The Rearranged Life (10 page)

“There’s just something about you.” He shrugs, his eyes softening. “I’ve never met anyone with such a propensity for bad luck.” He chuckles. “But you take me off guard, and I like that.”

All the witticisms, the sarcastic remarks before lectures, and he thinks
I
take him off guard. I must be hallucinating. Did I mistake Sprite for, I don’t know, a truck of drugs?

“I guess I was just hoping we could make up for the… atypical… introduction, and go out for coffee or dinner or something sometime.”

I just stare at him, too surprised to say anything.

“Unless you don’t want to, in which case you can forget I asked,” he hastily adds.

“Wait… are you asking me out?” I finally blurt out.

“If you’re agreeing, then yes, I am. If you’re saying no, then consider it a lapse in judgment.” His smirk is a telltale sign that he doesn’t expect a rejection.

“I’d love to,” I answer before I can rationalize a no.

“Good.” Relief crosses his face. “I didn’t know if my ego could handle another rejection.”

“Another?”

“Well, I asked you after class once, but you had stuff to do… I figured I had to be blunt with you because it was pretty clear you weren’t catching on.”

I need to listen to Sophia more often.
And I proceed to not think too much at all for the rest of the night, which we spend talking on the hood of a car.

told you so.” Sophia pokes me from her spot on the couch.

I saw that coming.

“You did.” I try to sound begrudging. The smile I haven’t been able to wipe off my face gives me away.

“So, Starbucks tonight? That’s sort of your style, right? Low-key and meaningful?”

“I’ve never been on a date, so I’m not sure if I have a style yet.”

Are dating styles like clothes? If I like a classy, elegant look, does it mean I’m only ever going to go to theater shows and eat dinner at places like Zola’s? I don’t like that, I decide, as I vow to be more adventurous. Besides, isn’t a date with James adventurous in and of itself?

“My baby girl is growing up.” She pretends to wipe a tear from her eye.

“Oh, shut up.” I roll mine at her melodrama and go get dressed.

My color-coordinated tops look like a rainbow mess on the hangers in my closet. The late September air can be brisk in the evening, so I pull out a deep purple cable knit sweater, black leggings, and my boots. I bolt to the bathroom, where a dash of eye shadow and eyeliner, three coats of mascara, and some lip gloss finish my look. My hair, due for a cut since it’s skimming my waist, appears longer as I drag a straightening iron through it. There. I’m done.

I pause at the door in front of Starbucks ten minutes later.
Here goes nothing.

Almost immediately, I spot him. Parked at a corner table, James people-watches through the floor-to-ceiling window. His cream cable knit pullover gives his olive skin an ethereal vibe. His dark hair looks ruffled and even in the dim evening light, his piercing green eyes shine like Christmas lights. On cue, he scans the room and puts a stop to my ogling. He gives me a broad smile, and the happiness is infectious. I beam and stride over to him, as he does the same. His gait is strong and confident. His broad shoulders balance his determined steps, and he looks like he owns the world. The unexpected hug he gives me catches my breath. When his arms unwrap themselves from me, I am disappointed. I could get used to us entwined together.

“Hey,” he says in his sonorous voice. “I’m really glad you could come!”

“Hi! I am, too! How was your day?”

We walk to the table and take a seat. I don’t even feel the need to face the door, a compulsion I’ve had since a terrifying experience when I was in high school and a mentally ill homeless man had come charging into the restaurant, threatening the staff and patrons. Once again, James’ presence doesn’t allow me to think too much.

“It was good. I was looking forward to this.”

“Me too,” I admit, suddenly shy.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have plans.”

“I was probably going to spend tonight by myself, actually. Sophia is going out with Luca…”

When he asks how Sophia’s doing and if she’s mentioned anything about his roommate, the glimpse of us as sixth-graders spreading messages of someone’s crush to each other in whispered tones comes to mind. It’s easy to visualize texts in lieu of the notes marking
Do you like me? Check yes or no.

“You aren’t getting anything about that out of me. I’m like 007.”

“I’ll squeeze it out of you,” he promises. “We’ve got all night.”

“Challenge accepted,” I tell him, and he turns a shade more serious.

“Enough about them, though. How are you doing? Feeling better after yesterday?”

“I am.” I finally fill him in on the baby steps I’ve taken over the last few weeks to get over what happened. I can put on makeup and dress up without guilt. I don’t feel as though I’m walking on pins and needles at night. There are only a few consequences. I don’t wear headphones at night anymore, to stay more alert when I walk around campus. I’ve had a few nightmares that have woken me drenched in sweat but overall, I’ve escaped any permanent damage. I’ve also learned to get my own drinks.

“You’re tougher than you look.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

“It is. It’s scary being victimized, I’m sure. And it’s admirable you’re doing what you can to calm yourself when you feel tense. You’re resilient.”

I went on a class trip to Paris in high school and we were all asked to use one word to describe the Mona Lisa. We had so many adjectives produced: mysterious, sweet, pretty, ugly, special, unspecial (way to go, Todd Peters). How would the Mona Lisa have described herself? Would she say she was any of those things? To turn the mirror back on yourself is always different. When I look at pictures, I always notice a flaw or a fine point I miss when I only stare at my reflection. James’ assessment that I am resilient is one of those points I’ve never considered.

“Do you want to get something to drink?” I gesture to the counter.

We wait in a line of three people. When I bring out my wallet to pay, James stops me and tells the barista, “She’s with me.”

I really like how that sounds. A daydream begins where James introduces me as his girlfriend to all his friends.
Way ahead of yourself
, my mind tells me, and I stop abruptly. The barista calls my name and his together, and we collect our drinks. As we walk back to the table, I replay the mingling of our names in my head.
James and Nithya.
It is the furthest thing from unappealing. It sounds dignified–synonymous with Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde. Not necessarily a promising ending… but meant to be nonetheless.

“So, is Tristan your only sibling?” I take a sip of my hot chocolate, and he does the same with his iced coffee before answering.

“No, I have an older brother, Maxwell. He’s twenty-seven, lives out in California now.”

I picture Maxwell as an older version of James–maybe he has shaggier hair because he’s the surfer type, or maybe he dresses like James with his sweaters and baggy jeans, a combination of beach boy and future investment banker.

“He’s a doctor,” he answers me when I ask, proving my ‘James’ life story’ radar is still in need of some refining. “He’s the perfect child in our family. Valedictorian, Ivy League undergrad and medical, residency at his top choice now. We gave up trying to outdo him.” He finds it comical. I’d find it daunting.

“Is Tristan the troublemaker if Max is the perfect one?”

“No… well, maybe,” he corrects himself. “The three of us go in order in terms of being uptight. Max is more rigid. He chose the traditional career route. Tristan is really laidback and his sports journalism career path is, like, the total opposite of Max’s methodical way of planning his life. I am somewhere in the middle.”

“What are your majors, anyway?”

“Bioengineering and crime, law, and justice. Totally unrelated, I know.”

“Wow, what can you even do with that?”

“I couldn’t decide between medical school or law school until this summer when I interned with my dad’s firm and decided on law… And now I’ll have an engineering degree if I get fired and need a backup.” He chuckles.

“You won’t,” I reassure him. “You guys sound adventurous.”

“I don’t know if I believe in birth order theories, but they’re pretty accurate in our family,” he tells me, nursing his drink.

“Your mom must have been a champ dealing with all that testosterone in the house.” My own father has dealt with monthly hormones, drama, and more love than he probably knew what to do with, with three women living together.

“She knew when to kick our ass. We deserved it, too. She’s something else, though. We’re all close.”

They have to be. He talks about them the way I talk about my family… protectively. Affectionately. Like they’re the center of his world. The St. Clairs make their way into our conversation constantly.
My brother does that
, or
My mom was telling me this,
keep popping up. It is clear they influence his decisions and have molded him into who he is. The driven, intelligent, kind boy I see in front of me is 100% the product of his parents and brothers.

“What is your family like?”

“Hardworking, like yours. My dad is an engineer, and my mom was a part-time secretary until we were financially stable enough so she could stop.” I smile fondly.

“Your parents had to establish themselves first.” He recognizes the effort and acts as though he knows firsthand what it’s like.

“We didn’t own a house until I was seven or eight. We used to live in an apartment near Philadelphia, and there was this
dankness
in the building’s laundry room. My mom would bring puzzles for me to play with while she would do laundry and entertain Anisha, who was still a baby. The kitchen was tiny, the entire place smelled like eggplant curry, and Anisha used to make drum sets out of pots and pans because we couldn’t afford lots of toys. I don’t remember having no money, though. It was always just home, even when my parents were saving up every penny to buy the house we live in now.”

“I can relate. We lived in a crappy apartment outside of Boston when my dad was an associate. Amazing how much things change,” he observes.

“You’re right. And it’s amazing how some things don’t… My mom still uses coupons to buy groceries. My dad still tries to fix everything himself before he calls a mechanic.”

“My parents still insist on having dinner together every night when we’re home.”

“Hey, mine too!” I exclaim, and we toast this with our paper cups in lieu of crystal.

James and I reveal other commonalities, too. His father went to an Ivy League and mine attended IIT, a school that breeds engineering superstars. They both built themselves from the ground up, graduating at the top of their respective classes despite having wives and young children. Our mothers both worked while we grew up, but didn’t start until we went to kindergarten, believing their presence in our early childhood would shape us despite the financial burden of having one breadwinner. They were right.

“You sound like a solid family,” he announces once we’ve compared notes.

“I like to think so. So does yours.”