it simply, like it is inevitable. The resignation on her face makes my heart ache. Before I can reach out to console her, she straightens and clears her throat.
“I’m going to stop by the washroom before dessert.”
She escapes and I watch her curly hair bounce as she disappears into the hallway where the washrooms are.
I know she’s looking for space to collect herself.
Every so often, when I least expect it, I get a glimpse of her grief and it never fails to remind me that my problems, in comparison, are trivial.
She lost her husband. I only lost deadweight.
I reach for the gnocchi and pop one into my mouth, scrunching my nose when it fails to satisfy the craving I’ve had since my date with Cal.
My eyes skim over the restaurant, the bistro lights, potted plants, and vibrant atmosphere reminding me of the taco festival Cal and I went to.
My hand plays with the slim stem of the philodendron that’s the centerpiece of my table.
I recall Cal’s instructions for his plants and, without even thinking, I lean over to kiss the leaf.
I’m chuckling at my silliness when I hear a voice that drains every bit of lightness from me.
“You’ve finally lost it, haven’t you?”
My gaze whips up, landing on the one man I hoped to avoid forever. In his blue polo, khaki pants, and dress shoes, Namik looks like he’s followed every recommendation Ralph Lauren has ever made for men’s fashion.
I know how hard he tries. Too hard. His polished exterior hides the defects I’ve seen up close.
“Were you sniffing the plant? Or licking it?”
“None of your business,” I reply stiffly.
His lips curve into a mocking smile as he tilts his head, letting his gaze roam my body like he still has every right. I fight the urge to grab my jacket to cover myself.
“Are you here alone?” he questions in a tone that makes it clear he believes I am.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead, infusing ice into my voice. It’s not hard given I feel like I’m trapped in a casket, six feet underground.
“Meeting our friends for lunch. Oh,” he tsks, lower lip jutting in a poor imitation of remorse. “My friends.”
A scoff slips out of me, too loud to be missed. I knew he was spiteful, but this childish display of superiority further confirms why he and I could never work.
“You misunderstood my question,” I condescend, faking boredom despite my nerves scrambling from stress. “I’m asking why you are here, talking unnecessarily to me, when you should be with your friends?”
Placing both hands on the table, he leans in, towering over me in a pose meant to intimidate.
“I wanted to see what great achievements you’ve had since you were so hell bent on breaking up our marriage.”
“You broke our marriage when you cheated on me.“ I shoot him a death glare that should’ve singed the gel off his hair. “Why are you complaining? You never thought I was a good wife. You berated me constantly.”
“I was teaching you how to be better.”
My hand curls into a fist, nails digging into my palm.
His patronizing response hits me like a thousand pieces of shrapnel chucked against unshielded skin.
The rage I’d always subdued to keep the peace in our marriage ramps up.
I mentally talk myself out of launching the uneaten gnocchi into his face and inhale deeply instead, letting the dramatic instinct to retaliate subside.
Through clenched teeth, I reply, “Your method involved being emotionally abusive, something you clearly enjoyed.”
“If you only learned, I wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere. My new girlfriend is an upgrade.”
New girlfriend?
“New girlfriend?”
I startle, because my inner voice sounds a lot like my cousin. I look behind Namik to see Irsia, her face etched with irritation. She comes to stand beside me, forcing him to back off. I rise from my seat as well, one hand automatically finding hers as we hold each other for strength.
“Did you get yourself a blow-up doll?” Irsia asks, fluttering her eyelashes innocently when my satanic ex glares at her. “Guess that’s the only kind of woman who can tolerate you.”
“Hey Irsia, tell me. Did your husband really die in an accident or did he deliberately step in front of the car because you’re a bitch?” he sneers.
Irsia’s hand grows cold, her shocked inhale audible only due to her proximity. Seeing his words hit their mark, Namik’s face twists into a satisfied expression as ugly as his comment.
“Have you lost all respect?” I scold, tugging Irsia back protectively.
“The two of you will live and die alone,” he says unapologetically, his declaration landing like a curse.
His black eyes gleaming with malice as they dart between Irsia and me.
“Who’ll ever want you now? One with a dead husband and you—” He points at me and scoffs.
“A has-been cricketer and a worse wife. You didn’t deserve me. ”
“Right, because giving me the STI you picked up with another woman was what I deserved?” I question loudly, uncaring whether the people at the table next to us hear it. I suspect they do because someone gasps, the hum of conversation around me dulling a bit.
Red coats Namik’s neck, embarrassment and anger emanating off him in cloying waves. I want to throw up everything I’ve consumed right there, probably on him.
“You were so cold in bed, a blow-up doll would’ve been better,” he spits. “I’m a man. I had needs and you weren’t woman enough to meet them.”
“One more word out of you,” I seethe, standing tall to make myself seem more menacing than I feel, “and I’ll be calling Rohan. You remember meeting him, don’t you?”
My threat works when he scoffs and stalks off, leaving me with shaking hands and an intense need to empty my stomach somewhere, just to rid myself of the acid he’s stirred within me. Tears blur the edge of my vision as I turn toward Irsia. She looks broken.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t believe he spoke about Samar that way.”
Guilt gnaws at me, the swirling discomfort in my belly rising yet again. Even if I’m not the one who said those words, Namik spewed poison because Irsia tried to defend me. My dismay transforms into surprise when her gaze sharpens, her expression twisting in fury.
“Don’t you dare apologize for that swine. If you want to do something for me, move on and live the best life you possibly can. He’s a gutter rat and it would give me utmost pleasure to see him choking from jealousy because you’re euphorically happy without his toxic presence.”
Maybe it is her fierce support of me that does it, or the remnant frustration from meeting Namik, but I blurt out, “I need your help.”
Confusion colors her face at the abrupt change in topic.
“With what?” she asks, her tone laced with caution. I motion for her to sit again, sliding into my seat. A few of the customers throw us annoyed looks. I don’t want to give them a show when Irsia inevitably freaks out.
“I need to go.”
“Go where?”
“Out of the city.” I pause, waving one hand in the air as I desperately search for a way to put this nicely. “I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“For. . .” I flounder, eventually making a circle with the forefinger and thumb of my left hand.
I raise my right pointer and poke it through the finger loop, thrusting in and out in a move that is self-explanatory.
If my actions aren’t awkward enough, I know my sheepish expression makes it clear I’m not kidding.
She blinks once. Twice. Thrice.
I drop my hands and hold my breath as understanding floods her features. Her nostrils flare, her own throat working hard to swallow what, I’m sure, are questions I really don’t want to answer. Don’t know how to answer.
“Will you be disappointed if I tell you it’s for a hook-up?” I mumble, needing to break the silence that is stretching past my tolerance.
My heart clenches as my gut burns uncomfortably. I don’t want Irsia to think this is a silly idea. Or be worried for me. Or believe I’m a fool for thinking sexual liberation will somehow help me liberate myself in other ways as well.
She reaches over to pick up her glass of water and downs it in one go, slamming the cup back down decisively. “A few years ago,” she says, watching me with a curious look I can’t decipher, “I would’ve told you to rethink this. I would’ve said that this doesn’t sound like you.”
“But now?” I prod, holding my breath.
“But now, I’ve seen that life is too short to live with regrets.
If a casual hook-up is what you need to feel like you’re happy, to find some control in all the shit life has thrown your way, then that’s that.
It’s nobody’s business except your own what you do with your body, Aloo.
But, using protection and being certain you can trust your partner to treat you right in the intimacy of your bedroom—those are the only two things I will insist on.
I worry for you, but I will not stop or judge you for however you choose to move on. ”
“I’ll be safe,” I promise, relief flooding me.
“And the person you are considering hooking up with is—?”
“One of the nicest men I’ve ever known.” Until Callum is okay with me revealing this information, I will respect his privacy. “He’s kind, respectful, and he’s my friend.”
Irsia nods and picks up her phone, scrolling through it quickly. She sits back and hums, like she’s pondering something.
“I assume you’ll be heading to Vegas?” she asks with a single raised brow. “Their game is in a couple hours. You’ll miss it, but you can meet him after. As for the flight and hotel, I know someone who can help.”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just watches me in that way mothers sometimes do. It’s a powerful trick—one I hope to learn someday—that pulls the truth from my unwilling lips.
“I guess I’m going to Vegas.” To see Cal. I don’t even have to say it. I know she knows.
“Yeah, you are!” she exclaims, slamming one palm atop the table for emphasis, startling me with her enthusiasm.
She raises her hand and waves our waitress over, asking for the check.
Tossing a couple bills to cover the cost of our meal plus tip, she pulls me away from our table and marches with one-pointed attention toward her parked car.
“No dessert?” I’m shocked. Usually, Irsia and dessert go together like peanut butter and jelly, like jalebi and rabri, like open-toed sandals and cherry red nail polish.
“Revenge is the best dessert,” she announces with a smirk I haven’t seen on her in a very long time. “We’re going shopping, little cuz. Put on your seatbelt,” she commands, snapping her fingers at me to hurry up.
“Shopping?” I click myself in as we peel out of the parking garage, merging with the existing traffic.
“Yep.” Her grip on the steering wheel tightens as she throws me for a spin. “We’re going to find you the perfect dress to announce that you’re ready to get railed. Mission Alia-gets-the-D is a go!”