Page 125 of Cakes for the Grump
“Don’t apologize to me.” His voice is angry for the first time before he gentles it. “Don’t. Not for this.”
“Okay.”
We dress and go to bed even though the sun hasn’t set. He keeps me in his arms. I lope my legs around his and find that spot where his shoulder meets his neck to rest my head on. Our faces turn to each other.
Luke gentles a hand down my arm. “I’ve been so focused on my own vendetta that I haven’t asked what you need from me, and now I don’t know what to do. If I could go back, I would give you everything that first day you walked into my office. Instead, you got demands.”
He kisses the valley leading to my heart. There, right above it, he stops and rests his cheek. He mumbles regrets, sorrows, renewed promises, and words of adoration to it.
With his head bowed, I feel revered. My hands thread through his hair and cradle his head. I’m at risk of crying again, but I stop myself. Not because I’m afraid of falling apart again—for the first time—but because I want to sleep. So, I do.
THIRTY-FOUR
I was in a taffeta dress.Manjinder was in a suit.
If I shut my eyes, I can still remember the big anniversary party he threw after our two years of dating. He had corralled a whole restaurant, and made them put up boxes and boxes of galaxy lights so our friends and families felt like stepping into our love was like stepping into another dimension. Flashy like prom, sweet like a gathering under the stars, multiplied twentyfold. There was a live DJ booth in the corner alternating between Punjabi classics from Surinder Kaur and Prakash Kaur and Hindi movie classic songs by Sonu Nigam. The dance floor was fifties diner-themed, tiled black and white. Servers wove around with speciality drinks dosed with edible glitter.
“This is going to be such a night,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m so glad you let me go all out, babe.”
“I—I still can’t imagine the cost of it all.”
“All on me,” he said. “What’s the point of being an engineer, if I can’t buy us nice experiences? Andreally, most of the people here are from my side.”
It’s true. He has invited family (close and extended), friends, friends of friends, the whole engineering department, bosses and executives included. Even his dentist was walking around somewhere with their kids.
I had Kiren, Noor, Uncle and Dad.
Four people. I wasn’t sure if it should be three.
Not that I didn’t want him here. Just the drinks.
Manjinder didn’t like my idea of a dry party. He made such potent points in his argument. How was it fair to ask everyone to change for one person’s problems? How could we take away the power of social lubrication? How would people have fun? If we did this, what else were we going to compromise later on in our lives?
Plus, Uncle was here.
He’d watch him.
And me. I was doing it too. I couldn’t help it.
Though it was difficult. Manjinder scheduled a sardine itinerary. We zoomed around, rolling from one thing to another. It made me think this party was modeled after a wedding reception. There was cake-cutting, people clapping, then Manjinder launched his speech where he told the whole room our story.
Never mind people were damp-eyed listening to a soliloquy on our love, how I saved him after his car accident. Neither was it of any consequence that I was having trouble breathing. If my cheeks ached from holding themselves up, if I was scheduling laughs when people come up to us, if I was feeling like holding his hand all night chained us together, it meant nothing.
This should be alright. It was healthy to sink into the possibility of our future life together, and any nerves were natural in the face of big change. In a matter of months, he might actually pop the question and propose a lifetime of us being committed to each other. I needed to be ready.
People were well-fed and well-inebriated. We were making the rounds, telling everyone how much we appreciated them being here. The most important conversation was the one we had when we got to his boss.
Manjinder had told me a promotion was coming, one that needed a push to solidify. The head of the Engineering Department was a thin man who, despite all of his wealth, preferred to dress in basic silhouettes and drab colors. His wife adorned her ears with simple gold hoops, opting to be bare-faced. Her strong eyes and mouth didn’t need makeup.
Manjinder made a joke. We all laughed.
I was about to chime in with my own anecdote about Manjinder when I felt a touch on the back of my arm.
It was him coming up to us. There were obvious signs he’s been drinking. I could see them sometimes with my eyes closed. His face was flushed,and eyes were glassy, zoned over and dull. That wasn’t the worst one, though. It was the pitch and mannerisms of his voice. When my dad was drunk, he got loud and excitable in a way that existed outside the boundary of polite volume and affectations.
We all turned to him. There was a brief interlude where my gut had hit the floor, and then I prayed it wouldn’t be so bad this time, all while also looking over his shoulder to find anyone, even my friends, who could distract and take him away.
“Sorry for this,” he said, swaying as if having trouble with balance. “But I haven’t seen you all night, Rita. And I only want to cut in for a few seconds to tell you how happy I am.”
