My Last Love Story (11 page)

That night had taken many things from us.

I had taken Rumi from Zayaan, and for that, I couldn’t be sorrier.

He led me to the cashier’s desk cluttered with an insane amount of items and asked for the things he’d set aside. Turning toward me, he held up a book on Lord Krishna in one hand and a box containing a silver-plated Om in the other for inspection.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“They’re…cool.” I blinked at him. “Going back to your Hindu roots, are you?”

Some sects of Khojas were converted Hindus, which was why their language, customs, and even their food were more Gujarati and Kathiawari in style than Islamic.

Zayaan did a double take before he burst out laughing. “Your punch lines always had perfect timing, Sims. Good one.”

“
Hmm
. Great. Though I’m not joking.” I peered at the objects closely.

“For Mummy. Mother’s Day.” He gave a shy, charming little shrug. “Can’t decide what to get her.”

It couldn’t be helped. My heart became a puddle of chocolate goo at my feet. I went up on tiptoes and kissed his stubbly cheek. But I quickly stepped back when he leaned in just as unconsciously, exactly as I had in reflex. He froze as I moved away.

Khodai.
We’d become so awkward around each other.

“You’re sweet, Zai. Let me see. She’ll definitely love the book,” I said, roving a critical eye over both objects.

Lord Krishna was the patron God of Nirvaan’s family, and the book was an intricately illustrated romp through Krishna’s early life as a cowherd. The pictures were augmented by well-known hymns and poems.

Krishna was known as the Complete Man in Hindu philosophy. He was a prankster, a flirt, a diplomat, a musician, and a great orator. If ever there were a classic example of God’s influence on His believer, Lord Krishna and Nirvaan were it.

“Well,” I said, flipping through the glossy-paged book, “the artwork is beautiful.”

It was. The artist had done a brilliant job of creating the village of Mathura and the forest of Vrindavan where the Lord and His flock of female devotees danced and flirted through the night.

I gave the Om-shaped incense stand a cursory glance. True, my mother-in-law would light incense sticks every morning in their home temple as part of her daily prayer ritual but…

“Give her the book. You chose it because the renderings of Krishna look like Nirvaan, didn’t you? Apart from the skin tones,” I guessed shrewdly.

Lord Krishna was always depicted as a blue-skinned deity.

“That’s why I wanted a second opinion,” said Zayaan, giving me an adorable squinty-eyed grin. “I thought I was being fanciful. Like you.”

Fanciful.
Yep, that was me.

I shook my head, letting him know he wasn’t being fanciful. The book would please my mother-in-law. In truth, I fancied it would bring her immense succor to see her son’s face in her Lord.

They said faith in God could relieve us of pain. It was a good thing I had no faith then because I didn’t deserve to be free of my pain. Ever.

I spent Sunday morning doing laundry.

It being Mother’s Day, we women had been banished from the kitchen for the day. The guys were making breakfast—and creating a holy hell of a mess they’d better not expect me to clean up—and had plans in place for a late barbeque lunch, after which my in-laws would pack up and leave for LA. I’d brought up the fact that I wasn’t a mother and should pitch in for my mother-in-law’s day of honor, but the guys wouldn’t hear of it.

“May as well start practicing,” Nirvaan had murmured for my ears only.

I kept an ear to my bedroom curtain, surreptitiously checking on the show going on in the kitchen, as I folded a stack of T-shirts on the bed. Occasionally, a breeze would lift and flap the curtain up to reveal the unfolding chaos.

My father-in-law stood in his pajamas by the kitchen island, directing the show without getting his hands dirty. He was disheveled from neck to feet, but not a hair was out of place on his head. I grinned as he bossed about, eliciting major grumbles from the younger men.

It went on like that for a while until the good-natured rumblings suddenly suffused with tension.

Were they arguing about Kutch again?

No.

I sat up, straining my ears to catch the words. It wasn’t Nirvaan and my father-in-law, but Nirvaan and Zayaan at it this time.

“I live in London, for God’s sake. How much help do you think I’ll be? I think you should…” The words blew in with the breeze.

“Doesn’t matter where…I want you…” Nirvaan said a lot more, but that was all I caught.

What? What were they talking about in front of my father-in-law? They couldn’t be discussing the guardianship of the baby, could they?

Before another thought chirped in my head, Nirvaan shouted for me to come out.

Crap.
He’d told them, hadn’t he?

I mouse-crept out of the bedroom and stopped by the sofa where my in-laws sat, a sheaf of documents spread out on the coffee table in front of them. Zayaan stood by the fireplace, his shoulders tense, his eyes stormy, while Nirvaan flipped grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen, looking just as unyielding.

“Simeen, come sit by me. You need to go over some papers,” said my mother-in-law.

That was nothing new. I’d been signing papers and checks since I joined the Desai clan. When your husband’s business was transaction-based and vast, there were always papers to sign. I signed above my printed name without reading the document. I didn’t need to read it. I trusted Nirvaan and his family.

But I got nervous when they asked Zayaan to go over the same documents. He did so while shooting evil looks at Nirvaan. He read through the papers as if he meant to memorize them for an exam. Only then did he sign them.

It belatedly occurred to me that maybe I should’ve read them, too.

What did I just sign?
My hands and feet went cold. Had Nirvaan drawn up a contract appointing Zayaan as our baby’s godfather?

Personally, I had many reservations about it, and obviously, Zayaan had them, too. I understood Nirvaan wanted his child—
if
there were a child—to have a father figure to count on. I also got that there was no one in this world he trusted more than Zayaan but…

If we had a baby—and that was a big bloody
if
—I didn’t think it would lack for father figures. I had two brothers, Nirvaan’s father, and his brother-in-law who would gladly step into those shoes. Our baby didn’t need some distant, absentee, and reluctant guardian.

I certainly didn’t want to be tied to Zayaan in such a way. I’d told Nirvaan it would be awkward and difficult and not only because the man lived an ocean away. Zayaan had his own life. He shouldered enough responsibilities between his mother and two sisters, and Marjaneh would soon join the pot. We couldn’t impose on him like this.

Nirvaan, of course, had scoffed off my reservations. He didn’t think of it as an imposition.
“I’d do the same for him,” he’d pointed out.

My mother-in-law patted my knee. “It’s to safeguard your future,
beta
. Nirvaan’s stocks, life insurance policies, and property have been put in a trust for you. Your uncle and Zayaan will be the trustees. They’ll make sure you never have to worry about a thing.”

I stared at my hands, my cheeks burning. I didn’t think I’d ever been more embarrassed by my husband’s wealth before. I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve him. He’d taken care of everything. He was even preparing to care for me from his grave and I…

How could I live here after he was gone? How could I take and take from his family without giving back in return?

I stiffened as it occurred to me that I could give them something back. Something that would be far more precious to them than a trust fund.

Much later, once my in-laws were gone and it was just the three of us again, we took the Jet Skis out as the sun sank into the horizon. The guys ganged up on me, repeatedly spraying me, as they zigzagged figure eights around me. The ocean was choppy, and I was unsettled. I got knocked into the water a lot. Every time I pulled myself back on the bike, I tried not to resent how cleverly Nirvaan had trapped me in his baby-making scheme.

But it was my body, my decision to have a baby or not, and I would not be bullied.

The next morning, Nirvaan and I started the day and week off with a relaxing vinyasa session conducted by our yoga instructor via video chat from LA since we hadn’t found a center or teacher that appealed to us in Carmel. I had several recommendations for both, group classes and private gurus, from reliable sources but had been too busy settling in to call and ask for rates, trials, or schedules.

I approved of the standard, familiar way of countrywide establishments. It made me feel less like a fish out of water when we moved, and we’d moved way too many times for comfort in my life. Surin called us vagabonds with no small amount of envy in his voice, but I didn’t care for the label. I would gladly stay put in one place if I had a choice. Sadly, our LA yoga center did not have a branch or affiliation with any chain gyms in Carmel, hence the need to find one. I also needed to find a mixed martial arts center and enroll in their self-defense program. I’d generally take self-defense classes twice a year to keep my reflexes sharp. I might look frail, but my body was strong. I would never be powerless again. Never.

Then, just as I’d psyched my mind and body into feeling empowered, Nirvaan sprang his coup d’état. I realized that, no matter how well I honed my physical strength, emotionally, I was a vulnerable kitten.

“We need to have an early lunch, baby. Your appointment with Archer is at one o’clock.”

I’d been about to pour myself a glass of orange juice, post-yoga, and my hand froze in midair. My head snapped toward my husband and I was greeted by his gym-shorts-clad backside as he rummaged in the fridge, pulling out leftover food containers and piling them on the counter.

Zayaan, who’d been working at the breakfast bar with several tomes and photocopied scrolls and sheets of scribbled pages spread in front of him like the sands of time, stood up to reorganize his makeshift desk to make room for our meal. He shrugged when I glared at him, indicating that he was as puzzled by this turn of events as I was.

“I don’t have an appointment. I didn’t make one yet,” I confessed, my hands suddenly twitchy. I set the jar down, flexed my hand a couple of times, and then picked it up again.

I’d meant to make the appointment. And I would next week. Or, sometime next month. I’d thought and thought about it since Thursday, and I was nearly convinced…

Damn it.
Why can’t I just tell him how I feel about having his trust fund baby?

Nirvaan popped the lids on the containers and dumped the food into pans and skillets for heating. He turned around and smirked. “I made it.”

Three succinct words, spoken softly, but they hit me like a ton of bricks.

Like a robot, I finished pouring juice, set the table, and served lunch. I ate little, for I’d lost my appetite.

My husband didn’t trust me to handle this. My stomach hollowed with guilt. He was right to mistrust me. But did he have to be so high-handed all the time? Sudden anger churned my blood.

Lunch was over quickly, and the guys helped me clean up after.

As we were pressed for time, Nirvaan and I shared the shower. My dream of wallowing in a warm tub of water, followed by a siesta, evaporated along with my yogic calm. Neither one of us spoke or so much as smiled when our hips bumped or when our slippery, soapy skin made contact. It was telling in itself, for Nirvaan never passed up an opportunity to tease me about how
love was best served naked
.

Nirvaan knew he’d twisted my arm. He knew he was being irrational about the baby. Maybe we both were. Our silence was our stand and our apology. But neither one of us was willing to relent.

It took me longer than my husband to get ready. When I walked out of our bedroom, head high and haughty like a martyr’s, I found the guys in deep discussion by the door. I sat on the sofa to slip on my heels. It didn’t strike me to ask why Zayaan looked angry now or why my husband was still barefoot until it was too late.