The Rearranged Life (33 page)

“A phase?”

“I had a rebellious phase in tenth grade or so. It didn’t last too long… You know, the usual: smoking weed once in a while, trying alcohol. Typical stuff.”

“Really?”

“You sound so surprised.” He laughs. “Not everyone’s as careful as you.”

“I am surprised! I never knew you tried drugs,” I whisper the last word like it’s a taboo.

For someone who has never drunk or done drugs (at least voluntarily), I’m blown away by this revelation. I’ve never even seen him drunk. He chuckles at my wide-eyed innocence. We switch from subject to subject, and chatter for another two hours on I-80. An exit sign passes for Philadelphia, and I ignore the pang in my chest. I listen instead to James tell me about his family. His parents were college sweethearts, he says, and they began with no money and built themselves up. Max broke up with his girlfriend when he moved west, and Tristan is currently a commitment-phobe.

I fall into a catnap and when I wake up, a sign declaring the establishment of Greenwich in 1640 has just passed. Small shops scroll by, patisseries and quaint stores with slanted roofs. History oozes between the bricks. Art deco buildings are scattered among colonial and revival-style structures, and together, they bridge the gap between the past and present.

We swing onto a residential drive, and trees envelop us again. The road winds, tracing S’s as it curves through the countryside. Houses peek through the trees here and there before we come to a clearing.

“We’re in my neighborhood,” James says as he turns into the driveway, which splits in two around a tiny brick gateway. James waves at the man inside, who shouts a loud greeting and tells him his parents are looking forward to his visit, before he pushes a button to open the gate.

Enormous properties surround us. A Mediterranean-style villa sits on our right with curving roof tiles that probably sound loud in the rain. On our left is a Colonial Cape Cod with white paneling and deep green shutters, framed with enormous bushes that haven’t bloomed yet because of the early spring weather. It must be beautiful in the summer.

We turn right onto a flat driveway, and my eyes are drawn upward to the enormous home in front of me. The driveway circles around a brick wall enclosing a small fountain. The house itself is stunning. It reminds me of a plantation in the south, or a rich home of a governor in England. Deep red brick layers the two floors and gives way to windows here and there. Large white columns surround the entrance. Dark shutters line the windows. Two enormous wings extend on either side, one containing a three-door garage, and the other sporting large windows, which probably allow in copious sunlight. It looks like the house is extending both arms out to welcome us in, and I melt.

James shifts the gear into park and turns off the ignition. “We’re home!”

“Wow…” I say softly, still taking in the details.

“Let’s go inside. They’re waiting.” He opens the door and bounds to the trunk.

As he fishes out the overnight bags, a voice booms, “They’re here!” It belongs to a six-foot-four, dirty-blond man with a more muscular build than James.

“Dude. You’re putting us to shame, you need to stop growing.” James gives him a gentle slug on the shoulder.

“Considering I put you to shame at everything, this really shouldn’t be a surprise,” the guy laughs, and they turn to me, standing awkwardly against the closed passenger door.

With his playful disposition and his eyes, which are the exact same shade of green as James’, it’s impossible not to recognize him. The rib-shattering bear hug he gives me as I reach for a handshake is proof my suspicions are correct. This is Tristan.

In Indian families, at least in the ones I’ve met, men and women offer each other a handshake or a
Namaste
with their palms together. Usually, only the females hug.
Even greetings are different between our cultures
.

“I’ve heard so much about you!” Tristan takes ahold of my bag, and we enter the foyer.

A female exclaims, “James!” and soft footfalls patter down the magnificent arched staircase. “Sweetheart, I’ve missed you!” she exclaims and embraces her middle son.

James wraps his arms around her as she places her hand on his face.

“How was your drive?”

“Great, if my wing woman hadn’t fallen asleep for half of it.” James gives me a jokingly dirty look.

“I may not have fallen asleep if I had better company to keep,” I retort. Tristan laughs, and I am relieved to see Mrs. St. Clair do the same as she turns to me. Once again, I reach my hand out for a handshake, and like Tristan, she envelops me in a hug.

“Do you want to take Nithya’s things to the guest bedroom? Maybe give her a tour of the house before we dig into some snacks and catch up?” She gives my arm a warm squeeze.

“Isn’t she staying in my room?”

My mouth drops open. If my parents knew I was sleeping in a boy’s room, they would blow their lid. If James’ are forward enough to allow their sons to have their girlfriends in the bedrooms, I am impressed. The cultural contrast stands out once again. My parents wouldn’t allow a guy in my bedroom even if we were engaged. I’m pretty sure in high school, Amma stood outside my door to make sure nothing untoward was going on when I had friends over to work on projects. This blows my mind.

“Well, I was thinking we could put her in the guest bedroom so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable, James.” Mrs. St. Clair’s motherly authority creeps into her voice.

“Max had girls in his room, Mom.”

“Past precedent is a basis of an argument only in a court of law. Show Nithya to her room, and I’ll make you guys some tea,” Mrs. St. Clair says, firmly.

“You’ve been married to a lawyer for too long,” James grumbles as he grabs my duffel from the floor next to Tristan.

I giggle and follow him. Tristan gestures to me like,
I have no idea, either
.

James leads me to the right through the living room, which I now have ample opportunity to gawk at. James had mentioned on our first date that his mother owned a boutique. I assume the décor came from her shop. The cream-colored sofas surround a maroon and cream Oriental rug, all of which face the majestic stone fireplace I admired when we first walked in. Accent tables are strategically placed at the corners of each couch, displaying formal family portraits or flower arrangements matching the relaxing color scheme. The walls are lined with wood moldings, making the room look ornate, despite the simple furnishings. Delicate maroon draperies with gold accents overhang the large windows, and the hardwood floors gleam in the light pouring in from outside.

“Wow, you guys are going to spoil me. I won’t be able to go back to my apartment after this!” I gasp at the canopy bed in the middle of the blue-tinted guest room. The huge French doors lead out to the patio. Billowing white curtains hang from them. The bathtub even has jet sprays, like a Jacuzzi. It reminds me of the Ritz hotel we stayed at during my high school debate team state championship tournament.

“Maybe that’s the point. It’d be nice to stay here forever and not go back,” James says, pulling on one of the canopy curtains absentmindedly.

“You miss it, don’t you?” I sidle up and wrap my arms around him.

“Sure, I do. It feels nice not to be… stressed.”

James is right. I was too nervous about meeting James’ family to notice the change at first, but now that we are alone, I wonder how I could have missed it before. The air feels lighter, and my shoulders are not as heavy.

The lazy happiness carries into the kitchen as we dig into the snacks Mrs. St. Clair has laid out. She mentions James has told her I want to be a doctor and asks the standard questions about how school is going and whether I’ve looked at other options. I suppose all mothers want to know what their child’s significant other is up to. My mom’s interrogation comes to mind. Luckily, Mrs. St. Clair’s tone is sweet and fascinated, not nosy. It makes me want to open up and I do, about all that has happened. James appears to have told her most of it as she seems unsurprised, but she leans in to listen intently.

“Oh, Nithya, I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with all of this.” She pats my hand.

“It’s okay. I mean, I’m trying to make it okay. I started applying for some jobs.”

“Sometimes the biggest setbacks are also what propel you forward. Keep the faith. James speaks so glowingly about you. I have no doubt your future is bright.”

“Thank you,” I tell her gratefully. “Sometimes, it’s hard to remember.”

“Nithya, something you all will learn after this competitive stage in your life, is that your value isn’t based on your accomplishments but how you make the people around you feel. People might remember your perfect GPA, but they will more likely remember if you were good to them. Don’t let this harden you.”

Her advice sounds so much like something Nanna would say that my heart hurts. She gives me a sweet smile before she turns to James, who asks where his dad and older brother are.

“Your dad and Max are at the store. They should be back soon.”

As she speaks, I get my first good look at her. Based on the fact that Max is in his late twenties, I assume Mrs. St. Clair and Mr. St. Clair are in their early fifties, at least, but Mrs. St. Clair doesn’t look it. She’s beautiful, soft but not overweight. I can see where James gets his olive skin tone. Her deep brown eyes are kind and give me the impression she’s shy. If I hadn’t heard James’ stories of his mother the disciplinarian, I would have pegged her for a softie. Her eyes are wider than James’ and framed with dark lashes, like his. Dark brown hair falls just below her shoulders, but rather than giving off the impression of forced youthfulness, it is effortless and suits her. Her height is about the same as mine, but she has better posture. She sits with her back straight, and I sense movement beneath her calm exterior, as if she’s itching to jump onto the next project.

Partway through the next conversation about college life, I catch myself moving my hands as I chat, a sign that I’m completely comfortable at this kitchen table. When Mrs. St. Clair swats at James’ hand and tells him to use a plate when he reaches for a sandwich, and doesn’t miss a beat as she tells me rejections always pave the way for something better, it’s like listening to my own parents. They are all wise and well-versed in life’s setbacks, aware that it continues on anyway. Hearing it from a stranger is validation my loved ones weren’t telling stories to make me feel better.

A car engine revs in the driveway, and I know introductions to Mr. St. Clair and Max are imminent. They are tall, too. Being amongst this family is like standing in the Amazon rainforest.

“Nithya,” Mr. St. Clair greets me with a firm handshake, something I finally get right, though I was expecting a hug.

I’m glad my Indian instinct won out or I would have been mortified. Max tells him not to hog me, and throws his arms around me like he’s known me for years.

“You’re prettier than James said.” He gives me a slightly mischievous look from beneath his glasses.

“Are you telling your family I’m ugly?!” I ask James with fake outrage.

“I told them you were beautiful. He’s trying to get me in trouble.”

“It’s working. We may not be friends after this,” I threaten, pointing a finger at his chest.

“I’m your ride home. Trust me. We’ll be friends,” James says with a laugh. His family joins him. Mr. St. Clair glances at his watch and mentions that we should leave for dinner soon.

The restaurant we dine at is called Morello’s, and it is exactly what I imagine Italy to be like. The domed ceilings and exposed brick walls transport us from Connecticut to Tuscany, and, of course, the goat cheese ravioli is to die for.

The conversation circles around Tristan and James, with occasional questions about how I grew up and what I see in my future. Laughter is so frequent in this family that I can see exactly why James is uncomplicated and always has a trace of a smile on his lips. The witticisms are exchanged at rapid fire pace, and it’s no wonder the family watched James and I spar like a tennis match. Tristan speaks with animation–each of his stories contains hilariously imitated voices. The impressions of his friends and of his professors have us in stitches. If I ever meet anyone he’s talked about, I am sure I won’t be able to look at him or her with a straight face. Max delivers his lines more seriously, his sense of humor dryer and more sarcastic than the other boys’. When he smiles, however, all hint of seriousness is lost–he looks like a college kid. By the time we leave for home, long after the restaurant has begun to clear out, we are all loaded, and there is sleep in our eyes.

James walks me to my bedroom door when we’ve reached the house. “I wish you were sleeping with me tonight,” he murmurs quietly, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Why, you think you’re gonna get lucky under your parent’s roof?” I tease.
One rule at a time
.

“A guy can wish, right?” He leans in and kisses me.

“Maybe I do, too.” I breathe against his lips.

His arms pull me in, and my back is against the door. He groans softly, moving from my lips to my cheeks and the crook of my neck. I put my hands on his face, wanting more than this, but trying to control myself. His hands steal under my shirt and slowly move up my back. I reach for his mouth again with my own, before we hear footsteps and I push James away. He leans against the opposite wall in the hallway, crossing his legs.