Chapter 16
It was November 26, six years since Mamma’s death, and Jia had made it a ritual to donate at least part of her wardrobe to charity every year. Right now, the ritual was helping Jia pay tribute to her mother and get through the heartbreaking memories that always surfaced, but it also served as a distraction from her Love Better with J inbox. Almost a week had passed since she wrote to TheReMix, and they hadn’t replied yet or commented on her recent post. Which was fine. She wouldn’t let the shocking betrayal of an anonymous friend, if you could still call them that, keep her from going about her life.
Jia wiped some sweat off her brow and ducked down to the bottom shelf of the storage closet in the guest bedroom to inspect the many pairs of heels she hadn’t worn in years. They weren’t in style anymore, unfortunately; Jia used to love wearing many of these. She put them into the box labeled Accessories to Donate, which was already filled with designer purses and some of Papa’s old belts and wallets. Then she turned her attention to the mountain of dusty clothes strewn haphazardly in the closet. Jia wrinkled her nose and dove in, prepared to get her hands dirty.
An hour later, when the box of clothes was almost full and the closet almost empty, a red box caught her eye from under some documents on the bottom shelf. She pulled it out and opened it, and her heart plummeted when she saw its contents. Tanu’s wedding outfit was at her and Anshuman’s place, which meant this beautiful, sparkly crimson lehenga with a gold-lined bodice must have been Mamma’s.
Jia clapped a hand over her mouth and stared in awe at the outfit and jewelry now laid out on the bed. She’d seen videos and photos of Papa and Mamma’s wedding ceremony, of course, gasped at the stunning beauty that was twenty-three-year-old Amrita Deshpande née Ganguly as she walked to the altar looking like a goddess in red. One of those wedding photos was framed on the wall above their living room couch too.
Almost as though she couldn’t help herself, Jia shut the door to the room and shimmied out of her pajamas. Then she ran her fingers over the dark red fabric, her throat tight, before slipping on the blouse and skirt that fit like they were stitched for her. She draped the dupatta over her head bridal-style, and walked over to the floor-length mirror next to the door. Once again, her hand flew to her mouth.
Jia had always thought she took after Papa—she had his soft jaw, the same high cheekbones, and straight black hair that she had dyed brown. In this moment, though, she looked exactly like Mamma on her wedding day. They had the same petite body shape, Jia now realized, and the curious dark eyes that commanded attention with or without coats of makeup.
“Mamma,” Jia whispered, reaching forward to touch her reflection in the mirror, lowering her gaze to her hand, “I miss you so much.”
A knock on the door jarred her, and she backed away from the mirror. “Jia?” Jaiman called out. “Uncle asked me to give you a hand sorting through the clothes. Can I come in?”
“No!” she exclaimed, looking at the door in horror. “Stay outside!”
“Are you okay?” Jaiman’s voice rose. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m…” She exhaled, then opened the door a crack. Jaiman’s tall frame and wide eyes greeted her. “I’m in a wedding dress.”
Jaiman lifted his hand, as though to push the door open, then dropped it, though his lips bloomed into a wide grin. “Sorry, uh, I’ll come back later.”
Jia nodded and shut the door. It was time to snap out of this nostalgic haze and get back to the real task at hand. She twisted her hands back to unzip the blouse, but it was stuck. Even looking in the mirror didn’t help. She groaned, then yelled, “Jaiman, you there?”
“Yeah,” he called back. “Still here.”
She opened the door and let him inside. His intense gaze seemed to drink her in, his mouth set in a hard line as his eyes looked over her body—not in the lustful way Eshaan had done at the café, but as though he was bewitched by her. The thought made her blush, so she cleared her throat. “It’s Mamma’s.”
“I figured,” Jaiman replied. He steered her over to the mirror, looked right into her eyes, and spoke. “I know you said at…the wedding last year…that you probably won’t ever get married.”
Jia held back a gasp. Was this the first time they’d talked about The Unfortunate Incident since it happened? She swallowed and said, “I said that, yes.”
“God, Jia,” he murmured, smoothing the dupatta on her head over her hair, “you’d make the world’s most beautiful bride.”
She chuckled, though her chest was heaving with conflicting emotions she couldn’t differentiate. “Since when are you the expert on wedding fashion, Jaiman Patil?”
He smirked, walking over to the bed and picking up a set of red wedding bangles from the box. He slid them over her hands, his fingers brushing every nerve ending on her arm. “I may not be an expert at fashion, but I have eyes. And right now”—his voice dropped low—“they can’t stop looking at you.”
Her eyelashes fluttered shut as his hands, warm and big, moved up from her wrists to her bare shoulders. He’d held her in a similar way when they kissed, like a promise that she was safe in his grasp, that she would be soothed by his lips forevermore. But his lips weren’t enough, nor was his embrace. She wanted love, real love, not a fling with the attractive man she’d known for twenty-six years who hadn’t ever had a serious relationship.
Jia’s eyes flew open, and she remembered the real reason she had opened the door for Jaiman. “Can you unzip the blouse and leave?” Her words came out harsher than she’d intended them to, and she bit her tongue.
Jaiman blinked and stepped away, nodding. His hand lingered briefly on the back of her blouse until he fiddled with the zipper and pulled it all the way down. She was about to say thank you when he strode outside, shutting the door behind him.
Jia thought she heard him mumble “Fuck,” before his heavy footsteps thudded down the staircase, away from her.
Jaiman didn’t stop walking until he got to his car parked outside the Deshpande residence, not even caring to say goodbye to Devdutt Uncle. He leaned against the car, one trembling hand fisted in his hair. What was wrong with him? I have eyes. And right now they can’t stop looking at you. Who talked like that?
Clearly, it had weirded Jia out—which was for the best, because if she had waited even a second longer to tell him to leave, he would have pinned her against the mirror and kissed her until he couldn’t breathe, and that would have violated the promise he’d made to her a year ago.
But she’d looked so…fuck. He wiped his face and looked up at the blue sky and the occasional cloud floating past the afternoon sun. He had never dreamed of his own wedding day until he saw Jia in that lehenga, and now that he had, he couldn’t stop picturing her walking up to him, decked out in red and gold from head to toe. She wouldn’t be the demure, shy bride lowering her gaze to the floor. No, she’d be looking straight ahead and beaming at him with her trademark Jia Deshpande brand of confidence. Given their height difference, she’d have to stand on her tiptoes to put the flower garland around his neck—so he would bow his head for her. He’d do anything for her. They would walk around the holy pyre seven times, vowing to love each other until their dying breaths, and beyond.
Later, they’d celebrate their marriage with their friends and family, and then with each other in the privacy of their marital bed. He’d worship every inch of her. Not just for that one night, but for the rest of his life.
What a pipe dream.
Just as Jaiman got into his car, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from one of his three Bumble matches asking if he was free next week for dinner. He raised his gaze to the Deshpande mansion, his mouth parched. Jia had given him enough signs that she didn’t want him in return. This was his chance to move on from a wedding that would never be. He licked his dry lips and typed back, Sure, how about Wednesday?
He put his phone down, only for it to buzz with a Gmail notification. The email was from Harish Chandran.
You are cordially invited to the opening of Vodka Vada, the gourmet South Indian pub that is all set to revolutionize Mumbai’s restaurant industry.
That’s humble,Jaiman thought. He returned to the email. It was next to next Saturday. The last line of the email said: PS: Don’t forget to bring your date!
Jaiman tugged on his bottom lip. No way was he showing up to Harish Chandran’s party solo. He returned to his Bumble chat, wondering if asking her to the launch party was a good date idea. Then he decided against it. No. He couldn’t bear the thought of being at that party, but he knew he had to show up. And he couldn’t do it with a complete stranger by his side. He needed someone who could stand up to Harish.
He texted Flora. You free?
Flora:
I’m dying, the restaurant is PACKED today. What’s up?
Jaiman:
I just got an invite to Harish’s pub opening in a couple of weeks.
Ugh, that. He invited me too. What an arrogant, douchey email.
Are you going??
Yeah I have to. I bet the press would have a field day if they found out I was invited but didn’t go. People are already talking about the pub.
Jaiman smiled. Thank goodness. He could always rely on her. Cool, be my date?
Lol that’s a bad idea. He’ll just make fun of us for being “forever alone but together” like he did in culinary school.
We can’t go stag though…
Oh definitely not. I’m going to ask one of my sexy model friends to be my date. That’ll show Harish. Asshole.
He exhaled. Damn Flora and her huge social circle.
Jaiman:
And what about me? Who do I bring? I know zero sexy supermodels.
Flora:
Why don’t you ask Jia?
He put the phone down and thought hard. Bringing Jia was a good idea—she was always up for a party—but Saturday was usually game night or dinner with the family. Devdutt Uncle, Anshuman, and Tanu could spend the evening by themselves for once. He considered texting her now, but it was too weird after what had just happened. He’d invite her soon…just not today. With a grunt, he turned the key in the ignition and drove off, determined not to let Harish—or his feelings for Jia—control his life any longer.
Jia stepped away from the window as Jaiman’s car disappeared from view. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sat down on the bed with a thump, the donation boxes resting on the floor beside her. She shouldn’t think about that moment in front of the mirror. The things he said. The heat of his body against hers. That look in his eyes when he slid the bangles up her hands.
No. She had other things to focus on, like the donation boxes, or celebrating Mamma’s life and her memories. Not her attraction to—
Don’t you dare even think it.Jia picked up her phone for a distraction and gasped. There was a notification from Love Better with J’s account from an hour ago. With a start, she got up and checked the email, her heart beating wildly.
Hi, J. I’m sorry for taking this long to reply, but I had to figure out what to say first. And work’s been exhausting, like always.
Fuck, I guess I overreacted. I didn’t mean to upset you or hurt you. I stand by what I said, and I disagree with your advice, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you and your blog. I’m still subscribed to it, and I went through the new post. I’ll comment on it when I get a minute.
And chin up—I’m sure the matchmaking thing will work out perfectly
TheReMix
“Oh my god,” Jia breathed. Her hands were shaking, so she set the phone down and went to the bathroom to splash water on her face. They replied…finally! And they didn’t hate her. What a relief!
As Jia and the housekeeper loaded the donation boxes into her car, she replayed their exchange in her head, imagining TheReMix’s blurry, faceless figure typing out a response, a smile on their face. Did they have a nice smile? She was sure they did. Her stomach fluttered. She didn’t know anything about who they were in real life—not even their gender—but the way they made her feel…she’d only felt this way about one person before. Jaiman.
But she’d accepted that she and Jaiman had no future, and the same applied to TheReMix. They were just a reader of her anonymous blog. An anonymous online friend. Not anything else.
Right?
Right.
Jia drove to the nonprofit foundation that took her donated clothes each year, smiling when the volunteers thanked her for her contribution and promising them she’d be back next year. When she was in her car again, she took out her phone and swiped through her photo gallery until she got to the pictures of her mom before her diagnosis. She was so beautiful in them…strong and healthy. Happy, with no knowledge of what was to come. Jia wiped away a stray tear and hugged the phone to her chest. “I hope you’re proud of me, Mamma.”
Then she let out a breath and drove home, eager to return to her laptop, send an email to TheReMix, and enjoy the rest of her Sunday.