CHAPTER 15
Maya
TWO DAYS AFTER MY DATE FROM HELL, MY PARENTS summoned me to their house for lunch.
I say “summoned” and not “invited” because my mother’s tone left little doubt that if I were to skip the meal, I might as well move to another country and change my last name.
“Be honest,” I whispered as I followed Diya to the dining room. “How much trouble am I in?”
She pursed her lips and didn’t respond. She did, however, press a miniature chocolate bar into my hand before she left me to fend for myself.
I knew what that meant.
I was so fucked.
My parents were already seated when I entered. It was Saturday, and they were dressed in their “casual” weekend wear—a cashmere sweater and tailored pants for my father; a silk dress, matching wrap, and diamond jewelry for my mother.
I greeted them and slid into one of the empty chairs. “Where’s everyone else?” I asked.
“Your sisters and grandmother are busy,” my father said after a quick glance at my mother, who sat stony-faced at the other end of the table. “It’ll be just the three of us today.”
I gulped. Correction: I was double fucked.
My mother waited until the first course was served before she laid into me.
“Maya Singh.” Her voice shook with fury.
“Can you explain why I received a call from Brady’s mother yesterday, accusing you of being ‘rude, antagonistic, and ill-bred’ by humiliating her son during dinner?
I did not teach you to make a scene in public, especially not in a three-star restaurant, and especially not when I worked so hard to set up that date.
Do you know what you’ve done? Now the Sinclairs will be telling everyone that I don’t know how to raise my daughter properly! ”
Indignant flames licked at the walls of my stomach. “I didn’t yell at him,” I said. “I told him the truth—which is that he’s a terrible investment banker—and he got mad. He’s the one who made a scene by storming out.”
My mother’s nostrils flared. “Why would you do that? Are baap re, it’s like you’re trying to sabotage your dates!”
“I was trying to give him a chance,” I protested. “But he was a misogynistic asshole, and I’m not sorry.”
“Maya!” My father gave me a warning stare. “Language.”
“Sorry. I meant to say he was a misogynistic donkey, and I’m not sorry.”
His mouth twitched, but that only made my mother angrier. “Do you think this is funny? You are well beyond the age for marriage. You are my oldest daughter, yet you’re the only one without prospects. If you keep this up, you’ll be an old maid like your Meera Aunty. Is that what you want?”
Meera Aunty was my mother’s older sister, and her unmarried status was a source of great contention within our family.
“No, but trust me, you don’t want Brady Sinclair as your son-in-law.” I quickly summarized my conversation with him before my mother flew off the handle again.
Her lips thinned after I finished. “Even so, antagonizing him in Brasserie M was not the solution.”
My father wisely stayed silent. After decades of marriage, he knew better than to interrupt his wife when she was on the warpath.
“This isn’t about just Brady,” she said.
“We tried to let you find someone in your own time. You know your father and I are very open when it comes to love matches. We’re letting Priya marry a sculptor, for God’s sake.
But you haven’t had a serious boyfriend since your mid-twenties, and I’ve arranged dozens of dates for you over the past two years.
Maybe Brady was a bad fit, but there were plenty of perfectly nice, eligible men that you rejected for the vaguest of reasons. ”
“They weren’t that vague,” I said weakly.
“You dismissed one of them because you didn’t like his cologne.”
“He said it was his signature scent, but it kept making me sneeze. I can’t marry someone I’m allergic to.”
My father snorted out a laugh, but he quickly covered it up with a cough and returned to his meal when my mother glared at him.
“Maya.” I could tell she was trying her hardest to keep her voice even. “Like I said, we’ve given you all the chances in the world to find a match on your own. However, it’s clear that’s not working, and you need a stronger guiding hand.”
Ice filled my lungs. I dropped my fork with a clatter and hoped, prayed, that she wasn’t saying what I thought she was saying. “What does that mean?”
My mother smoothed the front of her dress and fixed me with an unyielding stare. “It means if you’re not engaged by this time next year, we will pick your husband for you. End of story.”