Chapter 4
As soon as she got home from work, Jia parked her car inside the garage and headed next door to her sister’s house. She unlocked the door with her spare key, burst into the living room, and yelled, “I’ve found my next matchmaking project!” Then she spotted Jaiman, who stood before her, a bottle of ginger ale in hand, and smiled. “Oh, hey. Did you finish the granola?”
“I did, thanks,” he said, leading the way through the house as though he owned the place. “What matchmaking project is this?”
Jia ignored him and craned her neck to look for Tanu and Anshuman. Jaiman had never been supportive of her matchmaking methods, and she doubted he would be this time. No, she needed Tanu right now. Not the cynical Jaiman Patil. “Where are they?”
“Backyard,” Jaiman replied.
“Let me guess, you’re here as the chef on call?” She chuckled as they walked through the house. “Other people can cook too, you know.”
“Maybe Tanu can, but although I’d trust Anshuman with my life, I wouldn’t trust him with a ladle.” He followed her outside, where she spotted her sister and brother-in-law sitting on the swing, holding hands. “Besides, I like cooking for my best friend.”
“You wouldn’t have even met Anshuman had it not been for the #TanshumanProject,” Jia said. Before he could reply, she jumped in front of the swing and clapped her hands. “Tanu! I’ve found my next setup: a trial run so Monica can approve ‘Mimosa Match!’ and convince the higher ups to let me run it!”
“Ooh.” Tanu raised a brow and grinned. “Tell me more.”
“Well, that’s my cue to leave.” Anshuman chuckled. He thumped Jaiman on the back, and the two friends went inside.
“So, as I was saying…” Jia gathered her short hair into a bun and held it in place with a scrunchie, then lowered her voice, though there was no reason to. “Monica agreed to my idea to match someone in the office. She chose this new writer, and our marketing manager would be so right for her!”
“Who, that cocky guy who’s always hanging around you at J’sPub?” Tanu’s eyes widened. “Eshaan something?”
“Yes!” Jia smiled. “This will be so perfect, I just know it. The #CheshaanProject will be my next victory.”
Tanu gripped Jia in a tight hug, then pulled away to wipe at a stray tear. “Mamma would be so proud of you.”
Jia’s throat tightened as a smile came to her face. “Yeah. She would. And she’d be even more proud once I start my business and do it on my own terms.”
“What will you call it?” Tanu asked. “Jia, Matchmaker for Millennials?”
Jia had already thought of a name. Because once she quit Mimosa, she’d have no reason to continue keeping the blog anonymous. Love Better with J would become Love Better with Jia, and her loyal audience would—no doubt—be her first customers. But she couldn’t tell Tanu the name—one Google search would bring up the blog, and her sister would make the connection.
“I don’t know yet,” she finally said. “I’m sure I’ll think of a name.”
Nobody knew about the blog except for Damini, and that was only because she’d spotted the Love Better with J admin portal on one of Jia’s open tabs when her own laptop had crashed during her first month interning at Mimosa. She’d confronted Jia about it, and Jia had no choice but to admit it—and swear Damini to secrecy.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you met someone too?” Tanu asked, sighing. “You deserve a love like the one you found for me and Anshuman.” She blushed at the mention of her husband’s name.
Jia grinned and patted Tanu’s hand. “I’m happy for you two. As for me…” She looked up at the sky, baby blue and bright with sunshine streaming down upon Mumbai. “There are a lot of nice men around, but I’ve never felt that way about any of them.”
“Yet,” Tanu corrected her.
“Yet,” Jia agreed, then went on. “And I’m not settling for anything less than what I’ve seen between you and Anshuman. Between Mamma and Papa.” She straightened. “Besides, someone’s got to be there for him.”
Tanu nodded. Ever since their mother’s death, nearly six years ago, Papa had become a shell of the man he used to be. Once carefree and jovial, he now suffered anxiety and hypochondria—a combination that did not suit a man of fifty-eight. Perhaps losing the love of your life did that to you. He never remarried or dated. “I have my girls,” he’d always say, “and my boys. I don’t need anybody else.”
His boys. Aka Anshuman, his wonderful son-in-law who actually had a right to that label, and…Jaiman Patil, Mr. Non-Biological Son of the Year.
“But you won’t find love unless you look for it, right?” Tanu pressed. “Things don’t just happen. We have to make them happen.”
“You’re right.” Jia shrugged. Jaiman’s muffled voice sounded from inside the house, and she added carefully, “I just have too much going on right now to look for someone outside of the people I know. And the people I do know…there’s nothing there with them.”
Jia had decided a long time ago that sparks were not enough for love, and she’d only felt sparks for Jaiman Patil. They would never work out. Jaiman had openly admitted, the night of The Unfortunate Incident, that he’d been with a lot of women, that it was no big deal for him to have sexual feelings for someone. And Jia hated to admit it, but with her extreme lack of experience in the sex department, all the history between their families, and the way Papa seemed to love Jaiman more than his own daughter, she and Jaiman would combust and fizzle out sooner or later. Her attraction to him wasn’t worth risking their friendship that was hanging by an awkward thread since that kiss—which had only happened because of a stupid bet.
Tanu sighed and straightened. “Fine. So tell me more about this potential setup. What’s Charu like?”
Jia rubbed her hands gleefully, grateful for the change in topic. There was nothing she loved more than talking about her setups…except for maybe actually setting people up.
Jaiman chopped tomatoes and minced onions with finesse, all thanks to his three years at culinary school and multiple restaurant internships, while Anshuman leaned against the kitchen counter, took a sip of his beer, and exhaled.
“What’s with the sigh?” Jaiman asked. He heard the final whistle of the channa dal in the pressure cooker and turned off the stove.
“Thinking about Jia and her matchmaking. I’m grateful for it, obviously, but also”—Anshuman furrowed his eyebrows—“why hasn’t she set herself up with you yet?”
Jaiman averted his gaze and spoke in a lower tone. “Shut up. They can probably hear us.”
“And they should.” Anshuman set his beer down on the counter and shook his head. “You’ve loved her for, what, fifteen years now? And she has no fucking clue?”
Jaiman said nothing. He and Anshuman had become close friends shortly after Jia had set Anshuman up with her sister three years ago, and now there was nobody Jaiman trusted more than Anshuman Bhatt.
Anshuman scoffed exaggeratedly at his silence, so Jaiman finally spoke. “There’s too much at stake. I’m practically family. She probably sees me as an older brother.”
“If she saw you as an older brother, she wouldn’t have kissed you at my wedding.”
“Hey.” Jaiman pointed the ladle he’d just picked up at his best friend. “Don’t talk about that here with them right outside. Besides, you know how that kiss ended. Message received.”
“Just finish making your dal.” Anshuman sighed again. “I give up.”
“Good,” Jaiman said. He opened the pressure cooker and stirred the piping-hot dal ferociously, teeth gritted. Jia had shot him down once already; besides, she must have a thing going on with that bastard Eshaan Bhargav, based on how she entertained his flirting every Friday night, right before Jaiman’s eyes.
It was agonizing. But you couldn’t control who loved you back, and there was no such thing as a soulmate. So he’d take what he could get: her homemade granola, her smiles and frowns, their fun and sometimes flirty banter. He’d take everything she gave him.
And he’d never ask for more.
“Is dinner ready?” Tanu came into view, Jia trailing behind her. Jaiman caught a whiff of her rose perfume and nearly moaned.
“Give me a few minutes,” he replied, getting back to cooking. He roasted garlic and cumin seeds to add the tadka to the dal, vaguely tuning in to Jia, Tanu, and Anshuman’s conversation about Jia’s new “project.” Her words, not his.
“Oh, she definitely needs my help,” Jia was saying, her voice hushed. “She’s kind of traditional and really shy. When she opens up more, she’ll be ready for love with him.”
“Have you ever considered,” Jaiman said, throwing the roasted garlic and cumin into the dal and mixing the preparation, “that not everyone wants to be ready for love?”
Jia made a pfft sound. “For your information, Jaiman Patil, Charu’s already told me her parents encouraged her to move to Mumbai so she could find someone to marry.”
“And you think it’s your job to interfere and decide who she should marry?” Jaiman retorted. He tasted the dal. Needs more salt.
“I’m helping her,” Jia said. She nudged her head toward her sister and brother-in-law. “If I hadn’t helped these two, the four of us wouldn’t be standing in this room right now.”
“Tanu’s your sister.” Jaiman shook his head. Jia Deshpande was impossible. “This Charu is practically a stranger. You don’t get to interfere in strangers’ lives.”
“If you say ‘interfere’ one more time—”
“Well, I saved a child’s life today in surgery!” Anshuman exclaimed, and Tanu clapped her hands. “Let me tell you all about it.”
Jia didn’t say anything after that, nor did Jaiman. He went back to fiddling with the spices. He was bringing over the bowls of rice and dal and setting the table for dinner when Jia decided to leave, claiming she had to check on her father and make sure he ate on time. Jaiman nearly offered to help, but bit his tongue. Jia didn’t need anyone’s help.
In fact, everyone else in the world needed her help so they could love better, right? Even if they maybe didn’t actually want any help. It was great that Jia knew her shit about romance and relationships, and that her past two setups had worked well. But she couldn’t predict love—there was no algorithm to it, no guarantee that her setups would stay together till their final breaths.
And from the looks of it, the couple in her next setup didn’t even know what they were in for. This was a cocktail recipe for disaster…and Jaiman didn’t want Jia to be the one left to pick up the spilled drinks (and broken hearts). Good luck, next potential project, Jaiman thought. I hope you don’t break Jia’s streak.
When Jaiman got back to J’s Pub, Flora Braganza was at the bar, watching as one of the bartenders on duty prepared a dirty martini for her. It had been her drink since culinary school. Even now, as the owner and head chef at The Fairytale Café, the best gourmet restaurant in all of South Bombay, she hated experimenting with her poison of choice.
“Hey,” Jaiman greeted her, beaming, as she kissed him on the cheek. He sat beside her on one of the empty barstools. “What are you doing here?”
Flora tucked a lock of her straight black hair behind her ear and accepted her martini from the bartender. “I needed a break from the restaurant. We’re hosting this snooty women’s society party tonight and, god, rich socialite aunties are even more annoying when they’re drunk on sangria.”
Jaiman laughed. “Did any table-dancing ensue?”
“I left before it could come to that.” Flora rolled her eyes. “There was just so much bitchiness and drama in the air that I felt stifled, and I bet the other customers did too. I think I’ll have to be more selective with the list next time. No amount of money is worth that toxicity.”
Jaiman had a retort ready on the tip of his tongue—At least you’re in a position to be picky—but he instead chose to go behind the counter and pop the lid off a ginger ale for himself. Flora probably knew J’s Pub was doing shabbily. Anyone with eyes could tell. It would do no good to complain to her. They’d both started their restaurants around the same time after their internships, taken similar loans from the bank—one that Jaiman had yet to pay off—and look where they were now. The Fairytale Café was often featured in fine dining magazines and on the India Food Network, while J’s Pub got tagged in the occasional blurry drunk selfie on Instagram.
And Jaiman had nobody to blame for it except himself.
“So,” Flora said after a moment of silence, “guess who’s in Mumbai?”
He swallowed a gulp of ginger ale and locked eyes with Flora. The flicker of annoyance in her eyes, the borderline hatred in her voice, and the angry red flush along her collarbone could only mean one person.
Jaiman’s jaw tightened. “Not him. Please, not him.”
“Yes, him.” Flora raised her half-empty martini glass in the air and toasted to nobody in particular. “I saw his Instagram story. He was at Marine Drive with some hot girl whose name he’ll forget by morning. Apparently, he’s been here for a few months.”
Harish Chandran, serial playboy and ruiner of the GPA curve at culinary school, was in Mumbai. Jaiman had unfollowed Harish on all social media after graduation. Which prompted his next question.
“Why were you watching his stories?”
Flora’s cheeks turned pink. “I may or may not look him up from time to time. Keep your enemies closer, right?” she added when Jaiman scoffed. “Rumor has it he’s sold the restaurant in Kerala. You don’t think he’s moving here for good?”
Jaiman shrugged. “Mumbai’s a big city. Hopefully, we won’t run into him anytime soon. Besides, that rumor could just be a rumor. Right?”
“Right.” Flora exhaled through her pearly-white teeth, then pushed her empty glass forward. “Can I get another one?”
“Coming right up,” he replied, one concerned eye still on his oldest friend. Now he realized her visit here tonight wasn’t just about the annoying posh aunties.
Flora and Jaiman had dated for two months their first year of culinary school, until they awkwardly lost their virginity to each other in the most forgettable way possible and decided their attraction was more platonic than primal.
Now, years later, Jaiman knew her better than he knew his parents. He also knew that while he hated Harish for constantly one-upping him in every assignment and chef’s competition, Flora detested Harish for breaking several of her friends’ hearts.
Jaiman hoped that the Instagram story would be the last they saw of their ex-classmate—because Harish Chandran was decidedly not good company.