Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
K elley Garcia returned from maternity leave on May eighteenth. Arjun was incredibly excited to have his assistant back, stringing a multicolored sign that read “WELCOME BACK KELLEY” across the door of the basement office and even going so far as to pick up two dozen strawberry cupcakes from SusieCakes.
Kelley, on the other hand, was less than enthusiastic upon her return. “So, this is your new office?” she asked when she walked in and saw Arjun’s new digs. There was a smear of dust across her midsection from rubbing up against one of the boxes piled in the hallway, and she rubbed her sweater to remove the stain. Arjun could almost smell her distaste, like a rotten egg scent permeating the entire basement.
Still, he tried to remain upbeat. “This is it,” he said cheerily, sliding through the narrow gap between the desk and the wall. Kelley leaned against the door frame as though worried that the tiny office would explode if she entered, too. She craned her neck to look up at the posters plastered to the ceiling.
“Arjun—where am I supposed to work?” she asked. “This room won’t fit two people.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Nisha, appearing in the doorway behind Kelley. “I’m Nisha, Arjun’s office mate.” Kelley moved aside to let her pass, and glanced at Arjun with a raised eyebrow and a look of knowing: Ah, so that’s why you’re here. He felt himself redden, and hoped that Nisha wouldn’t notice.
“I love your earrings,” Kelley said to Nisha, noting the little silver owls peeking through her hair. She sighed. “All right,” she told Arjun resignedly. “I guess I’ll take a desk out in the bullpen upstairs.” She gestured for the tray of perfect pink cupcakes. “Oh, and I’ll take those, too.”
Usually, Arjun had the stamina to grind through endless busywork—but, more recently, he had found it increasingly intolerable. Perhaps this was an effect of his increased efforts on Raja’s; he’d spent most nights cooking, buoyed by Emily Richter’s interest in his idea.
Arjun had taken her up on her offer to meet, and they’d eaten lunch together at her restaurant, Portofino, in the Fillmore. Over seared branzino, Emily grilled Arjun about every detail of his restaurant: what he planned to serve, where he would buy ingredients, his plan to hire chefs and waiters, and even what kind of soap he would stock in the bathrooms. She seemed especially intrigued by Arjun’s business plan and continued asking why Arjun had chosen that specific Hayes Valley storefront. He had answers to most of her questions, and he expected Emily to be as impressed as she’d seemed back at the PSI offices.
It hadn’t worked out that way, though. At the end of that first meeting, Emily had stood, thanked him for his time, and told him to let her know if she could help him with anything. In the Uber back to his house, it occurred to Arjun that he didn’t have Emily’s contact information; they’d only communicated through her assistant. And, though he’d reached out to Emily’s assistant a few times since that initial meeting, he hadn’t received a word in response.
Nevertheless, he was undeterred in his idea. For such a person as Emily Richter to even be intrigued by his plan to open a restaurant was all the encouragement that Arjun needed. And so he’d continued developing the menu, dropping off deli containers full of food for Dan, Erica, and Kevin McPherson to sample and give feedback.
Back in the office, Arjun was thinking of a new recipe for lamb korma with mint chutney. He’d been experimenting with the recipe for nearly a week now—yet, every time he tasted it, he couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. Of course, it doesn’t help that I don’t even like lamb , he thought.
He stood and shut his laptop. “I need a break,” he said to Nisha. “Do you want to get lunch?”
She looked up from her computer. There was a brief questioning look in her eyes. Despite their promise not to make things awkward, there was still an unmistakable tension between her and Arjun, a sort of What if? that permeated their every interaction. Arjun and Nisha hadn’t met outside the office again since their last visit to Buena Vista, and he wondered if asking her to lunch had been a mistake. Don’t be stupid , he told himself. You’re friends. And, besides—you’re with Sophia now .
“So,” he said. “Lunch?”
“Sure,” she said, rising and slipping into her jacket.
Arjun found Kelley at her new desk, which sat between twin mountains of old newspapers. He cooed briefly at the pictures of Emmylou that she’d set up on the desk, then told her that he was taking a long lunch. “If you’d like, you can go home,” he said. Kelley shot to her feet and bolted out of the office. If she’d been a cartoon character, she would have left her silhouette hanging in the air behind her.
They set out for Dolores Park, which was a mile away on foot. “You know, you still haven’t told me about this new match of yours,” Nisha said as they passed beneath a row of pale purple jacarandas. “What’s her name?”
“Sophia,” Arjun replied. “We’ve met a few times now, actually. I like her.”
“What do you like about her?”
He thought about it for a moment. “She’s very…together,” he said. “Like me, I think. Everything is in place for her, and it’s like marriage is the one thing that’s missing. I think she’s a kindred spirit.”
Nisha laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “So, what does she think of you?”
“She likes me, I think. She wants to get married.”
That stopped Nisha in her tracks. “Really? She wants to get married? ” she repeated. “You’ve only known her a month, Arjun. Less than a month. There’s a gallon of milk in my fridge that’s older than your relationship.”
He chuckled. “You should probably throw it away, then. And that’s the whole idea, isn’t it? You meet someone, you hit it off, you get married. The love stuff comes after.”
They continued on. It was a perfect cloudless day, the sky an unbroken expanse of blue. “So, are you?” Nisha asked. “Going to marry her, I mean.”
Arjun shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t think of a reason not to. Maybe that in itself is a reason to do it.” He sensed that Nisha had some thoughts of her own on this idea—but, whatever they were, she kept them to herself.
Mission Dolores Park was a broad stretch of grass overlooking downtown San Francisco. Despite the fact that it was midday on a Monday, the park was packed: hundreds of people lounged on the grass, posted up in camping chairs or on picnic blankets. Vendors moved through the crowds, selling popsicles and pre-rolled joints. A circle of teenagers kicked around a hacky sack, and a group of elderly women did Tai Chi nearby. “That looks fun,” Nisha said, pointing to a group playing beer pong (for which they’d set up a table in the center of the park).
“I think my beer pong days are behind me,” Arjun replied with a smile.
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, old man. Come on, then: let’s eat.”
There were a few food trucks lined up on one side of the park, and Arjun and Nisha split off. He got a Piri Piri chicken sandwich from a Portuguese truck that he recognized from an event at PSI; she returned with a plate of bright-orange tofu tikka masala.
“What do you think is happening over there?” asked Arjun, looking further down the field. A few dozen folding tables had been set up, piled with clothes and knickknacks.
Nisha squinted at the sandwich board sign standing near the table. “Looks like it’s a flea market,” she said. “Let’s check it out!”
“Can we at least eat first?” he asked—but she was already striding across the grass. “Wait up!” he called over a bite of his sandwich.
A small band was playing nearby, and Arjun leaned over to drop a few dollars in their open guitar case. “Think they’re any good?” he asked as the band launched into one of their songs.
“I’m a sucker for live music,” Nisha said. “There’s just something about it, you know? Honestly, it’s better than sex.”
Arjun laughed. “We should go to a concert together sometime.”
She grinned mischievously. “We’re at a concert now, aren’t we?”
They made their way over to the flea market. The tables were bursting with all manner of odds and ends. Mountains of furniture stood on the grass: desks and dressers, beanbags and stools, and a complete dining set with chairs shaped like cupped hands. Mannequins in Victorian dress luxuriated in the aisles between the tables, with flowing capes and elegant jackets, tulip-shaped crinolines, and feather boas draped lazily around their necks. Nisha picked a flaming pink hat up off the nearest mannequin and placed it atop her head; the brim flopped over her eye. “What do you think?” she asked.
Arjun checked the tag. “Eight bucks. Not bad. I think we can do better, though.”
Nisha pawed through a rack of jackets and took one off the hanger. She looked thoughtfully at it, then held it up for Arjun to inspect. The jacket had a tawny suede torso, with sleeves and shoulders made of weathered gray wool. “Try this on.”
Arjun was generally opposed to the idea of wearing someone else’s clothing, but he acceded to Nisha’s request. “What do you think?”
“It looks great,” Nisha said, grabbing his arms and looking him up and down. “Can I get it for you?”
“You like it that much?”
“I do. And, let’s be honest: you need all the help you can get.”
Arjun laughed. Nisha paid for the jacket (despite his protest), and he slung it over his shoulder. They circled around, closer to the band once more. “Do you know that song?” she asked him. “It sounds so familiar.”
He nodded. “It’s San Francisco, by Scott McKenzie,” he said. “I think it came out in the sixties.”
“Is it famous?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s in every tourism advertisement for SF. Which, if you ask me, is where they should leave it.”
Nisha grinned. “I never took you for a snob, Arjun.”
“I’m not a snob,” he protested. “I just have good taste.”
She threw her head back with laughter. “That’s exactly what a snob would say.”
They stopped in front of one of the tables. A selection of clothing was laid across it—but that wasn’t what had caught Nisha’s eye. A snow-white electric guitar lay on the pile of clothes, as sleek and shiny as a sports car.
She picked up the guitar. “Watch this,” she said, bounding back over to the band. What is she doing? Arjun wondered as Nisha leaned over to the singer and whispered a few words in his ear. From his vantage, Arjun could just barely make out the words the singer was saying: Sure, you can do that.
The guitarist reached into his vest and handed Nisha a pick. She plays? Arjun thought as she moved her fingers over the frets of the white electric guitar and mouthed a few words to the band. The drummer nodded and clicked his sticks together; the bass player strummed out a few notes. Then, the singer held the microphone close to his lips and began to sing.
The melody was instantly recognizable to Arjun; he’d just heard it, of course. It was the same old song: Scott McKenzie’s San Francisco.
And yet…there was something different about it this time.
What is it? he wondered. The music pulsed forth from the speakers, enveloping him in a pocket of sound.
Before he knew it, the singer had crested the rise of the second chorus and stepped aside. Nisha approached the microphone and began to play.
Her solo did not follow the main melody of the song. She had reworked it, hanging an entirely new structure off of the old chords like a master seamstress, turning a worn-out garment into a dazzling new dress. The notes of the electric guitar sounded across the park, pure and bright and full of longing. A deep, wistful feeling filled Arjun’s chest, as though he’d just discovered that something essential was missing from his life, something as vital as oxygen, or light, or love. He found himself putting words to the melody: If you’re going to San Francisco / Gentle people, with flowers in their hair.
The solo ended, and the song finished. Arjun approached the band, clapping wildly. He heard others applauding, as well; many of the shoppers at the flea market had stopped to watch the performance. They’re all clapping for Nisha , he realized.
Standing with the band, Nisha beamed with delight and took her bow. As she straightened, she caught Arjun’s eye and winked. Was that the wind, or did my heart skip a beat? he wondered.
She rushed up to him and threw herself into his arms. “Nisha, that was amazing,” Arjun said breathlessly. “I mean, the guitar—and that song! My God, it was even better than the original. It was so…” he searched for the right word. “Romantic.”
Nisha blushed. “How could you not be romantic about San Francisco?” she asked him—and, for a moment, Arjun could swear that she was looking right into his soul.
Arjun spent the rest of the day pondering that feeling he’d had at Dolores Park. Clearly, something was missing from his life—but what was it? Was it Raja’s, the dream of a restaurant that was just a heartbeat away from being reality? Was it his father—the person who, ten years later, he still most wanted to see?
Or was it something else entirely?
He kept toying with the question that night at dinner with Sophia. Funnily enough, she’d suggested that they eat at Leather and Wood, having told Arjun that she’d “heard amazing things” and that the quail sous vide was “to die for.” Arjun didn’t let on that he’d been there before, only telling Sophia he was excited to go there with her.
“So, how did everything go at Stanford?” Arjun asked her once they had sat down and gotten their food. “Today was the first time you’d met all the econ department faculty at once, right?”
“That’s right,” Sophia said. “I told you how intimidated I was going into it. I mean, there are two Nobel winners on staff. But, honestly, it could not have gone better. Everyone was so incredibly nice. One of the Nobelists even asked if I’d be interested in writing a paper with him.” She smiled and reached across the table. “I’m really excited to start, Arjun.”
He stroked her fingers. “I’m happy for you,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe there’s a Nobel in your future, too.”
She gasped. “Don’t even joke about that. I would literally die.”
She sliced open a square of summer squash ravioli and tucked it neatly into her mouth. “You know, there’s another faculty meeting happening in a few weeks. The econ department throws a big party at the end of the school year. It’s for professors…and their partners.”
She looked pointedly at Arjun.
He nodded. He knew this could be the first of many such occasions with Sophia: accompanying her to faculty parties, conferences, commencements. There would be Thanksgivings and Christmases, birthdays and funerals. There would be weddings—maybe even their wedding. The very thought was like a rush of wind blowing through him.
He still didn’t know if he wanted it with Sophia, not really. They hadn’t known each other long enough to know. But he knew that he wanted to be married. He wanted it desperately—so desperately that he envisioned his future life with a fervor that made it seem real , as though he were not just envisioning it but living it. He was finally connected to another person, and he felt…
Complete.
And, suddenly, he realized what that feeling was, the one that had first stirred during Nisha Nandan’s performance and had been gnawing at him since. It was a deep ache, a puzzle with a single missing piece—except he didn’t know the shape of the piece, or even what the puzzle was supposed to look like in the first place.
But what if it’s right here? he wondered. He’d been grasping at it like a blind man in the dark—but what if the key to his happiness was in front of him? What if she was in front of him?
Across the table, Sophia set her fork down. “Arjun,” she said, looking up at him, her dark eyes like pools of water. “Are you doing okay?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m fine, really.”
“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” she asked, leaning back. “You know, a few days ago, when I told you how quickly this process can move—I sensed that I might have freaked you out a little.”
She sighed. “I just need to get this out there: I want to be married. I know we’re not ‘in love’ or anything like that, but…I can see it with you, all right? And I need to know: are you there yet? Can you see it with me? Because, if not, we’re just wasting our time here.”
He said nothing for a moment. His tongue probed the inside of his cheek as though it was searching for some answer carved into the delicate tissue. This is it, he told himself. No turning back now.
He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it, Sophia.” He reached across the table and clasped her hand in his.
She exhaled with relief. “I’m really happy,” she said, smiling. “Let’s get married.”