My Last Love Story. Falguni Kothari

him call me when he’s finished praying.” Zayaan’s mother’s exasperated voice broke through my musings.

      She’d been talking, but I’d tuned her out.

      I peered through the patio doors. Zayaan’s eyes were open, his head turned to one shoulder. He was almost done, but I held my tongue.

      “Of course,” I said, preparing to hang up.

      “How are you, beta?” she asked before I could.

      Compassion rang in her voice, and her use of the endearment beta, or “child,” rendered me speechless.

      I wanted to smack her down with a flippant, Oh, I’m peachy, too. So looking forward to widowhood. Any tips on how to get on?

      But I forced the bitchiness back into my intestines. “I’m fine. Thank you,” I answered instead.

      How dare she. How dare she offer sympathy now when she never had before. How dare she call me beta in that sickly sweet tone.

      Zayaan’s mother had a knack for making me feel like shit, but I’d strive to be polite for my own mother’s sake.

      “How are Sofia and Sana?” I asked in return.

      Zayaan’s sisters were several years younger than me, and I got along just fine with them. They were open-minded, honest women, more like Zayaan than their mother.

      “Are they around?” Say yes, so we can quit this absurd attempt at a conversation, I mentally urged her. Why didn’t she hang up?

      Why didn’t I?

      On the dawn-tinged deck, Nirvaan performed a series of twisty torso stretches. He had on a full-sleeved orange swim shirt and black wetsuit-style shorts and was obviously champing at the bit to try out the Jet Skis.

      I flapped my hand to catch his attention. Save me, my hero.

      “No, beta. Sofia went out with friends straight from work, and Sana is getting ready. We’re having dinner at Waseem’s house.”

      Zayaan’s youngest sister, Sana, was engaged to Waseem Thakur, the prescreened, fully approved—by Gulzar Begum—Khoja from East London.

      “That’s nice,” I muttered.

      She began a familiar lament about her remaining two children who refused to bring her similar solace. She’d blamed me for Zayaan’s single status for a long time, even after I’d married Nirvaan. She’d blamed me for a whole lot worse twelve years ago. I’d believed her then. I’d been too young, too frightened and too confused not to succumb to the authority of an adult, and she’d taken advantage of it.

      I wasn’t that naive anymore. If I chose to blame myself now, it was in full cognizance of my own actions.

      Nirvaan came into the kitchen, grinning like a shark, as if he enjoyed seeing me tortured.

      Dog.

      On cue, Zayaan’s mother brought up Marjaneh, the perfect bride for her perfect son, and I pounced. A dog was so much shark fodder.

      “Oh. Here’s Nirvaan, Auntie. He’s dying to talk to you.” Grinning, I shoved the phone into his hands but not before I heard the gasp.

      Narrow-minded, judgmental creature that she was, I’d shocked her by my word choice. Too bad, but I’d quit dancing around the word death and its variations a long time ago. When cancer lived in your home, inside your husband’s body, there was no avoiding the word or state.

      “What the hell, Simi?” Nirvaan whispered as he pinched my butt. He was a trooper, though. He pressed the receiver to his ear, and with innate flair, he began to charm the devil out of Zayaan’s mother.

      My husband could sell fur to a bear for a profit without much effort. I left him to it and resumed the breakfast preparations.

      “You’re coming for the party, Auntie. No excuses,” he said after a whole lot of rubbish conversation.

      Hearing him, I wilted like a week-old rose. Much as I’d hate Gulzar Begum raining on my parade, I’d have to suck it up. After all was said and done and forgiven or not, she was Zayaan’s only living parent. Sure, guilt was the forerunner in that relationship, and she took immense advantage of her son’s feelings. Zayaan’s father and brother were dead. Zayaan was the only male left in his family. His mother knew just where to drive in the screws. But I also knew Zayaan loved his mother and thought the world of her. He’d want her at his thirtieth birthday bash—and Marjaneh, too.

      I wilted some more.

      Zayaan came into the house, a prayer book pressed between his arm and torso. He went into his room, and within seconds he came out empty-handed. He gave me the evil eye, letting me know that, deep in conversation with Allah or not, he’d heard every word I’d said to his mother, and he was aware of every negative vibe flowing between here and London.

      I wasn’t sorry for any of it or for the way things were between us—they couldn’t be any other way—yet an apology jumped to my lips. I bit it off and poured yellowy batter onto the heated waffle plate instead.

      Fifteen minutes later, the mama’s boy hung up the phone and joined us on the deck to consume three ice-cold waffles. He ate them without complaint.

      Nirvaan wouldn’t have been so obliging. He would’ve fed the floppy waffles to the seagulls and demanded a reorder from the house chef. And because Zayaan hadn’t complained and he always defended me to his mother, I brewed him a consolation cup of double espresso. As apologies went, it was unremarkable, but it made him smile.

      A long time ago, my whole existence had revolved around Zayaan’s smile.

      I took a deep breath and, on a ten-count exhalation, I let the past fade from my mind. I leaned over to kiss my husband. He was my life now.

      Next order of the day, the guys dared me to a Jet Ski race, and lots more pixels were added to the Jaws album.