Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Y ou are an idiot , was Arjun’s first thought when he entered the club. You are a big, dumb, stupid idiot.
Perhaps his first indication should have been that this was the “second bachelor party” for Kevin McPherson, one of Arjun’s direct reports who’d recently divorced his husband. In retrospect, a much larger clue was that the invitation, received in the office and shaped like a crowing rooster, stated that this event would take place at a Castro club called “The Cock.” And, since those two hadn’t been enough to jog his cognition, there were the speedo-clad male dancers gyrating atop raised platforms in the center of the dance floor.
Yes, for the first time in his life, Arjun had found himself inside a gay club.
It wasn’t that he had a problem with being around gay people—this was San Francisco, after all, and back in high school, Arjun had been a card-carrying member of the Gay-Straight Alliance. But Arjun still felt…well, like his cousin’s white husband, Tom, always so out of place at family weddings and his aunt’s annual Diwali bash in Orlando. Arjun moved uneasily through the crowd, wending through sweaty bodies and fields of ample (and exposed) chest hair.
He spotted Kevin and the others in the VIP section, an elevated area cordoned off by red velvet ropes in the back corner of the club. A huge bouncer stood near the entrance to the section, holding a clipboard that looked comically undersized in his enormous hands. “Name?” he asked, his deep baritone booming above the thumping music.
“Uh…Arjun Chowdhury,” replied Arjun, wiping away a spot of glitter that had somehow attached itself to his arm.
The bouncer scanned his list. “I don’t see you,” he said, shaking his massive head. “Not on the list, not going in.”
“Can you ask that table of guys?” Arjun asked.
“What table of guys?”
Arjun pointed. “They’re literally the only ones sitting in this section.”
The bouncer frowned. “Like I said: not on the list, not going in. Move it along, man.”
“It’s okay,” came a voice. Arjun recognized Kevin McPherson, who’d tamed his mess of curls beneath an ill-fitting fedora. Kevin was a coder at PSI who, as usual, was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Tonight’s selection was midnight-blue, with a bright-yellow parrot stitched onto the breast. The outfit was so garish that Arjun half-expected the parrot to start squawking.
The bouncer grunted, evidently frustrated that he’d lost the chance to rough someone up. Still, he moved aside. “Thanks,” Arjun said, following Kevin to his booth. “I thought for sure that guy was about to pick me up and throw me out.”
Kevin gave him a strange look. “I don’t know if he was strong enough for that,” he said. He tapped the table as they arrived. “Hey, everyone: this is Arjun. Arjun, this is everyone.”
Arjun nodded awkwardly, scanning the faces around the table. He recognized only some of them: software engineers from PSI and a few people who worked at the San Francisco Current , the newspaper that occupied the bottom floor of the PSI office complex. Despite being in a dance club, most of the men dressed in the typical software engineer’s uniform: athleisure pants and tee shirts emblazoned with the logos of the various startups where they worked.
He sat down, only halfway planted inside the booth. “It’s good to meet you all,” he said, feeling very much the outsider among Kevin’s friends.
“What’s that?” asked one of the men, pointing to the small, gift-wrapped package that Arjun had placed on the table in front of him.
“Oh,” said Arjun, staring at the box as though just now noticing it. He cleared his throat. “It’s, uh…well, I wasn’t sure if this was an occasion for gifts or not.”
“Are you kidding me?” said another one of Kevin’s friends. “ Any occasion is an occasion for gifts.” Quick as a cat, he snatched the package away and tossed it across the table to Kevin.
Kevin held the package to his ear and shook it. “What is it?” he asked, tearing away the wrapping paper.
A silence fell over the table as everyone looked at what Arjun had brought. Then, suddenly, a gale of laughter erupted.
“…bath bombs?” someone asked incredulously.
“Aren’t you his boss?” cackled somebody else, choking on his drink and erupting into a fit of coughs.
Arjun reddened. He’d delegated the task of buying the gift to Kelley. Next time he saw her, he’d have to explain that the only acceptable male-male gift was alcohol or alcohol paraphernalia—certainly never something meant to be used during bath time.
Luckily, one of Kevin’s friends bailed him out before he needed to explain. “Hey, at least he brought something, Evan ,” said the other man, swiping the bath bombs onto the booth beside him. “I don’t know if these are Kevin’s speed—but we’ll make sure he puts these to good use.”
“Hopefully with a friend,” purred one of the other men, wearing a shirt that flashed with sequins. He stood and clapped his hands onto Kevin’s shoulders. “Come on, big man,” he said, handing Kevin a wad of singles. “Let’s see how many of these you can stuff into that gentleman’s speedo.”
Arjun moved out of the way and let the other men pass. He watched them parade out of the VIP section and onto the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd of bodies at once darkened and illuminated by purple strobe lights.
He sat down again in the empty booth in the middle of the empty VIP section. He glanced over at the forgotten bath bombs and briefly debated leaving the club altogether. After all, it wasn’t like he really knew Kevin beyond their interactions at the office, and he certainly didn’t know Kevin’s friends. Clearly, he’d only been invited as a courtesy, and he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. What else are you going to do, though? he asked himself. Go home and binge Netflix?
A waitress came by and offered Arjun a bottle of champagne, which she cheerfully informed him would cost eight hundred dollars. Instead, he left to find the bar, just below the VIP section near the edge of the dance floor. At the very least, I can get a drink , he thought, desperately trying to get the bartender’s attention with a twenty-dollar bill.
“That won’t work,” said the woman beside him, standing so close that their arms pressed against one another. She was very pretty, with a button nose and a cherry-red ribbon woven into her dark curls.
“Oh, yeah?” Arjun asked. “Why not?”
“Well,” she replied, “the bartender is only serving the people he thinks he has a shot at going home with. And you’re so clearly straight. Which I guess might be alluring to some people here—but I wouldn’t bank on it.”
“What makes you think I’m straight?” asked Arjun, breaking into a sly smile.
The woman chuckled. “Take a look around,” she said. “Do you see anyone else in here dressed like you are?”
He looked down at his baby blue Oxford shirt and sensible brown chinos. “What’s wrong with this?”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Like I said: straight guy.”
“All right,” conceded Arjun. “So, what can a heterosexual like me do to get a drink in a place like this?”
The woman smiled, and her lip gloss twinkled in the club lights. “That’s easy. There’s one exception to the rule from before: be a hot girl.” She leaned over the bar and gave a slight wave. The bartender spotted her immediately and headed right over.
“My God,” said Arjun, leaning close enough to smell her perfume. “It’s like a superpower.”
“It really is. I’d say a display like that is worth at least a drink, don’t you?”
“I’d say so. What’ll you have?”
“Whiskey,” she said, and he ordered the same for himself. “I’m Jamie,” the woman said as the bartender plunked the shots onto the bar. “What about you, straight guy—you got a name?”
“Arjun,” he said, handing the bartender his card. “Leave it open, please.”
“Well, Arjun,” said Jamie, nodding approvingly, “here’s to me being a hot girl.”
They tapped their glasses together and drank.
Three drinks later, Arjun was feeling like the club wasn’t so bad after all. He was almost surprised when Jamie leaned in, her breath sweet as summer in his ear: “Want to dance?”
Arjun replied immediately: “Absolutely.” Jamie extended her slender hand, and he slipped it into his. She led him to the dance floor, finding the seams between the dancers until they were squarely in the middle of the crowd. The speakers were somehow even louder here, too deafening for the usual excruciating small talk: What do you do? Where’d you go to college? You know, I have an aunt in Milwaukee .
The drinks had loosened Arjun up, washing away all of the self-consciousness that always prevented him from having fun in places like this. He danced with a fervor that would have mortally embarrassed his sober self: swinging his hips, throwing his hands into the air, and even doing the YMCA when it came on. He felt like he was swimming in an ocean of sound—and beside him was Jamie, moving like a sea goddess.
Their bodies drew closer.
Arjun’s hands moved to her waist, the exposed stretch of skin revealed by her crop top. With one hand, she reached up and stroked the back of his head, her fingers running through his hair. Her hand tightened, pulling his head down to the crook of her neck. Then, suddenly, she turned around, and they were face to face. The sight of her belly button was almost enough to make Arjun faint.
They avoided each other’s gaze, their eyes never drifting above the other’s midsection. Arjun felt Jamie more than he saw her—like a cool breeze or the heat of the sun. And then she threw her arms around his shoulders, and he grasped her by the hips. They swayed together like sea grass, and Arjun’s eyes moved up, up, up.
Her eyes were there to meet his. She didn’t say anything, but her expression spoke just one word: Yes.
Moving slowly, purposefully, Arjun bridged the distance between them. He felt Jamie’s lips against his own, soft as clouds, tasting of honey, spice, and hope.
The music pulsed loud and bright around them, and the strobe lights of the club shone a thousand different colors.
They pulled apart. Arjun could still feel Jamie’s breath inside his mouth. She had an expectant look in her eyes. He almost had to shout over the music: “Do you want to get out of here?”
She grinned. “My place or yours?”
Arjun took her by the hand, and they wove through the crowd. They picked up their jackets from the coat check and stepped outside. The night air was as crisp and sweet as an apple, and the glow from the streetlights danced in the puddles of water on the sidewalk. Arjun saw the glint of sweat at the hollow of Jamie’s neck, and he felt his desire for her come roaring back. He kissed her again just as their Lyft car arrived.
Their driver was an older woman, and Arjun felt too awkward to resume necking in the backseat. He and Jamie sat apart, their fingers interlaced over the hump of the middle seat. The frisson of desire hung in the space between them like a static buzz. Arjun cracked the window, and the cool breeze swept into the car, carrying the sea fog smell of San Francisco with it.
Finally, the car rolled to a stop outside Arjun’s condo. Jamie followed Arjun out of the car, and he wrapped his arm around her as they walked down the sidewalk. He turned his key in the lock and let them inside.
The lights turned on automatically as they entered, illuminating the cool gray walls and the dark hardwood floor of the kitchen and living room. Thankfully, Arjun had tidied up before leaving for the club. He took off his shoes and walked to the kitchen, pulling a lavender-scented candle out of the cupboard and lighting it. “Can I make you a drink?” he asked Jamie, opening the fridge.
“Vodka,” Jamie replied, peering down the short hallway that led to the bathroom and the two bedrooms. “Whatever mixer you have is fine.”
Arjun filled two glasses with ice from the freezer and poured from a half-empty bottle of Svedka, one of the remnants from his birthday party. It’s funny how things change, he thought, smiling to himself. One week ago, I was abandoned at a restaurant. Today, I’m mixing screwdrivers. He watched as Jamie returned from the hallway. And who knows what tomorrow will bring?
He stowed the orange juice back in the fridge as Jamie joined him in the kitchen. “What time does your roommate get home?” she asked, accepting the drink from Arjun.
“I don’t have a roommate,” he replied, sipping from his glass. The vodka went down smooth, mellowed out by the orange juice. “This whole place is ours.”
She raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “No roommates? In a two-bedroom like this? You’re not married, are you?” She clicked her tongue. “Damn, I really should have asked that before we left the club.”
Arjun laughed. “I’m not married,” he said, showing off his bare ring finger. He pressed a button on his phone, and the stereo system whirred to life. Belle and Sebastian’s “Sleep the Clock Around” whirred over the speakers, the music soft and full of longing.
“You’re not some tech billionaire, then, are you?” Jamie asked, sitting down on the large gray sectional. She folded her knees behind her and rested her elbow on the back of the couch, her face close to Arjun’s.
“I wish,” he replied. “If I were, I’d live in a much larger place.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, smiling. They sipped their drinks, listening to the music. The song changed; it was “Piazza New York Catcher,” another Belle and Sebastian song. Is this the entire playlist? Arjun wondered, debating whether it would be too obvious to pull out his phone again and change it.
Jamie didn’t seem to notice. “What’s that?” she asked instead, gesturing to the large, framed poster beside the darkened flat screen. The poster depicted the cratered surface of the moon. Two orange-suited astronauts (and an orange-suited dog) crested a rise and pointed to a checkered rocket on the desolate surface. The earth spun like a bright blue marble in the inky, star dappled sky.
“It’s from Tintin ,” Arjun said.
Jamie stared at him blankly.
“It’s this old Belgian cartoon,” he explained. “Basically, this reporter, Tintin, travels around the world with a bunch of his friends. My grandmother used to buy the comics for me whenever she visited from India. I guess Tintin is bigger over there than it is here.” He smiled at the memory.
“Hey, do you want to hear something cool?” he continued, unprompted. “Do you see the rocket? It’s standing upright. Not surprising, right? After all, that’s how the Apollo rockets landed. But this comic, Explorers on the Moon , came out in 1952. That was almost twenty years before the first moon landing. Can you believe the imagination behind something like that?”
Jamie laughed. “That’s, like, super dorky.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But, hey, it’s part of the package.” Arjun finished the last of his drink, and he noticed that Jamie’s glass was empty, too.
She looked up at him. Her dark eyes were mysterious and inviting, her irises dotted with little spots of brightness from the overhead lights. She raised an eyebrow, as if to ask: Are we doing this?
Arjun set his glass on the coffee table, and Jamie did the same. With a playful shove, she had him on his back, and she climbed on top of him, her hips straddling his. She leaned down, her hair brushing against his cheeks. He felt her breath on his face just before she kissed him—and this kiss, honeyed by the anticipation, was even sweeter than the ones that had come before.
They pulled apart. “You want to show me one of those bedrooms?” Jamie asked breathlessly, resting her hands on his chest.
“It would be my pleasure,” said Arjun. He picked her up and carried her down the hallway.
Morning arrived cool and bright. Bands of light streamed through the cracks in the blinds, splashing across Arjun’s face and pulling him out of his slumber.
He sat up, the sheets tangled around him. He was shirtless, dressed only in a pair of black satin boxers. His head was pounding, and it felt like a pair of thumbs were pressing against his eyes. He rose and rummaged around the dresser for an Advil. He glanced back at the empty bed and realized he was alone in the bedroom. “Jamie?” he called, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
His dreams came rushing back to him, so vivid that they might have been memories. He and Jamie had just purchased a house together, a Victorian somewhere in the city. As they stood back on the curb and admired their new home, a little boy came bounding up to Arjun and leaped into his arms. He’d instantly recognized the boy as his son, and he was filled with a fatherly affection so deep that he was certain that this was his life, that Jamie was his wife—that he finally had everything he’d wanted for years.
Back in the real world, Arjun padded down the hallway and out into the kitchen. Last night’s candle had burnt out, and the apartment reeked of smoke and lavender. “Jamie?” he called again. “Are you still here?”
Silence was his only answer, and it was weighty and suffocating. Did she step out for a coffee? he wondered, noticing that her heels weren’t by the door anymore. Surely, she didn’t just leave . He checked his phone for a message but realized they’d never exchanged numbers. I don’t even know her last name, he thought despairingly.
His headache exploded into a migraine. Dreaming about something did not make it true. Jamie was gone, and it was as though she’d never been there at all.
He sat down heavily on the couch. Had it been just last night when he’d celebrated his reversal in fortune? When he’d had the kind of meet-cute that belonged more in a romance novel than in real life? Yet, despite all those good, happy feelings: here he was again, with the same howling emptiness lodged like a boulder in his stomach.
It doesn’t have to be this way , said a little voice that hid deep in the folds of his brain. Call your mother, it said . Swallow your pride—because whatever an arranged marriage feels like, it can’t be worse than this.
Arjun stood. He shook his head forcefully, as though he might dislodge the voice from its hiding place and launch it out of his ear. “You’re not thinking straight,” he said, hoping that hearing the words spoken aloud would make them sink in further.
He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and stood in the shower until the water ran cold. Stepping out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, the tiredness hit him like a freight train. He glanced at the clock; it was barely eight. He stumbled back into bed, hoping that he’d be able to fall asleep again.
His phone had died while he was showering, which was a good thing. Had he seen the message on it, he would not have been able to sleep.