“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m so sorry, honey. I promise I can explain,” she says. Hearing Kunal’s voice snaps Simran back to reality. The past couple of days with Neil haven’t been her real life. Kunal is her real life. Their future marriage is her real life.
“Then please do, because it was so shitty for me to hear all this stuff from my mom about you and some other guy!” he yells, his voice barely audible over the shaky connection. “What were you even doing? And who were you with? Vishal?”
“No.” She pauses. What was she even doing? And why would she ever be with anybody in a way that looked inappropriate? That’s not who she is. “I was hanging out with someone I met at my book party. It was Neil Desai, that Indian writer from the New York Times.”
There’s silence on the other end, and for a second, she’s worried Kunal has lost service.
But then she hears his voice, heavy with a mixture of confusion and sadness. “What? You were hanging out with that guy you’ve been following? The one you’re a fan of? How did this even happen?”
She sits down at her desk, her hands shaking as she explains that she met Neil at her party and the conversations they’ve had since.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t want you to think that you can’t trust me. I promise I was going to tell you about Neil and that it’s nothing for you to worry about. You and I just haven’t had time to talk and I . . . I thought you’d be excited. He’s actually a good—no, great—person to be in touch with. He wants to help me with some ideas I have for articles.”
“Well that’s just fantastic,” Kunal scoffs.
“Fantastic? Really?”
There’s only the sound of Kunal’s breathing.
“Hello?” she says.
“So that’s it? Nothing happened? He’s just some mentor you’re fangirling over?”
“Nothing happened,” she says.
“You know,” he says, his voice softer than before, “it’s been hard for both of us since I’ve been in Africa. I haven’t been able to talk to you as much, and when we do talk, we’re fighting more. I know you think I take you for granted, but I don’t mean to. I really don’t. And yes, it’s been challenging for me to accept that there are some interests of yours I simply don’t share. Or understand. But hearing from my mom that you were with some dude came out of nowhere. Kind of knocked the wind out of me, to tell you the truth.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, remembering that one of the first things she loved about Kunal was his tenderness. Being on the receiving end of it made her feel more special, simply because it only emerged with select people at select times.
“I realized, maybe for the first time ever, how you must have felt about Rekha and me,” he says.
Rekha and Kunal became friends on the first day of medical school orientation after they both signed up for the neurosurgery interest group. Thanks to some Facebook stalking, Simran quickly learned that Rekha was single and attractive (of course—and in that athletic, outdoorsy way that makes you want to work out . . . or stuff your face with Oreos). She depends on Kunal for emotional support with her erratic love life, high blood pressure, and family problems. Simran’s jealousy waned after she spent more time with Rekha, but every once in a while, she pictures them in the dark library, delirious from sleep deprivation and their inevitable isolation from the rest of society. . . .
“Kunal, I’m glad you have people in your life who understand and share your interests. And I want you to be happy when I have that, too. I’m sorry everything with Neil started this way.”
“But why? Why were you with him in a way that looked inappropriate?”
She pauses. Why was she with Neil that way? What the hell is wrong with her? Kunal’s syllables anchor her back to the present.
But then another thought emerges. What if Kunal is all she knows? What if their comfort is just that—a comfort—and that’s why excitement with Neil had a chance to break through? She forces herself to stop thinking that way. No, she simply let herself get carried away. Kunal’s her future husband. Her home.
“I’m sorry. I can’t say that enough. And I promise you nothing happened and that we were just meeting to discuss some ideas. Look, I love you,” she says. “I love you so much. Please don’t be upset. I’m really sorry.”
It’s the truth. She tends to miss Kunal the most when they fight, after the fire of the argument is extinguished, leaving only embers of intense longing behind. That’s what happens after you’re together for a long time: you learn how to fight with rhythm, and you learn when it needs to end.
“Let’s just talk later,” he suggests. “I think I need some space.”
Her actions come into focus as reality settles in. Her fiancé shouldn’t be worried or angry or upset. He doesn’t deserve that. Maybe she is at fault. A part of her wishes she hadn’t met Neil, that this whole thing had never been triggered in the first place.
* * *
— —
That Saturday, Simran’s sprawled across an old blanket at the southeastern corner of Central Park. Solitude has become more of a need than a want since she’s been engaged. She doesn’t indulge in any of the behaviors she thought she would: staring at her ring incessantly, binging on trashy wedding shows on TLC, or looking up bridal diet plans. Instead, she craves space to reflect on everything from her career to wedding planning.
God, wedding planning. There’s something about an Indian wedding that transforms an entire family. Every detail becomes a point of anxiety. Mom texts her with important concerns: How will they prevent her dad’s older brother from drinking too much and breaking out in dance moves from Saturday Night Fever? Will Kunal’s endearing but creepy cousin, Dev, try to hit on her picky but desperate cousin, Aarti? What if they run out of hotel rooms—or worse, food?
“Hindu weddings are supposed to be a time for the community to reunite,” Mom tried explaining when Simran asked why they had to invite so many people. “A poorly done one reflects poorly on the parents of the bride and groom.”
Simran doubts that the three-day occasion will be classified as “poor” by anyone. As of yesterday, six hundred guests are on the potential invitation list. There are even people who are still inviting themselves, which can be common with Indian weddings. For some reason, people have no shame against casually mentioning their invitation “never made it” or “may not have been mailed yet.” One auntie even had the audacity to pencil in her grandchildren’s names and a smiley face on the card.
Simran puts on her Chanel sunglasses and people watches. Every New Yorker seems to flock here when the thermometer crosses seventy degrees. A line of girls sunbathe on striped beach towels while a frail, elderly woman skims through a novel with a shirtless man and woman on the cover.