Falguni Kothari - My Last Love Story

Groceries, Jet Skis and a couple of other errands later, the guys and I made a night of it in town. By unanimous agreement and an available table, we drove to Hara Kiri, a Japanese steak house known for its gourmet teriyaki and teppanyaki menu. We parked the truck in a supervised lot down the street from the restaurant to ensure the Jet Skis would be safe.

It was still raining. Shallow puddles had formed in places where the earth was dented. The guys, as usual, were oblivious to the vagaries of weather, content with the deficient protection their unzipped hooded coats provided.

I was more circumspect. I cinched my raincoat about me and opened an umbrella large enough for a homeless man to use as a shelter. Without making a fuss, I hurried after Nirvaan and brought him under the red canopy and out of the rain. He shot me an amused grin and curled an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his body, as we plodded forward.

Lately, life seemed to amuse him a lot. I guessed when one was about to lose his life, he had to choose whether to laugh or cry about it. I supposed the same could be said for anyone not about to lose his life, too. I recalled the Elbert Hubbard quote Nirvaan had printed out and stuck on the fridge at his parents’ house some five-odd years ago.

“Don’t take life too seriously. You won’t get out of it alive.”

Inside the restaurant, Nirvaan headed straight for the restroom while I tried to remove my coat, one-handed, while juggling my handbag and the dripping umbrella in the other. There were days when Nirvaan would experience moderate to severe incontinence due to a change in his medications or a reaction to some food. I hoped it wasn’t bad. Maybe Hara Kiri hadn’t been such a great idea...

“Here, give me those,” Zayaan said, tugging my bag and umbrella out of my hand.

Unencumbered, I shrugged off my raincoat, and he took it, too, handing my purse back to me before heading to the coat check. After the exchange, we didn’t speak or even look at each other as we waited for Nirvaan.

Sometimes, it saddened me that it’d come to this between us. This man was my soul mate, and through no fault of his, I couldn’t stand to be near him now. I found no humor in our situation, no matter what Hubbard had quoted.

“Are you okay?” I asked when my husband rejoined us. “Would you rather go home for dinner? Or somewhere less exotic?”

Nirvaan shook his head, saying he only had to pee and was fine, so we followed the sleekly dressed half-Asian hostess to the hibachi grill in the middle of the restaurant. The space was packed, every seat taken, every table laden with food and sake. I was glad I’d had the foresight to make a reservation through the restaurant’s mobile app. The hostess took our drink orders once we’d settled in our seats and sauntered off to fulfill them.

“Pink Shirt and Fake Tits checking you out, chodu,” said Nirvaan through the corner of his mouth. He had the menu open before him but clearly wasn’t interested in selecting his dinner from the listed offerings, busy as he was with scanning other delights. “Baby, scoot hither.” He conspiratorially leaned close. “Give those two lovely ladies a chance to corrupt our friend here. He deserves a reward for all his hard work today.”

I followed my husband’s line of vision to the women sitting on the opposite side of the massive grill. In the expanse between us, a quartet of Asian chefs danced about, flaming up masterpieces in the woks on the grills. Pungent garlicky aromas wafted up, making my mouth water and my stomach growl. Through the steam, I saw the women were indeed looking our way. A sideway squint showed Zayaan returning the favor with his signature mystery-man look—hooded eyes, calm but cocky expression, a hint of a leer curling his lips.

A flame of jealousy ignited in my belly. I wrenched my eyes away and looked down at the menu in my hands.

I didn’t understand myself at all. I loved my husband. We were happy together. I didn’t want Zayaan anymore—not in any capacity, other than as a good friend. I had pushed him away, locked up all memories of him for twelve years. I’d been very successful. But ever since our forced proximity, it had become impossible to maintain any sort of equanimity.

I didn’t want those women staring at my guys—both my guys. I wanted to stake my claim on them in front of the whole world.

I could brand Nirvaan, claim his mouth with lips and tongue, and there would be no mistaking my rights. Then I could lean into Zayaan and run my hand down the pearly-white buttons on his shirt to his heart. A kiss here, a touch there. I wondered if the women would take my actions as a warning or an invitation.

Here was the thing about places like Carmel-by-the-Sea where half of the populace was of an artsy temperament and the other half was mega rich—no one cared about ménage à trois or even ménage à twenty. In such places, kinky was normal.

Not that the guys and I had ever been kinky outside of our childish fantasies. We weren’t a sexual ménage. Had never been, would never be.

But our audience didn’t know that, did they?

I wasn’t drunk, truly. My sake bomb had only just been placed in front of me, so I couldn’t blame my insane cogitations on its consumption—not that I ever blamed alcohol for anything. I preferred to take responsibility for my own thoughts and fancies.

I didn’t know these women, but I did know how my guys would react if I actually gave in to my wicked desire. Nirvaan would guffaw if I made a spectacle of us. Probably egg me on to add a tabletop belly dance to the action. But Zayaan would bristle like an angry porcupine. He used to dislike public displays of anything. I didn’t think he’d changed all that much.

Anyway, I decided not to test the theory.

“Do stop staring, Zai. They might think you’re available.” I raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want them to think you are? But then whatever will Marjaneh think of Nirvaan and me? Bad enough that we stole you away from her charms for a whole year. That we couldn’t even protect her man from the big, bad California Barbies would be unforgivable. She’d never let you off her leash again.”

Marjaneh Shahrokhi was Zayaan’s girlfriend of two years and colleague of five. According to Zayaan’s mother, the couple was a hairbreadth away from getting engaged. Marjaneh was smart, pretty, moderately religious and sensible—the perfect woman for Zayaan. We’d met her on our last trip to London. I’d hated her on sight.

“What’s put your nose out of joint tonight?” remarked Zayaan, calling me out on the Mean Girls act.

It shut me up, as intended. I wrinkled my rather large Parsi nose with the inexplicable bump in the middle. The thing was an added insult on my plain-Jane face. I had a lovely peaches-and-cream complexion, courtesy of my mother, but no glamorous features to speak of, nothing to inspire a Leonardo to paint me as Mona Lisa.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. Both Zayaan and Nirvaan, during our hormone-crazed teenage years, had composed love sonnets in my honor. Some of them had been absolutely filthy limericks extolling the virtues of my various body parts, but I’d found them enchanting regardless.

In turn, I’d penned praise of their sinewy beauty. Nirvaan was the classic tall, dark, lithe type of handsome while Zayaan was ruggedly good-looking and very fair. Zayaan, without his golden tan and face stubble, was almost as pale as me. Our common Persian heritage, we’d deduced, during one of our trillion and one profound midnight chats.

Sometime over the past millennium, to avoid persecution, first the Parsis and then the Aga Khani Muslims, a sect of the Shiite Ismailis, had fled Persia to settle down on the mildly distant but welcoming shores of Hindustan—the shores of the State of Gujarat, to be precise—setting the precedent for a religiously and ethnically diverse yet secular nation.