My Last Love Story

He moved then, not to disengage us, but his body went taut, as if he were reaching for something and—

Oh, crap. I realized too late what he intended and wasn’t nimble enough to pull away in time.

Just breathe, I told myself. It’s only Zai. You know him. It’s okay. You know him.

“You’re insane, chodu,” Zayaan muttered right before I became the sandwich filling between two hard, half-wet, male bodies.

I couldn’t help the shiver that coursed through me.

The Awesome Threesome.

A long time ago, we’d been that and more to each other, and in the coming year, we’d probably draw on that bond like we’d never done before. We needed to become a well-oiled machine again, working in tandem to fulfill the promises we’d made to Nirvaan, trying to live a normal life when our situation was anything but normal.

I, Simeen Desai—a plain-Jane rebel, the mad Parsi chick—was living in a ménage with two gorgeous men, the twin knights of my life.

I concentrated on that fiction. In my mind, I perpetuated the fantasy we’d once imagined for us because to think about the truth of our situation, about the inoperable metastatic tumor inside my husband’s brain, was anathema to me.

3 (#uc240ec44-79e7-51c5-8b24-037e096f0417)

The late spring drizzle didn’t let up for the whole day, leaving the guys and me housebound.

Personally, I didn’t mind it so much. Trips to doctors’ offices often left me sore, sour and in frantic need of my comfort zone.

I changed into a simple top and a pair of knit shorts. Then, too restless to just sit around playing video games with the guys, I started on my chores. I did two loads of laundry and vacuumed every square inch of the house, preparing it for Nirvaan’s parents, who were set to visit over the upcoming Mother’s Day weekend.

The beach house had come fully furnished and comfortably so. The furniture, if not new or color-coordinated, was made of sturdy cedar wood and wicker that had withstood the water-heavy ocean air and deposits of inadvertently smuggled-in sand for decades. There was enough storage around the house that I didn’t need to worry about clutter when bombarded by our constant weekend guests, and the carriage house with its own bathroom was a bonus even if in disrepair. Zayaan wanted to quick-fix it up—spray-paint the walls, polish the furniture, or replace it with cheap new pieces—and move in there, so we might all have some breathing room. But Nirvaan wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted the three of us together at all times, space or no space. And what Nirvaan wanted, Nirvaan would get.

He’d say, “Jump.”

We’d ask, “How high?”

He was dying. We were not. It was that simple.

It wasn’t that space was an issue when it was just the three of us. The house was sufficiently large with an inviting open layout. The front door led directly into the living area, two bedrooms and a master bath fell to one side of it, and a third bedroom, a tiny den, and another bathroom crowded the other. None of the rooms had any doors on them, except the two bathrooms. Thick damask curtains acted as doors to the rooms, giving one a vague sense of privacy when drawn.

I could go for hours without bumping into Zayaan, if I wished. The house was that spacious. The thing was, I didn’t seem to want to. I was getting used to him again. And no matter how resistant I still was about our living arrangement, my devious husband had counted on just that. Nirvaan wished I’d overlook Zayaan’s inadvertent transgressions—meaning, I should look more kindly toward his religion and his infamous Pakistani family, including his obnoxious mother. I’d perpetuated those lies for a long time, and I would continue to flame them. It was better the guys thought of me as a paranoid bigot than suffer the truth.

The nonstop rain had triggered a drop in temperature, both outdoors and indoors, and one of the guys had thoughtfully built a fire in the living room.

My chores done, I decided to serve lunch in front of the cheery crackling fireplace. I’d put together a nutritious bhonu meal of egg biryani and a Greek yogurt-based vegetable raita—a simple dish but plentiful—keeping the guys’ bottomless stomachs in mind. It’d taken Nirvaan a long time to rebuild his appetite, reawaken his taste buds that cancer medications had destroyed, and I dreaded the coming months that would leach it from him again. I was determined to spoil him as much as possible until then.

I wasn’t a great cook. I wasn’t bad, either, and could manage simple dishes well enough. But given a choice, I’d gladly surrender the kitchen to a more seasoned power, one of the reasons I looked forward to my in-laws’ visits. No one indulged my husband’s notoriously Gujjubhai palate better than his mother. My mother-in-law was the undisputed queen of the Desai kitchen, and I, her quasi apprentice.

That reminds me...

“I should stock up on groceries before your mother arrives. If you guys have special requests, tell me now.” I paused, a forkful of biryani dripping with yogurt poised before my mouth. “Don’t make me or even yourselves run to the store twenty times for ingredients.”

I exaggerated, but the guys did have a tendency to spring culinary demands when least expected. Like last week, Nirvaan had had a craving for Indian-style Hakka noodles in the middle of the night, and no Hakka noodle packets had been in the pantry.

Nirvaan chewed on his food and my question, when, suddenly, his face twisted into a frown, as if he’d tasted something bad. Or rather, he’d seen something unpleasant—my bun. I’d bunched my hair into a topknot, so it wouldn’t get in the way of my chores.

I sighed, reached up and pulled the rubber band off, letting the weight of my crowning glory drop. “Happy?” I rubbed my scalp and fluffed my hair out.

Nirvaan had developed this hair fetish after his own had fallen off during his first chemo. I understood his obsession, sympathized with his apprehensions, but sometimes, he took things a bit too far—and not just with my hair.

“You know what I like, baby. I’ll leave the satiation of my cravings in your skilled hands,” he said, giving me a syrupy smile.

I rolled my eyes at the not-even-clever double entendre. I could’ve pointed out that we were discussing the satiation of his cravings through his mother’s hands, but I thought better of it. The comment would no doubt trigger rebuttals, and I didn’t want the conversation to slide into the gutter.

“And you?” I darted a look at Zayaan, or more specifically at the fringe of hair flopping over his eyes. I’d worked out a system to deal with him. I would not get too close, and I’d stick to minimum eye contact.

“Everything Mummy cooks is delicious. Just make sure there’s enough left over to last until her next visit.” He smacked his lips together, clearly anticipating the forthcoming delicacies.

“Not that we don’t appreciate your cooking, baby. The biryani is orgasmic. No, seriously, I love it,” added Nirvaan.

The patently fake, obsequious tone made me snort. I was proud of my strengths, and I’d learned to live with my weaknesses. Cooking was neither. I just didn’t care about cooking enough to take offense that I wasn’t a master chef in people’s eyes.

“We can drop you at the market on our way to the marina,” offered Zayaan, briefly smiling at me before jerking his chin at Nirvaan. “We should get the Jet Skis checked out—serviced, gassed up and whatever else. Daddy will want a ride first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re right,” groaned Nirvaan. “Damn it. He’ll hog one all weekend. Thank God Nisha’s not coming, or between Aarav and her brats, we’d never get a turn.”

He was joking, of course. Nirvaan loved his sister, got along famously with his brother-in-law, and doted on his niece and nephew, who adored their Nimo in turn.

For reasons slightly more serious than the sharing of Jet Skis, I, too, was glad my sister-in-law had postponed her visit. We’d hosted Nisha and her family last weekend, and we would see them at our birthday celebration at Nirvaan’s parents’ house in LA at the end of the month. So, it wasn’t a huge tragedy to miss bonding this once.

I had no issues with Nisha, as such, but she’d started behaving a bit funny with me over the past few months, and I didn’t know what to make of it. She was probably worried about Nirvaan, I’d concluded, and unable to express her feelings about the tumor and its ramifications. It might explain her stiff attitude toward me. It was difficult to find the right words of support and solace in our kind of situation, and Nisha and I had never been chums to begin with.

In truth, I’d never even tried to get friendly with her—or anyone else since my fifteenth birthday. I’d been so blinded by the guys, so wholly satisfied by our friendship and what it’d brought to my life, that I hadn’t wanted any other friends. And after...after that night, I’d been too afraid to step out into the world. So, what would I have done with making friends, anyway?

Nisha and I had become passably friendly only after my marriage. But then, we’d had to, hadn’t we, for Nirvaan’s sake?

“Stop whining, chodu. I should be whining.” Zayaan flicked an uneaten clove at Nirvaan.

The spice bounced off my husband’s shoulder and landed on a white seashell embossed on the shrimp-colored fabric of the sofa. He pinched it up and popped it into his mouth. Nirvaan could eat anything remotely edible.

“You’ll get out of playing golf by faking fatigue or the bubonic plague, and I’ll be stuck on the greens with Daddy for hours or days. Fuck, I hate golf. It’s such a tedious game.” Shaking his head, Zayaan ambled into the open-style kitchen and dumped his empty plate and bowl in the sink. He twisted the tap on, running water over both.

It spoke volumes to just how entrenched Zayaan was in the Desai household that he addressed my in-laws as Mummy and Daddy. Even I didn’t do that. I couldn’t. Mummy and Daddy were honorifics reserved for my own parents alone even though I considered Nirvaan’s in the same light. I’d addressed my in-laws as Kiran Auntie and Kamlesh Uncle since I was fifteen, and I continued to do so after marriage. Neither my in-laws nor Nirvaan had ever questioned me on it even though plenty of our relatives had. I’d usually smile and shrug in answer to such nosiness.

The thing was, as a Parsi daughter-in-law, I could get away with a lot of things in the Desais’ predominantly Hindu household that another woman of similar faith would not have. Especially as we Parsis were known for our outspoken, eccentric attitudes. My own family hailed Freddie Mercury of Queen fame as a hero—a nonconformist outspoken Parsi, if there ever was one—and his hit song “I Want to Break Free” was the family motto. I sat on the fence regarding the hero worship even though I did love his music.

I cleared the remnants of our lunch onto a tray and took it into the kitchen, humming the catchy beat of Freddie’s song under my breath. Nirvaan brought in the empty beer bottles and soda cans, tossing them into the recycling bin. From the fridge, he drew a tall glass of the mixed berry smoothie I’d whipped up for him earlier and glugged a quarter of it down along with his provision of meds. There were a few more pills in the mix than there’d been last month, as his medications were an ever-changing cocktail. I looked for signs of discomfort or pain on his face and relaxed when none showed. His head would hurt when he overdid things, and we’d already had an exciting day so far. Maybe I’d persuade him to take a nap before we ran our errands.

Zayaan brushed past Nirvaan to the squat new coffee machine by the fridge and programmed in a double espresso, his after-lunch special. “You sure you want them going back on Monday?” He looked askance at Nirvaan as the machine chugged out black-brown liquid in a swallow-sized cup. “They’ll want to be here, Mummy especially, during the radiosurgery.”

I stiffened and then quickly spun around to face the sink to hide my panic. The antiquated kitchen had no room for a dishwasher, so I soaped up a sponge and started washing the dishes by hand. I was furious with myself for reacting so badly, so typically. And I’d thought Nisha needed lessons on how to behave around Nirvaan. Ha.

“Nah. They’re doing enough, man—driving up and down on weekends, Dad taking on my share of the business acrobatics—and...you know, Ba hasn’t been keeping well, either. He needs to take care of his mother, too. She’s getting old. Besides, the procedure won’t even take half a day. No hospital stay and no side effects. Not a biggie at all.” Nirvaan’s words were all but muffled under the thundering beats of “I Want to Break Free” spooling around and around in my head.