Falguni Kothari - My Last Love Story

“I claim dibs on one and want mine painted periwinkle pink. The two of you can share the other one,” I declared cleverly.

This way, I’d command my own ride, and Nirvaan would be chaperoned by default. The cherry on top? I did not come off as the world’s naggiest wife.

Two masculine faces crinkled with confusion. The looks poured dread into my belly.

“Please don’t say you bought three Jet Skis.” How much money did they blow?

Zayaan took my statement as a personal affront, but Nirvaan laughed outright.

“No stinting, remember? Of course we bought three. Baby, are we or aren’t we the Awesome Threesome?” So saying, Nirvaan grasped me by the waist and hauled me up in the air. He spun us around and around until I was sure we’d fall and break our necks, all the while singing, “Happy birthday to us,” like a demented Donald Duck.

“Put me down, you idiot,” I shrieked, swatting at his shoulders.

He didn’t simply set me down. He slid me down his body, kissing me all through my descent. I felt dizzy, unsteady from his kisses, from the spins, and I wrapped my arms around him until the world righted itself. His heart beat strong and steady under my cheek.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

I closed my eyes and burrowed into his chest. I didn’t want to let go, not just yet. Not ever, I vowed, tightening my hold on my husband.

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

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.