Sejal was engrossed in what others were accomplishing, passively comparing. It was great that Arjun had bought a big-ass house, that Nina was engaged, Aditya was pregnant, or Neelish was planning a vacation across six countries in one go. It really was great for them, and I’d been ecstatic for my friends. But by the third or fourth mention, I found myself side-eyeing my ex and internally preparing for her look of both joy and envy.

She clearly wanted all of that, and I couldn’t care less for those things. They simply weren’t for everyone. Traveling the world sounded nice in theory, but exhausting. I wasn’t ready for engagement or a house, much less kids. I’d never led her to believe that I wanted those things, and it didn’t seem right to be pressured into them.

Her flicker of annoyance had turned into a raging wildfire, demolishing our relationship. She didn’t want to discuss things from both sides. It always came down to…don’t you love me?

Don’t. You. Love. Me.

As if my entire worth, my commitment of affection, were based solely on what I could give her at any given moment according to her whims. As if my feelings didn’t matter. I was never good enough, and she let me know it. And I’d accepted it. I wasn’t good enough for Sejal; we parted ways. Much to the dismay of our families.

I never sat her down for a hard conversation, wasn’t misty-eyed or on my knees begging for her to understand and stay with me. I spoke the truth. That was communication, right? Telling someone what was on my mind. We’d seen too many couples bicker, break up, or quietly combust from asinine amounts of repressed rage all because they didn’t communicate. I’d seen my own mother silently crying in the kitchen because my father had done something. She was afraid that his feelings would get hurt or that he’d take it the wrong way if she ever said anything. Meanwhile, she was spiraling into sporadic episodes of anxiety for nothing.

No. I wasn’t going to do that. I was straightforward with Sejal, as with everyone else. I didn’t have time, nor did I care, for the bullshit.

Those conversations never ended well with her when she wasn’t getting what she wanted. She’d even gotten my mother involved, convincing her that she was the one ready for the next step, and I was the one holding our lives up. And like many Indian mothers, Ma wanted to see her son married and rearing his own children sooner than later.

I huffed out a breath. I’d been looking forward to this party. Yet my ex’s complaints were sprouting up. Was I being social enough? Approachable? Likable? Did the host know how much I appreciated the invitation to such a hospitable gathering?

If Sejal were here, she’d say: no.

Therefore, I spent the better half of the hour getting to know my coworkers, making a point to speak to everyone. I wasn’t going to remember them all, and definitely wasn’t going to recall all these backstories of who was married or dating or single or had kids or had just graduated, but they were going to remember me.

I was the guy who’d brought the cookies. Spoiler alert—they were a hit. Not a single crumb left. At one point, Terrance—a junior dev—held up a ginger chai spiced cookie and yelled over the crowd, “Hey! Who made these bomb-ass cookies?”

By then, because I had asked every single person, “Have you tried the cookies?” as an icebreaker, everyone pointed at me and called back, “Sunny!”

Guests started to head out. I checked my phone. It was almost eleven. Time sure did pass by quickly when a bunch of barely strangers came together for the love of cookies.

As we said our goodbyes, I figured it was a smart idea to hit the restroom before leaving, and hopefully find Bhanu to thank her in a way she felt appreciated. Maybe that was Ma talking. She always taught my sisters and me never to arrive at someone’s house without a gift, preferably food, as a way to thank them. And of course, add specifics of what we’d enjoyed. Don’t be generic.

Make yourself memorable.

I went to the hallway to find two closed doors and picked one to knock on and then open. There was a fifty-fifty chance this was the bathroom—it wasn’t a large apartment—but I didn’t expect to find someone sitting on the edge of the bed with her chin in her hands like she was bored out of her mind waiting for everyone to leave so she could make her grand escape.

Bhanu looked up, her eyes suddenly alert as if she’d been caught red-handed.

“My fault!” I blurted out, ready to fling the door closed, but curiosity got me. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged, her voice flat when she asked, “Why are you in my bedroom?”

“I was looking for the bathroom.” Yet I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. “Are you hiding? Have you been in here since I talked to you?”

Her eyebrows went up. “I guess so.”

Another pause.

“Yes?” Her voice was soft yet cutting, annoyed even.

Well, shit. Okay. Maybe she wasn’t the sprightly host everyone had made her out to be. For the past, what, two hours, she’d been sitting in her room during her own party and no one had bothered to find her? Was this normal? Or had no one noticed?

“You ditched your own party?” I intended that to be a joke, but apparently my execution needed some work because she retorted, “Yeah, so?”

“Okay,” I drawled. “Well, I wanted to thank you for inviting me and say how nice of a time I had, but this feels as natural a moment as telling you three weeks from now if we actually run into each other at work.”

“Email works, too,” she replied with a hint of something. Was she amused or was she being facetious?

“Right. Email next time. Won’t bother seeking you out.”

We stared at each other. Her posture sagged and either she was exhausted or tipsy—maybe both. Maybe she’d been sitting in here drinking…well, by the look of the two bottles on her bedside stand, she’d had a few. But her room was dimly lit, and those could’ve easily been empty glass Fanta bottles. How was her bladder not bursting? Or had she snuck in and out of her bathroom, unseen, during her own party as well?

“All right. Well. Thanks for the invite.”

“Thanks for coming,” she replied, matching my dry tone.

“Right…” I mumbled, tapping the door before closing it behind me.

I took my empty cookie container and left.

Three Bhanu

Flights were a favorite pastime, said no one ever. Especially on a Saturday. Too many people and lines and layover drama, but bless the fact that I had a direct flight with a TV screen attached to the back of the seat in front of me fully equipped with every new movie and TV show that one could want. I might as well have been sitting in first class with how fancy this felt. But in sweats. Naturally. And compression socks because it turned out that my legs plumped to the size of watermelons when flying.

I’d forced myself to leave my devices alone and focus on relaxing instead of checking for any updates on the interviews. Let’s be real—Google had probably ghosted me, and my company was taking their own sweet time on that PM position.

With the middle seat empty beside me, the hood of my sweatshirt over my brows, and my hands stuffed into my pockets, I shimmied into my seat to get nice and cozy for seven hours of Marvel movies. No one talked to me.

Complete bliss.

Before I knew it, we crested over turquoise waters and the shoreline where an AC-less hub of an airport waited. We’d arrived in charming, albeit hot as hell, Kona, Hawaii.

The beauty of the various shades of blue in the water speckled with various shades of green, the dusty shores and lush vegetation lined with black lava rocks got me every time.

There was a saying that whatever happened on island stayed on island. I always thought of that when landing, and promptly chuckled. Nothing that exciting ever happened to me.

I removed my sweatshirt and took my time shuffling through the plane and onto a ramp that led down to the runway of the tiny outdoor airport. A wall of hot, dry air hit me, my sweat glands going from icy cold to pouring. The sweats were perfect during cold flights, but I was eager to hit the restroom and change into shorts. Gym shorts. Don’t judge me.

Now changed into climate-appropriate attire with bags in hand, I waited on a bench for my ride. I took the chance to peel off my compression socks (listen, I wasn’t here for puffy feet or a blood clot) and exchanged my sneakers for sandals. I wiggled my toes. Ah. Much better.

A gentle breeze swept through, cooling the sweat beads on my forehead as I guzzled down ice-cold water and texted Diya. How she could live on this side of the island was beyond me. The Big Island had eight climate zones ranging from desert to tundra. Guess which part I was likely to be in for the entire week? Thank the gods I was spending most of my time in a really nice hotel chain that blasted AC like electricity didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

It was only a matter of minutes before Diya pulled up in her boyfriend’s Jeep. For a corporate girl wielding a master’s degree, she loved to go rugged. The island had changed her. She’d learned to live life by the day, slow down and be in the moment, and experience more of the amazing canvas the island had instead of being trapped indoors like most mainlanders. She’d lived on island for several years, so she was bound to learn to love the land and its people.

Which was ironic because she worked in tourism, a double-edged sword for the islands. But leave it to my little sister to take up arms on behalf of the employees, the majority of which were AAPI, including native Hawaiians. Every voice counted.

And speaking of voices, her high-pitched voice shrieked with excitement when she hopped out of the Jeep and ran toward me, arms out in the air, one holding a purple and pink plumeria lei.

“Bitch…you made it!” Diya attacked me with a hug as her boyfriend emerged flashing a giant grin.

“Oh my god.” I laughed into the swells of her curly hair.