Until her phone pinged from the coffee table, and she pulled away to check it, leaving my side suddenly cold and lonely. “Do you have to get back to your friends?” she asked, her voice strained.
The wedding wasn’t so big and detailed that we had the typical rehearsal. Just show up early at the venue onsite and follow orders from the wedding planner. Walk down the aisle. How hard was that? There was dinner and drinks somewhere tonight for the couple’s families who’d arrived throughout the day, but honestly, I couldn’t think of a better place to be. “No.”
She bit down on a smile. “Hope you’re hungry, because Kimo is cooking again tonight. They’re on their way.”
Twenty-three Bhanu
Diya and Kimo were making a commotion in the kitchen, assuredly about cooking. Kimo required control when it came to cuisine. He’d learned from his grandparents, parents, and aunts and uncles and cousins and so on how to live off the land and work with fresh ingredients. His style was subtle but precise.
Diya, on the other hand, was like our mother, who threw in all the spices and salt without ever measuring. Kimo hip-pushed her out of the kitchen and she shoved him.
“Eh! What you doing? That’s hot oil!” he said.
“This needs more salt, it’s so bland,” Diya argued.
“Both you and this dish need to be less salty,” he shot back.
Sunny leaned against the couch as we both tried our best to pretend they weren’t arguing. “Are they always like this?”
“If you mean loud and in love, yes.”
“Ah. So this is love?”
“Yep. They are unapologetically themselves and can raise voices and throw opinions and disagree without fighting.”
“That’s not a fight?”
“Nope. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them fight, and never anything major. They’re both hardheaded and stonehearted,” I said with a laugh. “I mean, they’re not sensitive when it comes to taking things too personally or the wrong way.”
“Ah…must be nice,” he said with a hint of envy that had me wondering if Diya and Kimo reminded him of his ex. Had they fought lots of real fights? Or had they been silent fights? Both seemed terrible in their own ways. And I hated knowing that someone hurt Sunny as much as Sejal had.
I was a loud fighter, just like Diya. I got it all off my chest and then went quiet because fighting exhausted me, leeching more energy than work, conversations, and parties combined. But maybe fighting was part of relationships, part of communicating, part of passion. Because I didn’t remember having too many of them. My exes mistook my lack of throwing down in more than one or two fights as a lack of interest in them when really I just didn’t want drama.
“The wedding is tomorrow,” I said, saddened by the idea that our fantasy time was almost up. I really hoped we could return to reality as civil coworkers, maybe even friends.
“Yeah.”
“Should we stage a fight in front of your friends for maximum couple effect?” I asked.
He winced. “I don’t want to fight with you more than we already do.”
“But isn’t it realistic?”
“I don’t think my friends would want to remember us fighting instead of the actual wedding.”
“But we’re so memorable,” I jested.
“You’re just full of yourself and your hype-woman skills.”
“Aha! So you admit it. My skills are incomparable. Magnificent, even.”
“I absolutely did not say that.”
“It’s in your tone. I read subtext very clearly.”
He scoffed. “If only you brought this level of confidence to meetings.”
“Only if you can tone yours down a notch. No one likes being smothered by that much arrogance.”
“I just happen to be confident, charismatic even.”
I laughed. “Yeah, okay.”
Sunny pushed himself off the couch, his chin elevated so that he was looking down at me with brooding intensity. “Where’s the lie, though?”
Had his voice dropped? It seemed to make its mark, darting straight to my core. Ugh. I hated what his Denzel voice did to me.
I took a step to meet him before realizing something. “Wait. Are we expected to dance?”
He pondered as if this was an actual question.
“Sunny! Of course we are! It seals the whole illusion, or do you not dance? Do you just code and dive into the ocean to save sea turtles?”
“Don’t start.”
“What?” I asked, baffled.
“You better not start your shit with me.”
