The Arrangement

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

“U m…what the hell happened here?”

Arjun stood before the door to his office, which was cordoned off by two crossed strips of red caution tape. He ducked underneath the barrier and heard a large squelch, and he leaped back before water could seep into his shoe. Peering up at the ceiling, he noticed a hugely swollen section, which had popped like a lanced boil. A steady stream of water poured from above, drizzling all over Arjun’s brand-new desktop computer.

Adam D’Antonio’s huge shoulders filled the doorframe behind him. “A pipe burst over the weekend. Sorry, kid.”

Arjun sighed. Fortunately, he had backed up his computer to the cloud, and he quickly opened his laptop to check that he hadn’t lost anything important. “It’s fine,” he said, moving to leave the office. “I can take a spot out in the bullpen for now.”

Adam shook his head. “The bullpen?” he guffawed, as if Arjun had instead announced his intention to work from the moon. “Son, you just let go of your assistant!”

“Actually, she’s on maternity leave,” Arjun corrected.

“Potato, potahto,” replied his boss, with a wave of his massive hand. “The point is, I’m not going to make you lose your office, too. I’ve made an arrangement for you.” He beckoned for Arjun to follow him through the office. They walked down the stairs, passed through the keycard-activated security gate, and crossed the lobby. Adam pushed open a door on the other side. “Welcome to Narnia,” he said, leading the way into the offices of the San Francisco Current .

Despite working in this building for nearly three years, Arjun had never set foot inside the Current, which had occupied the first floor for half a century. The atmosphere inside the newspaper’s headquarters was immediately different. The Current ’s offices had a distinctly bohemian feel, which stood in contrast with the manufactured eclecticism of the PSI offices up above. There were no neatly ordered cubicles, foosball tables, or shelves packed with Catan boxes and Funko Pops here. Instead, the desks were scattered all over the bullpen like they’d been dropped there by a tornado, and no one had ever moved them back. Old newspapers—some framed, some not—covered every inch of the walls, punctuated by record covers and the occasional Pride flag. Arjun spotted a mannequin in one corner of the bullpen; someone had placed a top hat upon its head, and a sign slung across its neck designated it “Emperor Norton.”

“What are we doing down here?” Arjun whispered to Adam, looking around at the people toiling away on the next edition of the weekly publication. A bespectacled man glanced up from his computer, like a prairie dog scanning for predators, before hunching over his desk again.

“All of the PSI offices upstairs are currently occupied,” Adam explained, opening a side door near the receptionist’s desk and leading Arjun inside. There was a narrow staircase, the ceiling so low that Arjun had to duck his head to descend. “It turns out, though, that there’s a spare office here. I offered to rent it from them, and they were happy to oblige.”

They came to a short hallway, which was made even narrower by ceiling-high stacks of boxes to either side. Arjun and Adam crossed single file, disturbing large clouds of dust whenever they accidentally brushed against the boxes.

On the other end of the hallway was a scratched and dinted wooden door that might have been painted red once. Someone had taped a piece of faded yellow paper to the door: Sprayed for mold, June 7, 1977 . “That’s good, at least,” Arjun muttered sarcastically.

Adam turned the handle and let them inside. “This is it,” he announced, beaming. “Welcome home!”

Arjun could not imagine a worse homecoming. The room was unbearably tiny; if he wanted to, he could have stretched out his arms and touched both walls with the tips of his fingers. A harsh yellow light buzzed overhead like an incessant fly, casting the faded pop posters on the walls in jaundiced tones. The air inside the room was stale and humid, as if no one had opened the door in decades, and the cinderblock walls and lack of windows gave Arjun the distinct feeling of being inside a prison cell. There was a single desk in the center of the room, and a battered-looking desktop that looked more like a museum artifact than a functional computer. “So, what do you think?” Adam asked.

“It looks like someone’s already taken up residence,” Arjun replied, pointing to a still-steaming cup of coffee on the desk beside an open laptop.

“Good guess,” said a voice behind them. Arjun turned around and did a double take.

It was the woman who’d accosted him in the street a few weeks ago. She wore a green cable-knit sweater, the same brilliant shade as her eyes. Arjun thought he saw a flash of recognition cross her face, and he wondered if she had any more insults to hurl his way. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “What are you doing here?”

Adam jumped in before Arjun had a chance to reply. “My name is Adam D’Antonio; I’m the CFO of Pay Systems, Incorporated,” he said affably. “We share this building with the San Francisco Current . Arjun here was in need of an office. Seeing as you have a spare, Mr. Evans, the editor-in-chief of your fine publication, was happy to accommodate us.”

“Well, I’m using this space,” the woman replied, unimpressed. “I think that Arjun—” she said his name distastefully, the same way a person might say “ulcer”— “will have to find another office.”

Arjun felt a funny catching feeling in his stomach, like being on a rollercoaster in the split second before it drops downhill. She knows my name , he thought. Then, he wondered why that even mattered in the first place.

Adam shrugged. “I’m sorry. We just submitted the paperwork to your boss this morning. For the next month, this place belongs to Arjun. Unfortunately, that means that you’ll be the one to move.”

The woman shot the two of them a look so venomous that Arjun actually shivered. She snatched her laptop and coffee from the table. “You can’t always get what you want,” she spat at Arjun. “This isn’t over.” With that, she turned on her heel and stormed off.

Adam raised an eyebrow, and he gave Arjun a look. “Do you two know each other?”

“Sort of,” Arjun replied, still dazed by the interaction with the woman.

Adam clapped him on the back. “Good luck with that one, kid. And, remember, if you need anything…ask my assistant.” With a mischievous wink, he left Arjun in his new office to set up his things.

In a way, being shunted off to the PSI offices was good because it allowed Arjun to sneak out of the building around three. He hurried home and tidied up his place: running a vacuum over the living room rug, arranging a bowl of fruit on the kitchen island, making sure his bed was made with military precision. He walked past the entryway mirror and fixed his hair—then, he realized that he should probably fix his entire outfit. Almost as soon as he’d changed into a fitted dress shirt and dark chinos, the doorbell rang.

His conversation with Sarita had occurred precisely three days ago, and it had been brief. Mercifully, Arjun’s mother had taken her win without gloating, and she knew better than to ask any questions about how or why Arjun had arrived at his decision (though, in hindsight, she probably should have. Given Arjun’s abrupt heel-face turn, an aneurysm was certainly not out of the question).

Instead, Sarita had reacted to his request by pausing, saying only, “Okay. I’ll send someone over this Friday.”

The woman who swept into Arjun’s apartment was short and wrinkled, and she bore a marked resemblance to Yoda. Her hair was dyed a dusky red with henna, and a big scarlet bindi was tacked to the center of her forehead. Arjun stuck out his hand to shake—but the woman reached up and pinched his cheeks with surprising roughness. “Arjun, beta !” she exclaimed. “It’s so fantastic to meet you. You’re much trimmer than in your photos!”

Is there a good way to respond to that? he wondered. “Uh…thanks, I guess,” he said, resisting the urge to rub his aching cheeks.

“My name is Dhanya Agarwal,” the woman continued. “But you may call me Dhanya Auntie. After all, we’re related, no?”

He raised an eyebrow. “We are?”

Dhanya laughed, tossing her head back. “Of course, beta ,” she said. “I’m your mummy’s cousin sister. Well, second cousin. But that makes us family!”

What’s one more aunt? Arjun thought, mentally adding Dhanya to the roster. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said. He gestured to the kitchen island, where there were a few stools; just then, he became very self-conscious about not having a kitchen table. “Would you like something to drink?”

“ Shabash! ” she enthused, clapping her hands together. “Such good manners. I will have tea, if you have it, but none of that horrible English stuff. Oh, except for Tetley. Do you have Tetley?”

“I do.” Arjun had prepared a spice mix for just this occasion: cinnamon, cloves, green cardamom, and star anise. He toasted the spices in a small pot before adding water and four bags of black tea. He could sense Dhanya watching him intently as he grated a knob of ginger into the tea. “It’ll be a few minutes, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Not at all,” she replied. “Not many American boys know how to make chai .”

Arjun smiled. “I’ve always loved to cook,” he told her. “By the way, thank you for coming all the way to San Francisco. I know it was short notice.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Dhanya. “With so many desis in this area, I’m here quite frequently. I tell you, the food down in Sunnyvale is almost as good as it is in India!”

The tea was finished steeping. Arjun poured some milk into the pot until the liquid turned a creamy brown, then poured the tea into two waiting mugs. He’d set a plate on the kitchen island, stacked high with Parle G biscuits. Dhanya was already munching on a cookie, and she took a spoonful of sugar from the ramekin Arjun had placed beside the plate. “It’s excellent chai ,” she said to Arjun, beaming. “Full marks.”

She spooned some more sugar into her tea. “Now, let’s get down to business. You’d like an arranged marriage, correct?”

Arjun hadn’t expected her to be so blunt about it. Subconsciously, he still thought of “arranged marriage” as a dirty word, something people only did when they were out of options. Hearing it so plainly, especially applied to him, was a shock.

He swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “That’s correct.”

Dhanya looked him right in the eye. “And this is what you want?” she asked, her gaze unwavering.

He took a deep breath. Moment of truth, he told himself. No going back now. “Yes,” he said again. “This is what I want.”

She nodded, and Arjun felt the tension dissipate from his chest. “That’s good. I often find that my American-born clients especially go through with arranged marriages only at their parents’ urging. Unfortunately, those matches are always bad, so I refuse to do them. Both parties must be all-in, yes?”

“That seems very reasonable,” he replied. Dhanya was looking at him expectantly; clearly, she wanted him to say more.

He cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, my mother has been pushing me in this direction for a while, but the decision was mine alone. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result. I want to be married, Auntie, and American dating hasn’t worked out for me. On the other hand, arranged marriages have worked for millions of people. Heck, my parents got an arranged marriage, and they were the happiest couple I knew. So, yes, I want an arranged marriage.”

That seemed enough to satisfy her. “I’m glad to hear that, beta ,” she said. She plopped off the stool and produced a yellow legal pad from her purse. “Now, may I see your apartment?”

They proceeded with the tour. There was the kitchen with the stainless-steel appliances, the gas range, and the butcher-block kitchen island—a nice contrast with the dark hardwood floors and the cool gray walls. There was the living room that connected directly to the kitchen, with the tall bookcase, comfortable leather sectional, and large flat-screen television. He showed her the bathroom, with the rain shower and the heated floor. Then it was his bedroom, with his king-sized bed, dresser, and walk-in closet. Finally, Arjun showed her the guest room, which he also used as a home office. In addition to the queen bed, there were walls covered in bookshelves and a large table with a Mac desktop on it and another television mounted just above. Dhanya made notes on her pad at every stop, each pen stroke as sharp as a katana’s slice across the paper.

“This is very impressive,” she said, nodding in approval as they wrapped up the tour. “Very few of my clients in San Francisco have homes like this—except the ones who live with their parents, of course! What do you do, exactly?”

“I’m an executive at a company here in the city,” said Arjun, leading her back to the kitchen. “We help other companies to process online payments.”

“And before that?”

“I worked at a startup,” he replied. “We also did payments processing, but PSI—my current company—acquired us three months after I started working there. I got a nice chunk of stock in PSI, so I’ve been there ever since.”

“That’s excellent to hear,” she said. “It’s always more stable to be working at a large company. And stable is very desirable, where arranged marriages are concerned.”

Dhanya sat at the island again. “I have to say, Arjun, I think that you will be a highly desirable match. I will have no trouble finding compatible girls for you. But, first, tell me: what are you looking for in a wife?”

He pondered this for a moment. He’d always had an idea of the person he’d end up with, but it had always been just that, an idea. Why is it so hard to put into words? he wondered, feeling the weight of Dhanya’s stare. “Someone kind,” he said finally. “Someone smart, with a sense of humor. Oh, and if she played an instrument, that would be even better.”

Dhanya smiled indulgently. “Of course, it’s good to keep the personality in mind. But I was speaking more along practical lines, beta . Do you have preferences regarding your wife’s job? Her height? Her weight? What about her family background? All of these things are important, as well.”

Arjun felt like he’d just had a bucket of ice water dumped on his head. Such “practical” decisions had never even occurred to him. Most of his impressions about how love and marriage worked came from Meg Ryan movies—and how often did the leads in a rom-com talk about managing finances, or who would care for aging parents? “I haven’t thought about any of that too much,” he admitted. “To be honest, I’m not very familiar with this whole process.”

Dhanya smiled reassuringly. “Not to worry, beta ,” she told him. “The arranged marriage process is quite simple, really. Think of it as three main steps. First, you’ll tell me the kind of girl you’re looking for, and I will provide you with profiles of girls who match your criteria. If you like the profile, I’ll arrange a meeting for you; one or both of your families will be there. If you’d like, you can meet individually afterward—but that isn’t always done. The last step is always the roka : your engagement ceremony, where the two families agree to the match and begin planning the wedding.”

“It sounds pretty…normal,” Arjun said, unsure if that was the right word. “If it’s really that simple, how is this process different from being set up by a friend or an American matchmaker?”

She nodded. “For one thing: the families are involved. It’s not only you who selects the girl you’ll meet—her family will also select you . Furthermore, it’s a much more expedient process than American dating. The time from the first meeting to the engagement will take one month. And the time from the engagement to the wedding will take three months.”

Arjun could not hide his shock. “So…four months from meeting someone, I could be married to her?” he asked, suddenly woozy. “Is it even possible to fall in love in four months?”

She chuckled softly. “I know, it must seem very strange. You’re used to the American way of doing things, where love comes before marriage. Here, it’s the opposite—but you’ll find that this process has its own unique benefits. As I said, as a first step, I will present you with biodatas. You can tell me if you like anyone enough to meet.”

He nodded. “And what exactly are biodatas?”

Dhanya pulled a thin folio from her purse and handed him a sheet of paper. “A biodata is like a resume,” she explained. “But much broader. Instead of merely listing all of the jobs you’ve had, it sums you up as a person.”

“Oh,” he said. “How simple.”

He scanned the biodata template that Dhanya had provided for him. It contained everything someone would need to steal his identity…or make a clone of him. There were spots to write down his date of birth, his level of education, his height and weight—even his blood type. There was a blank space where he was meant to attach a headshot. And, toward the bottom of the page, there were sections for short essays: “About,” “Family Background,” “Lifestyle,” and “Expectations.”

Dhanya patted Arjun’s arm. “Relax, beta ,” she said . “This is nothing to fear. I’ll leave it to you to fill out, eh? And if you have any questions at all, don’t hesitate to call. Your mother has my number.”

Arjun nodded. “All right. Thanks, Dhanya Auntie.”

“Of course, Arjun. I’m looking forward to this journey of yours.” She pinched his cheek once more and snagged the rest of the biscuits on her way back outside.

Arjun spent the rest of the afternoon filling out his biodata form. Most of the short questions were relatively simple, except for his blood type, which required him to dig out the forms from his last physical. He passed the “Family Background” section off to his mother, who returned it to him within an hour. For “About,” he decided to keep it simple: “I hold a BS in Economics from Yale and an MBA from Stanford. I currently live and work in San Francisco, where I’m an executive at a mid-sized software company. In my free time, I enjoy reading and cooking.” Sarita had decided that was insufficient, and she’d taken it upon herself to fill out that section, too.

The “Lifestyle” section was easy enough. Arjun didn’t go out much; he was a social drinker who dabbled in pot now and again (although he wasn’t a biodata expert, he knew enough to keep that last part out). He was technically a Hindu, though he only went to the temple when his mother was around. Dhanya had told Arjun to include his dietary habits, so he put down that he was generally omnivorous, with the exception of beef. Perhaps I’m not such a bad Hindu, after all , he mused with a smile.

The final section, “Expectations,” proved to be the most difficult by far. Arjun had always envisioned his life as a husband and father: hosting Thanksgiving at his house, chasing his kids around the backyard, and watching television in bed beside his wife. How can I condense all of that into a single paragraph? he wondered, hoping the answer would come to him as he paced around his apartment. When pacing didn’t work, Arjun decided that what he really needed was some fresh air, and so he left his apartment and took a long walk to the Ferry Building. Unfortunately, he was so distracted by the selection of food inside the marketplace that he forgot all about the biodata form.

Night had fallen by the time Arjun returned to his apartment, carrying a bag laden with pastries from Mariposa and a selection of Kashiwase plums. Some part of him had been hoping that the “Expectations” section would have been magically filled out when he returned—but, frustratingly, the section remained blank. All right, he told himself, sitting down with the template in front of him. Time to buckle down and finish this .

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Dan. You want to hang out?

Arjun sighed with relief. Come over , he replied.

Dan and Erica arrived half an hour later. “How about a movie?” asked Arjun, hurriedly stowing the biodata form inside the silverware drawer.

“We could,” Dan replied. “I had another idea, though.” He reached into his jacket and drew out a tiny plastic baggie. Inside were two neon-green gummy bears, dancing as Dan jiggled the baggie up and down.

Arjun raised an eyebrow. “Are those?—”

“Yup,” Dan replied with a self-satisfied smile. “A new dispensary opened up right across the street from my office. I tell you, Arjun, buying weed just keeps getting fancier and fancier. This place looked just like an Apple Store. I mean, it was practically begging for me to come inside and check it out.”

Arjun turned to Erica. “And you approve of this?”

She shrugged. “Hey, you two are adults. And it’s not like it’s illegal here in California. I can be your babysitter.”

“So?” cajoled Dan, opening the baggie. “Come on, when was the last time we got high together?”

Arjun sighed. It had been half a year since he’d used pot. The last time, at Outside Lands, had left him in a stupor for an entire day. Even now, he could barely recall who the headliner had been.

“Sure,” he said, despite himself. “Why not?”

Dan grinned. He dropped one of the gummy bears into Arjun’s palm. Arjun lifted the bear to his mouth and swallowed it. “Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll see how hard it hits me this time.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “I don’t think they’re that strong, anyway.”

An hour later, Dan was lying on the floor of Arjun’s bedroom, his arms and legs spread out like a giant starfish. “I’m floating,” he said rapturously, his fingers dancing across the hardwood as he traced huge arcs with his hands.

Arjun was sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard. The fan spun above him, and he was mesmerized by the shadow the blade cast against the ceiling. “You ever think about how weird shadows are?” he asked, reaching up toward the ceiling as if he could catch the constantly shifting dark spot.

“Whoa,” said Dan. “Shadows are totally weird.”

Arjun heard footsteps and rolled over to see Erica walking in with a huge bowl of Chex mix. “Hey, Cheech and Chong,” she said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “How’s it going?”

“It couldn’t be better,” said Dan, grabbing a handful from the bowl and stuffing his mouth. “Honestly, babe, you should have done one with us.”

Erica laughed. “I got my fill of that in college, thank you very much. You two brought weed every time you came up from Connecticut to visit me.”

Arjun smiled. “We had some good times,” he said wistfully, staring up at the fan as though its shadow was a projector displaying those old memories.

“Hey,” said Erica. “Do you guys remember that party, freshman year?”

“How specific,” Dan replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Freshman fall. The one where my roommate puked all over Arjun?”

Dan was silent for a moment, and then he began to chortle violently. “Yes, I remember!” he said, half-chewed Chex bursting from his mouth and littering the carpet. “What was her name, again?”

“Violet,” Arjun said flatly. “Her name was Violet.”

“That’s right,” said Erica. “The poor girl had anchovy pizza and seven beers. And all Arjun wanted was a dance!”

Arjun shook his head. “That’s not the end of the story, you know.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dan. “She threw up on you, and you had to wear Erica’s John Mayer tank top until we went back to New Haven. What else could there be?”

“Well, Violet let me into their room to get a change of clothes,” Arjun said. “We got to talking after we both got dressed, and we ended up hanging out for a while.”

“Right,” said Dan with a wink. “‘ Hanging out. ’”

“Gross,” Erica said. “Arjun, I love you—but I don’t want to hear about you banging my freshman roommate.”

“It wasn’t like that. We went up to the roof of the dorm, and we just…talked. About life, all of our plans for the future. I was going to own my own restaurant. She was going to be a zoologist, like Jane Goodall.” He smiled at the memory: him in the too-tight t-shirt, clutching his knees to his chest and watching the stars wink over the Boston skyline. He closed his eyes, and it was like he was back there again, with that feeling filling his lungs like oxygen: infinite possibilities in his life, and the beautiful girl sitting just beside him, her breath fogging in the air. “I’m going to miss that,” he said softly.

Erica had caught it. “Miss what?”

“Nothing,” he replied. His brain felt foggy and slow, like his synapses had been stuffed with cotton. He hadn’t told Dan and Erica about Dhanya’s visit, and it suddenly seemed very strange to him that they didn’t know he was getting an arranged marriage. After all, he thought, they are your best friends.

He sat up. “Hey, guys. There’s something I need to tell you. I’m getting an arr?—”

His voice caught in his throat, like someone had clenched a hand around his neck. His friends looked at him expectantly. “What are you getting?” asked Dan.

“A dog,” he said hastily. “I’m getting a dog.”

Dan smiled. “That’s great, buddy. I’m happy for you.”

Arjun arrived at the PSI office on Monday to find it festooned in red and pink. He checked the calendar on his phone: February 14 th . He briefly wondered why he didn’t feel more upset that he was date-less on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps he was beyond caring? Or, more likely, he cared very deeply but pretended not to, like one of those lonely spinsters who instead celebrated “Anna Howard Shaw Day” on February 14 th .

No, Arjun thought, shaking his head as he ascended the stairs. It’s neither of those. This time next year, I’ll have someone to celebrate Valentine’s Day with.

By instinct, Arjun found himself in front of his old office. The doorway was still taped off, but now, someone had placed a large yellow bucket beneath the dripping ceiling. “I’m sorry about this,” said Adam D’Antonio, startling Arjun. For such a big man, he moved surprisingly quietly. “It turns out this is a bigger repair than we’d anticipated. We’ll need to replace nearly the entire ceiling. Unfortunately, that means we’ll have to postpone your homecoming for a few more weeks.”

Arjun nodded. “Well, at least I have the dungeon downstairs.”

“By the way,” said Adam, “it’s good that I have you here now. I’d like to discuss something with you. We can speak in my office, if you’d like.”

Arjun felt a burst of fear rip through him. Adam usually let him be—and, besides, wasn’t it always bad news when the boss asked to speak with you in private? Arjun followed Adam to his corner office, mentally counting all his infractions, however small: the days he’d ducked out early, the pilfered pens and sticky notes, and—just once—two “PSI” branded mugs from the commissary. But, surely, two mugs aren’t reason enough to fire me, he thought, taking a seat on the opposite side of Adam’s handsome oak desk. “Is everything all right?” he ventured, feeling a cold sweat beading on his brow.

“I wanted to talk to you about the Pacific Bank account,” Adam began. “The one I had you sub in for me on a few weeks ago.”

Arjun nodded. Had he blown the sale? Or, worse—had Pacific Bank walked away from PSI altogether? Maybe it would be good if I got fired, thought Arjun, his stomach tightening. It would give me an excuse to finally buy the restaurant. Or spend all of my energy trying to get married. Another thought occurred to him: How would being unemployed look on a biodata?

Adam leaned back in his chair. “I just got a call from Tom Barnes, their lead rep,” he said slowly. A wide grin spread across his face. “They loved you, Arjun!” he proclaimed. “They signed a new contract this morning.”

Arjun sighed with relief.

“That’s a million-dollar sale!” his boss enthused. “And that’s why I’ve called you in here. I think you have talents that I want to put to use. Specifically, as a salesman.”

Arjun frowned. “A salesman?”

“That’s right,” said Adam. “And, now that you’ve proven yourself, I want to pull you up to the big leagues. That’s why I’m sending you after a much bigger fish: Peacock International. You’re going to India!”

“India?” Arjun repeated. “Like, the country?”

His boss laughed. “Yes, like, the country. I’m sending you to Hyderabad!”

Arjun shook his head. “Adam, I can’t go to India.”

“Hold that thought,” Adam said. He slid open a desk drawer and slid a check across the table to Arjun. “ That is your commission from the Pacific Bank sale.”

Arjun glanced down at the check and could hardly keep his jaw from crashing onto the desk. “Adam,” he sputtered, “this is more than I make in a month.”

“I know! And it’s just a taste. If you close Peacock, you’ll make five times as much.”

Arjun nodded. “That’s very enticing,” he said, pocketing the check. “But there’s a problem with me going all the way across the world: making a sale in the office isn’t like making a sale on the road. I’m not really a software person. What if they have questions that I can’t answer?”

“The bulk of the deal has been worked out already,” Adam replied. “You’re mostly there to hash out any final details. And, besides, you’re not going alone.”

“Are you coming with me?” Arjun asked.

Adam shook his head. “I’m sending one of your direct reports with you. A coder. It’s—ah!” He pointed out the window into the bullpen. “There he is: Kevin McPherson. I believe you went to his bachelor party a few weeks back.”

Arjun swiveled in the chair. Kevin McPherson was digging into a plate of chicken wings, his Birkenstock-clad feet slung up on his desk. A gob of ranch dressing had dripped onto his lurid Hawaiian shirt. The two men watched as Kevin swabbed it away with his index finger and licked it off. “It was a divorce party, actually,” Arjun replied, turning back to his boss. “You can’t be serious, right?”

“That was an unfortunate tableau, I’ll admit,” said Adam, shrugging. “But Kevin is the best coder on your team by far, and I need my A-team on a sale this big. What do you say?”

Arjun’s mouth opened and closed—but no retort came. “I guess I’m going to India.”

Adam smiled. “Attaboy. I’ll have my assistant email you the details.” Arjun rose, and just as he was about to exit his boss’s office, Adam spoke up. “Oh, and one more thing: Mr. Evans asked to speak to you this morning.”

“Who’s Mr. Evans?” Arjun asked, turning around.

“The editor-in-chief of the San Francisco Current . It’s probably nothing. Just going over some house rules while you’re over there, I’d wager.”

Arjun nodded, and Adam sent him off. He descended downstairs and crossed the lobby to the Current ’s offices. “I’m looking for Mr. Evans,” he said to the receptionist.

“He’s downstairs,” she told him. “In the old storage closet.”

So that’s what it is. “Spare office,” my ass, Arjun thought bitterly, taking the stairs down another level, where the world grew smaller and danker. He squeezed through the crowded hallway and pushed open the door to his room, only to find two people waiting there for him. Only one was Mr. Evans, a tired-looking man in his late-fifties. Much to Arjun’s surprise, the other person was the green-eyed woman who had first accosted him over scones and once more over this very “office.” She sat on the desk, one leg thrown carelessly over the side, and she regarded Arjun coolly as he stepped inside.

“Ah, Mr. Chowdhury,” said Mr. Evans. “It’s good to see you. How are you liking the office so far?”

“It’s fine,” he replied tersely, crossing his arms. “Small. I’m sorry, but what is she doing here?”

“Right,” said Mr. Evans, fiddling with his spectacles. “It’s come to my attention that our newest employee was already working out of this space before we agreed to rent it to you. Obviously, the Current must prioritize our own employees, but we still want to be good neighbors to you folks up at PSI. With that said, I’m going to ask if you’d mind sharing the space.”

Arjun was incredulous. “ Share?” he repeated. “This place is a shoebox. We won’t both fit in here.” He glanced at the woman for confirmation; she remained as impassive as a sphinx.

Mr. Evans looked helplessly at Arjun, a sort of my-hands-are-tied gesture. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chowdhury,” he said. “I can offer you a reduced rate on the office—but, for now, I’m afraid this is how things will have to be.”

Mr. Evans gave Arjun one final apology, then sidestepped between him and the green-eyed woman. Did that really just happen? Arjun wondered, too stunned to speak.

It was the woman who broke the silence. “I don’t like this any more than you do,” she assured him. “I’d totally understand if you wanted to work from a coffee shop or something.”

Arjun noticed a slight mocking smile that passed over her lips. She was right: he could go upstairs and beg Adam to put him somewhere else, anywhere else. But Arjun was nothing if not stubborn—and, besides, the office was rightfully his. It’s the scones all over again , he thought. He wouldn’t let this woman take something from him simply by complaining. You won this battle, he thought, staring at the self-satisfied expression on her perfectly symmetrical face. But I’ll win the war.

He set his bag down on the table. “I think I’ll be perfectly happy here,” he said, carefully injecting just the right amount of smugness into his voice. “We haven’t been formally introduced, by the way,” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Arjun Chowdhury.”

She rolled her eyes, as though exasperated that he’d taken up her challenge. “I’m Manisha Nandan,” she told him. “But everyone calls me Nisha.”