“I almost peed in my pants.”
I smirked and, taking another drink, surveyed the room. The kitchen, blocked off by a sprawling counter, spilled right into the living room. From here, everyone could be seen, including Bhanu. She was nodding, listening to a group of people. While her posture and attentiveness showed she was into the conversation, her eyes seemed distant.
I sneered. I knew that look. Our generous host was either bored out of her mind or just wanted to leave. The party hadn’t been going on that long, but who knew how long she’d worked to put this all together. Maybe she had stressed over every detail for days. Maybe she was having a bad day or a bad conversation, but something other than this party was clearly on her mind, and I suddenly felt a need to slip into the circle and intervene.
“I should go introduce myself,” I told James, who concurred with a raise of his plate of food.
The crowds subtly shifted toward the buffet, opening up space around the fireplace, where Bhanu was standing, an arm crossed over her stomach. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from the famous UX designer/researcher who headed most of the company’s expensive projects. Was she an awkward nerd like most of the team, or eccentric like some of the designers?
As I got closer, the slightly dimmed light shone on her hair as she nodded, showcasing glossy purple locks. An ombré style from black roots to wavy lavender ends. A look that actually paired well with her light brown skin tone and eyes. While some were dressed up, she was all casual in black ankle-length pants that may or may not have been joggers paired with a dark blue blouse.
She turned to me as soon as I said, “Bhanu? Hi, I’m Sunny.”
She barely looked at me but smiled anyway. “Nice to meet you! Glad you could make it. Sorry, I have to take this call.”
And then she was off, sliding in between people to escape into a hallway and then a room. I could’ve sworn her phone hadn’t rung…or that she wasn’t even holding a phone.
I blew out a breath. Talk about anticlimactic. Well, I’d tried. I’d made an effort, which was something my ex had constantly gotten on me about. Sejal was the social butterfly, always at parties and gatherings and festivals, invited to everyone and their auntie’s wedding and baby shower and gender reveals and whatever else people did. I was the “old for my age” guy wanting a smaller group of intimate friends, more meaningful interactions, and fewer late-night parties. And yes, Indian baby showers could last well into the night if the couple wanted.
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?
