“Fine. Go eat something.”
“Yes, Mom. Bye.” He hung up and adjusted the computer so it was positioned on top of the stack of books with the screen at eye level to where he’d be sitting for dinner.
Then he let out a frustrated groan.
The only person he’d met in his life who was worse than his mother was Kareena. His mother made his life difficult, but Kareena Mann had straight up ruined it.
Which in turn meant he had to deal with his mother.
He recalled his week like a bad highlight reel. His meeting after the show from hell was a dud, and then he received a call from Gregory at LTD Financial, his largest investor, who pulled out after seeing the viral video. That meant Prem had four months to come up with a lot more money than he expected. The funds he needed were now well beyond what he’d hoped to raise. Then, his producers had been sending him scripts all week about a new love segment in an effort to capitalize on his viral fame.
His laptop pinged with an incoming call, and Prem sat up to answer it. Always the punctual one, Benjamin Padda’s name popped up on the screen, then his face appeared moments later. Prem’s best friend grinned at him.
“Oh hey, it’s that doctor who went viral for getting fucked on a TV show for South Asian aunties. Did you know there are memes out there of your clueless face while you’re getting roasted?”
“Up yours,” Prem said. “Not only has this been a shit week, but I also just got off a call with my mother who is not happy. I really could use some compassion right now.”
Bunty snorted. “Then why did you agree to dudes’ night? If you think I’m bad, wait until Deeps shows up. He’s worse.”
“Don’t I know it. Normally he sends a text or two during the week, but I haven’t heard from him at all. Radio silence.”
The doorbell rang.
“Speak of the devil himself,” Bunty said.
Prem braced himself before he went to open the door. On the other side, Deepak Datta, best friend since Columbia, wearing a suit and a Rolex that cost more than Prem’s mortgage, shoved a large reusable shopping bag in Prem’s arms.
“You’re one dumb motherfucker.”
Okay, he was pissed.
“Yeah, it was bad—”
“And what did I tell you about social media?” Deepak said as he toed off his loafers. “When I connected you with my network head, what did I tell you about using your online presence?”
“Uh, that Twitter is toxic?”
“It’s your fucking brand, Prem! Social media is part of your brand. You should’ve done damage control.” Deepak strolled into the apartment, tossed his jacket over one of the chairs, and reached for a whiskey glass. After raking a finger through his hair, which fell back perfectly in place, he said, “Why didn’t you make a statement on how important emotional connections are? Something to make you look less like an idiot. What up, Bunty?”
Bunty toasted his webcam. “Cheers, brother. Ignore me, I’m here for a show.”
“If you wanted me to make a statement, why didn’t you tell me?” Prem said as he locked the door. He carried the bag to the dining table, smelling the contents along the way. “As the owner of the network, isn’t that your job?”
Deepak poured a shot and tossed it back. “I’m the owner of a network, not your personal manager, Prem. As it is, I’m buying the Chinese food. That should be enough.”
“Don’t even start with me.” Prem began taking out white cartons and set them between the three place mats. “I had to check out that acne cyst on your balls last year because you refused to see a doctor. I’m still collecting my appointment fee.”
“Lucky,” Bunty said. He held up a carton. “Not about the ball zit. About the free food. I always have to pay for my own.”
Prem poured some lo mein onto his plate. “Can we focus, please? Because of one woman who went absolutely ballistic—”
“—that you left in my office,” Bunty interrupted. “I saw that security camera footage. You need help, dude.”
Prem scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m glad we didn’t actually hook up then. But gentlemen, because of this woman, I’ve now lost my biggest donor. What’s worse, the location that I want needs the money by September. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Bunty motioned to the screen with a similar set of chopsticks. “Hold up. How bad is this? Like, can this blow over?”
“Hell no,” Deepak and Prem said simultaneously.
“He’s officially known as a desi fuckboy now,” Deepak said. “Bindu’s YouTube video hit three million views and was picked up by mainstream local news.”
And because Rina, or Kareena, actually threw a bottle of Pedialyte at him. He had to smell like starchy baby vomit for the rest of the show.
Damn it, that suit was toast.
Like her beautiful blue sweater vest.
“Can you pass the hot sauce?” Deepak asked.
“Is that all you can say?” Prem pushed the packets of hot sauce over. “I’m drowning here.”
Deepak picked up a clump of noodles. “In this situation, the only advice I have for you is to show your new viewers that you aren’t a heartless bastard. You have to produce a woman at your side who is going to make the haters doubt this Kareena woman’s character assassination.”
“You want me to get a girlfriend? This is not a daytime Indian serial soap opera.”
Deepak nodded. “But it’s your only option. And you need to move fast.”
“Do you think it’ll reverse some of the damage that Rina did to my reputation?”
“Kareena,” his friends said in unison.
“Shut up, assholes.”
“Look, this is the only way I can see this working,” Deepak said, stabbing into a baby corn. “We all know empty apologies aren’t enough. If you don’t find a girlfriend, you may never convince your donor to come back.”
“If Gregory at LTD Financial doesn’t want to give you money at the end of this fiasco, you can use the same fake girlfriend to convince your mom to give you cash,” Bunty said. “She was willing to shell out money for you to get married. A lot of it.”
“That’s actually a solid plan,” Deepak said. He motioned to Prem with his chopsticks. “Your mom would be too distracted with the opportunity to plan a potential wedding that she wouldn’t know whether you were faking it until it was too late. Two birds with one stone: you get your reputation back, and you get the money you need.”
“No,” Prem said. He shoved his plate aside and grabbed the whiskey bottle. His heart sped up just enough for him to register the anxiety reaction he was having to the idea of being tied to another woman. Another woman who was fragile and breakable. Nope. That was a terrible idea.
Rina’s face flashed in his mind, and he began to sweat.
“I think you have both lost your minds,” he said over their voices and threw back the whiskey. “Who comes up with stuff like this anyway? No thank you. And besides. Getting hitched is not easy.”
His friends began tossing ideas back and forth, the worst one being online dating, specifically Indian online dating apps, since there was a better chance that an Indian woman was going to understand his motives.