Can't Always Get What You Want (29 page)

—

After Sam dropped me off, I unpacked my suitcases, cleaned up the house, made supper, and hung up my sari to air it out and loosen any wrinkles.

All that within two hours.

Well, so much for unwinding and having quiet “me” time. I’m so freaking bored, and am starting to regret coming home to hide my hair disaster.

My best friend is getting married tomorrow. Shouldn’t I, as maid of honor, fulfill my duty by getting her completely jarred at some bar? Maybe be looking for an amateur male stripper to entertain the bridal party?

Instead, I’m here staring at the ceiling and she’s probably sourcing me an eBay wig that can ship here in less than twenty-four hours.

My phone buzzes. An incoming text from Brett.

Miss me yet?

My heart swells to nearly four times its size.

Hmm. From a medical perspective, that doesn’t sound very appealing.

Okay, let’s rephrase. I’m ecstatic.

I never thought I’d feel this way again. In fact, it kind of scares me. What if I lost Brett? My chest tightens at the thought. I don’t think I could go through that sort of loss twice.

Always. Want to come over? I’m so bored, I’m about two seconds from vacuuming the windowsills just for something to do.

Ha. That should get his attention. As expected, he texts back about two milliseconds later.

You’re home???

Yes.

Okay. I’ll be right over.

Do you seriously have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than watch me clean my windowsills?

Sounds like a tough job. I’d be happy to supervise. I can lend my expertise as a foreman.

I stifle a laugh. What a weirdo. I love that his humor is just as off the wall as mine. It’s the one area I always wished Aaron and I were more compatible in. We were so well suited in other ways, but I felt like I couldn’t really let my weirdness fly around him.

Ugh. I need to stop comparing them.

Will I ever stop thinking about Aaron?

Wow. Am I ever in luck. Are my windowsills that dirty?

Filthy. I’ll be right over.

I run to the bathroom to touch up my makeup and am nearly blinded by the crazy town that is my hair.

What is Brett going to think about this? I duck into my bedroom and hastily wrap a printed scarf around my head.

There. That should do it. I mean, it’s not exactly sexy (more of a cross between cancer patient and guy who put his turban on while drunk), but it effectively covers up my recent mess.

Minutes later, a loud truck engine echoes on the street outside. I open the front door just as he’s raising his hand to knock.

He’s silent for a moment, his eyes focusing on my makeshift head wrap.

“Greetings, Swami G.” He laughs, while bowing slightly.

“Har har. Get inside.” I grab his hand and pull him indoors. I take his coat, and can’t help but smell the collar when he turns his back.

Hot damn
. How does someone always smell that fantastic? I wish I could bottle this. I take another deep breath. Ahhhh…this is better than crack.

Well, not that I would know what crack is like, obviously.

“Enjoying yourself over there?”

I whip my head up, my face pinking with embarrassment. Brett is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, giving me a smug, teasing expression.

“If you must know, yes,” I reply haughtily.

We settle onto lounge chairs in the garden and catch up on each other’s weekend. While I’ve been busy acting as a beautician’s science experiment gone bad, he’s been holed up in his house going over the eco community’s progress.

He takes a long draw of beer, and sighs heavily. “I’ve been pretty stressed, actually. We’re behind schedule, and the costs keep rising. I’m starting to freak out a little bit.”

I rub his shoulders sympatheti
cally.

“Sorry to hear that, babe,” I say.

Brett shrugs, and glances at my head.

“So. What’s with the weird getup?”

“It is not weird. I happen to be fashion-forward. It’s trendy, very boho chic.”

He raises his eyebrows, unconvinced.

“Sure you’re not hiding a massive head wound under there?” Brett jokes, while tucking in a loose end of the scarf that’s somehow come free.

And as might happen when one tugs on a loose thread of a delicate garment, the tail end of my turban unravels and falls onto my lap.

“Umm, surprise!” I say weakly, while doing jazz hands.

Brett’s eyes widen. “What happened to you?” he asks. He picks up a strand of my hair, and stares at the intense red color. It’s practically glowing in the early evening light.

“Not what. Whom,” I say.

“Whom?”

“Samira’s Auntie Priya. She’s a bit, umm, eccentric. You should’ve seen the makeup that went with it.”

“Okay. Walk me through the whole story.”

And for the next few minutes, I fill him in.

A muffled choking sound rips through the air. I look up and see that Brett is on the verge of collapsing with laughter.

I sigh and flop onto my back on the lounge chair.

“I have to be in Sam and Narayan’s wedding tomorrow.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah, but you’ll look handsome and sexy, and put together and lovely…”

“Can’t argue with you there,” he says, smirking.

“…while I will look like the love child of Carrot Top and Jessica Rabbit.”

“Who wouldn’t want to have a love child with Jessica Rabbit?” he says, laughing.

“Oh, you think that’s funny? Well, it gets a lot worse,” I warn.

I go in the house and bring out my bridesmaid outfit. I hold the teal sari against my chest.

“Check out this color combo,” I say.

“Very nice,” Brett offers.

“Nice? I look like the Little Mermaid!”

“You’ll look beautiful, no matter what. Besides,” he continues, “every guy thinks the Little Mermaid is hot.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” he says with a smirk. “Ariel is definitely the hottest Disney princess. Long red hair, seashell bikini top, rocking bod. Can’t go wrong. I can almost guarantee that when a straight guy watches
The Little Mermaid,
he gets a semi.”

“Eww! That’s disgusting!” I cry, although I’m laughing. And, secretly a bit thrilled that he’s just shared this interesting (and bizarre) insight into the male psyche.

“I always had a thing for Dimitri from
Anastasia,
” I admit.

“I have no idea of who that is.”

“It’s Disney!”

“Never heard of it.”

“Oh, never mind,” I mutter.

“No, no! I told you mine, now you tell me yours.”

“Well, Dimitri could dance well, and had really cool hair,” I explain in a rush, my cheeks flushing.

“You’re so weird.” He’s laughing.

“Right back at you.”

His expression turns serious for a moment. Long, calloused fingers brush over my cheek. I can’t help but lean into them.

“We’re a real pair, aren’t we?” he murmurs, his bright blue eyes filled with some unknown emotion.

I’d always thought that Aaron and I were the perfect pair. And yet…

Maybe I should just tell Brett about Aaron. Just get it over with.

Brett runs his fingers through my hair, looking at me with an expression that is just so innocent and fragile.

Oh God, I just can’t.

I swallow past the lump forming in my throat.

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

Chapter 25

Indian Girl

“Oh, Sam…” I raise my hands to cover my mouth. “You look so beautiful!”

Her dark red sari is heavily detailed with gold and intricate embroidery. A large gold hoop hangs from her nose, and is attached by a chain to an earring. Her eyes have been heavily made up, adding to the “exotic beauty queen” look she’s got going on.

“Thanks,” she replies demurely.

What will my wedding look like? By comparison, the vision of white I’ve had in my head seems really dull and boring.

Maybe I’ll convert to Hinduism. I could rock a red sari and nose ring.

“I mean it. Honestly, you’re glowing!” I say.

She leans toward a mirror in the hallway and picks off a loose flake of mascara.

“It’s because of the pithi ceremony,” she says casually, while doing that wide- eyed, gaping expression that every woman seems to do when they’re fixing up their eyes.

“Pithi?”

“It’s a pre-wedding ceremony where the bride and groom have turmeric paste rubbed onto their face, arms, and legs. It signifies being purified and cleansed before matrimony. It’s also really great for your skin, evens out the complexion.”

She digs up a camera from her purse and shows me several pictures. Sure enough, Samira is smiling back at me from the screen, covered in bright yellow paste. It kind of looks like she’s been in a food fight.

I stare at her for a moment.

“So, let me get this straight: family members rub yellow goo on you, while others watch?”

She giggles. “Yes.”

“And, you make a hell of a mess in an effort to become clean, metaphorically speaking?”

“Yes.”

I survey her radiant, glowing skin.

“Well, if it would make me look anything like you, I’ll go for it.”

Nita bustles into the hallway. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

I turn toward the mirror and smooth my hands over my sari. The hair on its own looked pretty intense, but coupled with my exotic outfit and smoky eyes, it doesn’t look too bad.

And, thankfully, the fall leaves will provide a colorful backdrop to the wedding photos, so I’m hoping I’ll just camouflage. Stand by a red bush or something.

Just then, the bathroom door opens. Ravi steps out, newspaper in hand, waving his hand over his nose.

“I wouldn’t go in there, if I were you.”

“Ugh! Ravinder!” Nita shrieks, while pinching her nose. “Why didn’t you just use the bathroom downstairs?!”

He shrugs, trying to look serious, but his mouth hints at a gleeful smile. I’ve never seen a man take so much pleasure in annoying his wife. He tucks his newspaper under his arm and heads toward the garage. “When a man has to go, a man has to go,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Argh! That man drives me crazy,” Nita moans.

“Maybe Narayan and I will be like that someday,” Samira jokes.

Nita rolls her eyes. “Let’s hope not.”

“How’s your hand?” I ask Samira.

Sam turns her right hand palm up. “It’s fine. Didn’t end up needing stitches.”

“That’s good,” I reply.

Nita ushers in the remaining four bridesmaids and the photographer who’s been documenting us getting ready.

“Come on, ladies,” Nita says, grabbing Samira’s hand. Her eyes seem to be glistening already. “Let’s go get my little girl married.”

—

We pile into a limousine and take off to the river valley for pictures, picking up Narayan and his groomsmen on the way over. It’s a squishy fit, to say the least. And, unfortunately, I can’t move to sit by Brett.

He’s Narayan’s best man. And, if I might say so, looks quite dashing in his pale gold tunic thing. It’s long, about mid-thigh length, and has embroidery around the neckline.

It’s quite pretty, actually, and looks very comfy.

“What do you call that?” I whisper to Emmie, Samira’s “other best friend.”

I don’t want to be jealous, but I can’t help it. I’ve always felt a bit competitive with her. She’s half Indian, and related to Ravi’s side of the family. She and Samira grew up together, and are second cousins or something.

It’s hard enough that I’m always vying for the title of “best friend” with her, but she’s a real snot. I’d rather talk to anyone else, but unfortunately I’m squished between her and a stranger, so my choices are limited.

“What?” she snaps. She’s wearing an orange sari and a bright pink silk scarf. I hate orange. It seems fitting that she’d be the one wearing that today.

“What the guys are wearing? You know, those tunic things.”

Emmie rolls her eyes. “They’re called kurta pajamas.”

I stifle a giggle. “They’re wearing
pajamas
?”

She sits up a bit straighter, and sticks her nose in the air.

“It’s not funny. It’s a cultural expression.”

I nod understanding, but the fact that I’m pissing her off sends me into a fit of laughter. A few people look curiously at me, including Brett.

I suggestively wiggle my eyebrows at him, and mouth the words, “You. Look. Hot.”

Which one of the other groomsmen thinks is meant for him, and sends me a much too friendly smile back.

Crap.

Real smooth, Sophie.

Once we reach the river valley, everyone scrambles to get outside. I take a deep breath of the warm, rich air. Clumps of yellow, orange, red, and purple dot the valley slopes. No matter where we take pictures, they’re going to be amazing.

I’m standing outside the limo, and watch as Emmie makes an ungraceful exit and wobbles on her sky-high heels. Brett, who is standing beside her, reaches over and saves her from falling.

She takes a deep breath in, her gaze sweeping over him, as if assessing whether her rescuer deserves the time of day. Apparently, he must “pass,” because a second later I swear I catch her fluttering her eyelashes at him, and giggling like a loon.