Match Me If You Can

Chapter 1

Seven Signs He’s the One.

Jia Deshpande frowned at the blinking cursor, trying to ignore the voice in her head screaming, There is no such thing as “The One”!

Jia looked around discreetly at the other writers in the office typing away at their keyboards before switching to an Incognito tab and logging in to her WordPress account.

New blog post for Love Better with J

Title: There Is No Such Thing as “The One”

Save as draft.

“Hey.”

Jia jumped. She quickly switched tabs to the Mimosa India article she was being paid to write and spun around in her revolving chair to smile at her boss. “Hey, Monica,” she said, her voice as steady as she could make it.

Monica Shroff took a sip from her coffee mug and eyed the mostly empty Word document on the screen before returning her gaze to Jia. “I see you’re working on the One article.”

“Yes—yes, I am,” Jia said, chin up and a confident smile on her face, as an idea came to her that would increase the word count and cut her work in half. “I was actually thinking of getting some readers to chime in too.”

“Hmm?” Monica raised a brow.

“Like this.” Jia turned back to her screen and typed out, #1: He also tries to keep the spark alive, so it’s not just you doing all the work. “And then we get a reader to talk about how her SO does this, and that makes the article all the more relatable to other readers.”

After a beat, her boss nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Get one of the marketing interns to put out an Instagram post asking people to DM their experiences, then. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Jia turned her chair around and faced Monica again. “What’s up?” Her heart thudded. Had somebody found out about her anonymous blog? No, that wasn’t possible. None of her posts had gone viral—yet. And besides, she wasn’t technically doing anything wrong, was she? She’d never named the magazine, herself, or any of her co-workers on it.

“I finally had time to go through your proposal for the new matchmaking column.”

“Oh!” She rubbed the side of her neck, hoping Monica couldn’t hear the racing of her pulse. Finally. Finally! Here was her chance to actually do something worthwhile and meaningful at Mimosa, instead of writing clickbait articles that only made lonely single people feel that much lonelier. Mimosa’s Indian edition had over a million readers, identifying as different genders and sexual orientations. Gone were the days when lifestyle magazines only catered to cis, straight women. The one thing that seventy-three percent of their most engaged readers had in common? They were all single. The “Mimosa Match!” column had the potential to set their readers up with their future partners and sustain their relationships. Jia had been dreaming of this moment since she first started working here, two years ago.

“And what did you think of the proposal?”

A small smile stretched across Monica’s burgundy lips. “It’s an interesting concept. I love the idea of roping in our YouTube videography team too. You’re totally right, our YouTube stats suck, and this might get us more subscribers.” Her mouth puckered. Just as Jia was about to do a celebratory dance in her head, Monica added, “But I don’t know if you have enough credibility to pull this off, Jia. And even if I agreed, I wouldn’t be able to convince my bosses.”

Goddamn it. Jia should have seen this coming—after all, nobody at her office knew about the hours of hard work she put into her blog each week, helping her own readers understand the complexities of the dating world. In the proposal for “Mimosa Match!” she’d described in detail her two successful matchmaking attempts, but maybe setting up family members wasn’t enough credibility for a column like this.

“Monica, I—”

Monica’s smartwatch buzzed, and she cursed under her breath. “We’ll discuss this later. I have a meeting. Also,” she said, as her eyes slid to the empty desk between the writing team and the marketing team, “since our usual horoscope writer is taking an extended maternity leave, we’ve gotten someone new on board.”

“Of course,” Jia said, although she didn’t quite care right now about the prospect of making a new friend at work. All she wanted to do was prove to her boss that she was more than capable of helming the column. If only she could tell Monica about her blog and her three thousand followers, but given that half her post ideas came from debunking Mimosa’s content, it probably wouldn’t help her case.

“This new recruit, she’s very…knowledgeable, has degrees in creative writing and astrology, studies the law of attraction and manifestation and all that woo-woo stuff. Maybe she can help you with a love life compatibility quiz article or something. Whatever gets us more views.” Monica made a face. “Thing is, she’s new to Mumbai and doesn’t know anybody. And she hasn’t worked at a magazine yet. If you could—”

“You want me to mentor her?” Jia’s eyes narrowed. More work on her plate, just when she needed to put her head down and focus on her column. “When is she coming in?”

“Monday. It’s not a mentorship. Just make her feel at home, help her socialize.” Monica sipped the dregs of her coffee and added, “Your article is due Monday too. Better get a move on it, hmm?”

“On it,” Jia replied, her voice chirpy, but once her boss returned to her private office, Jia’s shoulders sank. She looked at the first “sign” she’d typed out for her article. Keep the spark alive. What did that even mean? Jia had never felt sparks for anyone in her twenty-six years of being on this planet. Well, except for—

Her phone vibrated on her desk, and she rolled her eyes at the text. Speak of the devil. The clean-shaven, muscular devil with those twinkling big brown eyes.

Jaiman:

Your dad said not to be late for dinner. I’m cooking, by the way

She bit her lip. Papa couldn’t go three days without inviting Jaiman Patil to their home. He may have been her favorite person growing up, considering how much time their dads spent together, but things were different now.

Jia:

Tell him to text me himself instead of getting his lackey to do it

Will do lol. You in the mood for lasagna?

Sounds good

See you then

Jia’s fingers hovered over his profile picture before clicking it open. She’d taken that picture about two years ago, the day his pub officially opened to the public. His grin was warm and infectious as he stood behind the counter, mixing a cocktail for one of his first customers. The glint of the bulbs above the bar highlighted the curve of Jaiman’s biceps and the slight brown in his otherwise black hair. Jia wasn’t a good photographer in the slightest, but this was one photo she could look at for hours.

She shook off her thoughts before they could take over. That was dangerous territory. It was time to get back to that damned article.

Jia stretched her arms, flattened the creases on her pink pleated skirt, and had a drink at the water cooler. Then she strode across the room to the marketing department just a few feet away from her own desk. Her four-inch black Manolo Blahnik pumps clicked against the tiled floor, announcing her arrival, and different faces from the marketing team smiled and greeted her as she passed them. In the two years she’d worked at Mimosa, she’d befriended the whole lot. Miss Congeniality: that was probably what she’d win if she ever participated in a beauty pageant. Given she was only five foot three, Jia had no real shot at a modeling career. Although, she wouldn’t mind some world peace.

She stopped at Damini’s little desk and smiled at the intern who was riffling through some paperwork. “Hey, Dams. Got time to post something on IG for my next article?”

“You bet.” Damini pushed her glasses up her nose and grinned. Journalism students—at least the ones Jia had studied with in college—didn’t rank a lifestyle magazine at the very top of their list of dream jobs, and especially not in the marketing department. Damini had confided in Jia that she wished she’d gotten an internship with one of the big English-language newspapers, or maybe even a business magazine, because it looked better on résumés. Despite that, she was their best intern.

Damini typed out notes as Jia spoke about her requirements. “Okay, I’m on it. By the way, how’s”—Damini lowered her voice—“the blog?”

It was really nice having someone to gush to about her top-secret, anonymous project. Jia bent her head lower and whispered, “I got an idea for a new blog post. And the last post got fifteen thousand hits! My highest yet!”

“You’re a fucking queen.” Damini smiled. “What about the column?”

“No luck.” Jia blew out a breath. “Monica said I don’t have enough credibility. She wants to talk later, but we both know that’s Mimosa-speak for ‘Don’t bother me with this again.’?”

“But you’re not gonna give up, are you? I can tell from that gleam in your eyes.”

Jia tossed her short brown hair over one shoulder. “I’ll make this happen. Just you wait and see.”

“I know you will. So what’s the new blog post about”—Damini looked past Jia and cleared her throat—“I mean, I’ll get to the caption copy right away.”

Jia turned around and gave Eshaan Bhargav a beaming smile. “Hey, Eshaan. How are you doing?”

The marketing manager grinned at her, his teeth bright white, sparkling, and impeccable, as always. His dentist must love him, Jia mused. “I’m all right, Jia,” he said. “Are you joining us for drinks at Jaiman’s pub later tonight?”

She started to nod, then paused. Oh, wait. She had dinner—lasagna with Jaiman.

“Rain check,” Jia replied, shrugging. “I have plans with my family.”

“You missed last week’s too.” He moved forward the slightest inch and added, “A little more socializing would do you some good.”

Damini let out a scoff, and both Jia and Eshaan turned to her. “Something to add, Damini?” he asked, grinding his teeth.

“No.” She looked at her keyboard steadily. “I’m sorry.”

“I won’t miss the next one. Promise,” Jia said, and he shifted his gaze away from Damini, his jaw unclenching.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, chuckling, before squeezing her shoulder and heading back to his office.

Jia left for her own desk without another word, and by the time she sat in her revolving chair, there was a text on her phone from Damini. Okay, you realize “more socializing” was code for “sleep with me,” right?

Jia snorted and texted back. You Gen Z kids are very imaginative. He was just being nice.

Damini:

Says the woman who’s a Gen Z-millennial cusp

Jia:

NO NO NO NO NO I’m a millennial and nothing else

Anyway, get to work

Roger that

With a grin, Jia returned to her blog, Love Better with J. She’d started it a little under a year ago after realizing she didn’t believe in the sex and relationship advice the Mimosa writers—including herself—doled out, and she didn’t want the world to believe in it, either. There were no universal rules to love, nor were there perfect relationships. She cringed thinking about last week’s assignment: Follow Mimosa’s 50 Romance Rules for the Perfect Relationship.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to promote anonymous blogs run by anonymous writers who couldn’t show their faces on social media. Jia wanted nothing more than to grow her blog, but if she wanted to help people right now, she had to do it as a writer for India’s biggest lifestyle magazine.

Still, her column proposal was perfect, and Monica should have jumped at the idea. Readers would fill out the relationship questionnaire on the final page of the magazine and mail it to the Mumbai head office, and three lucky couples would get set up on a blind date. With their consent, the magazine would follow the dating journey of the most interesting couple over the course of three months on Mimosa’s YouTube channel and other social media.

Jia knew her mom would have been proud of an idea like this. The magazine was one of the things that had given Mamma strength all through her Stage 3 diagnosis and chemotherapy appointments. Plus, she had been a huge advocate for matchmaking, since that was how she’d met Jia’s dad. It was her stories that had inspired Jia to set up her high school best friends with each other. Her mother had had no hopes of marriage after being rejected by seven parent-approved matches, all of whom wanted a meek housewife and nothing more. Papa’s traditional Marathi family never would have thought to set him up with a career-minded Bengali woman, but after one meeting with Mamma, Papa said he was a goner, their cultural differences be damned. The ambition that turned off those other men was what cemented Papa’s admiration, respect, and eventually love for Mamma. They got married within three months of that first date—and they’d never have met if it weren’t for that matchmaker.

This was what appealed the most to Jia about someday starting her own modern matchmaking business: being the third party that helped young Indian people find love on their own terms—not their family’s.

Convincing Monica would be tough. Jia understood where she was coming from. It was ironic that Jia was teaching people to “love better” when she’d never had sex or been in a serious relationship herself, not counting the three dates she went on with her tenth-grade crush who came out to her before they could go on a fourth. In high school and college, she’d set up tons of her classmates on successful first dates, including the former crush, not to mention that two of the strongest and most in-love couples she knew were happily married because of her.

Case Study One: Mona, her paternal aunt, a widow who hadn’t gone on a single date in three years. Jia had lured her to the park under the pretense of going for a run and getting fit together. In reality, she knew Mr. Khanna, the divorced father she used to babysit for, jogged there every morning. Khanna Uncle had custody of his three sons, who were very, very difficult to handle for a single parent. Enter Aunt Mona, who had baby fever but couldn’t have kids of her own. Jia pretended to be dizzy and asked her aunt to see if the handsome older man doing his stretches had something for her to drink, and Aunt Mona wound up with more than just his water bottle—she also got his phone number.

A year later, Jia danced at their wedding.

Case Study Two: Her older sister, Tanushree, who’d only ever dated emotionally unavailable men from dating apps. Jia knew from a few passing interactions that their new neighbor was single, handsome, and sweet, so she concocted a simple plan. After a casual stroll in the neighborhood, Jia had tripped and hurt her ankle, so she asked Tanu to get the doctor next door to take a look. Sparks flew, they fell in love, and nobody ever found out Jia had tripped on purpose.

Except Jaiman, who hadn’t bought it for even a second.

Then there were her blog readers, who loved her frank, no-nonsense, psychologically proven relationship advice, as well as her matchmaking case studies. If only Jia could show the comments from her loyal readers to Monica.

Jia nodded at her laptop screen. She’d make her five-year plan happen, no matter what. After “Mimosa Match!” became the magazine’s most profitable column—all due to her efforts, of course—she would ceremoniously quit this job, go part-time as a blogger, and start her own modern matchmaking business exclusively for Indian millennials who wanted a relationship that promised both commitment and love, unlike the boring arranged marriages their traditional parents pushed them toward. She spotted Damini across the room, busy with work, and grinned. Hmm. Maybe Gen Z too.

Love didn’t happen by chance, after all—it took effort. And marriage? That warranted serious hard work. But with Jia’s help, her future clients wouldn’t just fall in love—they’d stay in love and work on their relationship together. Just like Aunt Mona and Khanna Uncle, and Tanu and Anshuman.

Jia would make sure of it.

Jaiman Patil was fucked. He sat in his little office at the back of J’sPub, scrolling through the account’s Excel sheet and searching desperately for something in green.

Nothing.

He slammed his laptop shut with a sigh and raked a hand through his curly hair. A haircut was due; so were half the expenses that kept the pub running. Dad had said, years ago, when Jaiman had applied only to culinary and hotel management schools, “Beta, don’t be silly. Get a real degree, then your MBA, and come to America to join the family business. This running-your-own-pub dream is just a phase. You’ll outgrow it.”

Dad was wrong; Jaiman hadn’t outgrown it, and never would. Food and drink were the two things that brought people together—and J’s Pub was supposed to be Jaiman’s way of reclaiming the sense of community he had never found growing up, to experience the wonderful feeling of belonging to someone and someplace.

But then Dad had added, “Besides, there are already hundreds of well-known pubs in Mumbai. Why would yours stand a chance?”

Jaiman was scared his father was going to be right. He had big ambitions and dreams of owning a world-renowned pub in Mumbai, just like some of his more successful classmates from culinary school. That was his big Ten-Year Plan, the one he’d had since that first mixology class in his second year of school when he decided he didn’t just want to run his own kitchen, he wanted to run his own pub, serve signature cocktails, and be known around the world for it. It was a worthy dream, he surmised, something even his dad might someday be proud of him for, if he managed to pull it off. And this Ten-Year Plan shouldn’t have been this complicated, given his frugal lifestyle. His personal expenses were few; his tastes were simple and humble. He’d built J’s Pub from the ground up. Dad hadn’t loaned him a cent; the bank loan was entirely Jaiman’s to pay off. So now, all he wanted was to create a profitable, famous, yet comfortable space that people could come home to, whether that be his regular patrons, his employees, or even himself. That would surely prove to Dad that Jaiman going to culinary school wasn’t a mistake. Sadly, this plan was harder than he’d thought.

Someone knocked on his office door, and the musician/stand-up comedian he’d hired to draw more customers to the pub poked his head inside, his unkempt hair taking up most of the space between the door and the wall. An acoustic guitar was slung across his back, messing up his hair even more. “Sir? Mr. Patil?”

“Just call me by my name, Manoj,” Jaiman said, frowning. “Is it time for your set yet?”

“Oh, um, yeah. Jaiman.” Manoj scratched the back of his head. “There are only, like, five people in the pub. Should I—should I wait for more people to come in?”

Jaiman checked his wristwatch. It was nearly six. Jia’s co-workers ought to have been here by now, as was their Friday evening tradition, and they were a good group of twenty or so. His jaw hardened at the thought of Eshaan Bhargav hanging out at his pub and being a pretentious douche like always—but a paying customer was a paying customer, no matter what they were like. No community could be totally free of rotten eggs, right?

“Wait a little longer,” he finally said. “There should be a larger crowd in a couple of minutes. If not…” Jaiman bit his lip. “If not, then start anyway.”

Manoj nodded and headed back into the main pub area.

Jaiman looked at the time again. At least he wouldn’t have to stick around much longer. He’d leave soon for Jia’s place and let go of all the frustrations, worries, and concerns that held him back every minute he was inside J’s Pub, no matter how much he loved the place and everything it promised to be.

A few minutes later, raucous laughter sounded from outside his office, and he knew Eshaan Bhargav had finally chosen to disgrace the pub with his obnoxious presence. That’s my cue to leave, he thought. He packed up his stuff and headed outside, grinning when he heard applause and laughter at Manoj’s opening joke.

J’s Pub was a medium-sized place by most Mumbai pub standards, with a pool table at the very end that always entertained the four retirees who loved the beer on tap and the occasional scotch. There were six booths to one side, the bar counter on the other side with five barstools, and a few tables and chairs scattered around the rest of the establishment. On most days, the pub was half empty, save for the regulars: the senior citizens, the lawyers from that firm down the street, and a group of women who always ordered blue kamikaze shots. A wildly diverse bunch, not that Jaiman was complaining.

Today, Mimosa’s employees—not counting Jia, since she must have gone straight home—took up most of the space in the pub. Some of them spotted him and waved, and he waved back.

Eshaan Bhargav sat with his co-workers in a booth, listening intently to Manoj and whooping and clapping every now and then at an especially funny joke. He usually flitted around Jia at the bar when she was there, touching her hand or shoulder whenever he got a chance, as though marking his territory. As though Jia was something to be had, not someone to be loved.

Jaiman ground his teeth when Eshaan looked in his direction and raised his glass of beer. At first, he thought he was merely greeting him, but then the bastard mouthed, My beer’s too flat! Jaiman told a passing server to take care of the matter. That man was never satisfied with his drink.

After a quick check-in with the rest of the staff, he drove to the grocery store, picked up the ingredients for a delicious meat lasagna, and headed to the Deshpande residence to cook for his found family at the only place that had ever felt like home.