in his eyes.
Jay leads me to the couch, and we both take a seat. Instead of leaning in toward me, he leans back against the corner of the sofa and lounges his right arm out as if to invite me in for a hug. “So, what is going on in your life? Tell me everything. How’s school treating you?”
Ugh. I don’t know exactly what Jay does for a living, but I do know it makes a healthy six figures. In euros. So anytime we talk about work, I feel like a Vegas lounge singer talking to Beyoncé. “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” I answer nervously.
Why am I so nervous? It’s not as if I’ve never been on a sofa with this man before. It’s not as if I haven’t known him for a million years. And, yes, okay, I still think he’s hot, but after this many years knowing a person …
“And your cousin Julie?” he asks, killing the mood completely.
Julie and he had a brief fling back in college when, granted, I had a boyfriend. Then they hooked up a few years ago when he came to Los Angeles, when I, once again, had a boyfriend.
Naturally, I was jealous as hell both times.
“Julie’s good,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “She’s married now, so she has a date to the wedding.” Good God, why do I say things like that out loud?
Jay nods. “Husbands are good for that—built-in dates.”
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly, nodding as well. Then I take a nervous sip of wine and blurt out, “Guess you’re gonna have to find someone else to dance with to Eric Clapton that night.”
He smiles at me, shakes his head slowly, and asks in confusion, “Eric Clapton?”
“Yeah. Remember, sophomore year our dorm had this dance, and you were flirting with Julie, and then “Wonderful Tonight” came on, and you were talking about how he first released it in 1977, but it didn’t really take off until more than ten years later, and she grabbed you and you guys danced, and then … well … um, you know.” I dart my eyes around the room, unable to make eye contact any longer.
Jay cocks his head. “Wow. I vaguely remember that. I’m surprised you do.”
“Three point one four one five nine two six five.” Butterflies are doing cartwheels in my stomach. “Those are the first nine digits of pi. I have a good memory.”
Why did I say that? Did that even make sense? What is wrong with me? And how quickly can I get to my bedroom, slam my door, jump into bed, and throw the covers over my head, scared of this ghost of crushes past?
Jay stares at me as if he’s trying to figure me out. (Good luck with that—I’ve been trying for thirty-two years to no avail.) I try to make eye contact with him again, but I once again get so nervous, I turn away. “Can you quit doing that?”
“What?”
“Looking at me like you’re studying me. I hate that.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, unruffled. He takes a sip of his wine, then puts it on the coffee table and watches me again.
Dude, thanks for listening.
“You know, I actually was kind of trying to get you to dance with me that night,” Jay confesses.
“You were?”
“Mm-hmm. You asked me to dance to Ricky Martin’s ‘La Vida Loca,’ and I said no. Then at some point a slow song came on, but it was really lame. I can’t remember why I didn’t—”
“Spice Girls. ‘Two Become One,’” I interrupt, nearly yelling out the answer.
Jay appears startled by my outburst, but quickly shrugs it off. “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, then some slow Clapton came on … which was more my speed … but you had a boyfriend then, so…”
His voice trails off, and I let silence fill the room.
“I had kind of a crush on you back then,” Jay admits.
I turn to him, eyes wide. “You did? Seriously?”
“Why do you think I came to visit Seema so often?” he asks, chuckling a little.
Jay Singh—THE Jay Singh—had a crush on me once? Me? Wow. Wow. Wow. Say something clever. Prove to him you’re worthy. I finally come up with “I had a little bit of a crush on you
Jay leads me to the couch, and we both take a seat. Instead of leaning in toward me, he leans back against the corner of the sofa and lounges his right arm out as if to invite me in for a hug. “So, what is going on in your life? Tell me everything. How’s school treating you?”
Ugh. I don’t know exactly what Jay does for a living, but I do know it makes a healthy six figures. In euros. So anytime we talk about work, I feel like a Vegas lounge singer talking to Beyoncé. “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” I answer nervously.
Why am I so nervous? It’s not as if I’ve never been on a sofa with this man before. It’s not as if I haven’t known him for a million years. And, yes, okay, I still think he’s hot, but after this many years knowing a person …
“And your cousin Julie?” he asks, killing the mood completely.
Julie and he had a brief fling back in college when, granted, I had a boyfriend. Then they hooked up a few years ago when he came to Los Angeles, when I, once again, had a boyfriend.
Naturally, I was jealous as hell both times.
“Julie’s good,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “She’s married now, so she has a date to the wedding.” Good God, why do I say things like that out loud?
Jay nods. “Husbands are good for that—built-in dates.”
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly, nodding as well. Then I take a nervous sip of wine and blurt out, “Guess you’re gonna have to find someone else to dance with to Eric Clapton that night.”
He smiles at me, shakes his head slowly, and asks in confusion, “Eric Clapton?”
“Yeah. Remember, sophomore year our dorm had this dance, and you were flirting with Julie, and then “Wonderful Tonight” came on, and you were talking about how he first released it in 1977, but it didn’t really take off until more than ten years later, and she grabbed you and you guys danced, and then … well … um, you know.” I dart my eyes around the room, unable to make eye contact any longer.
Jay cocks his head. “Wow. I vaguely remember that. I’m surprised you do.”
“Three point one four one five nine two six five.” Butterflies are doing cartwheels in my stomach. “Those are the first nine digits of pi. I have a good memory.”
Why did I say that? Did that even make sense? What is wrong with me? And how quickly can I get to my bedroom, slam my door, jump into bed, and throw the covers over my head, scared of this ghost of crushes past?
Jay stares at me as if he’s trying to figure me out. (Good luck with that—I’ve been trying for thirty-two years to no avail.) I try to make eye contact with him again, but I once again get so nervous, I turn away. “Can you quit doing that?”
“What?”
“Looking at me like you’re studying me. I hate that.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, unruffled. He takes a sip of his wine, then puts it on the coffee table and watches me again.
Dude, thanks for listening.
“You know, I actually was kind of trying to get you to dance with me that night,” Jay confesses.
“You were?”
“Mm-hmm. You asked me to dance to Ricky Martin’s ‘La Vida Loca,’ and I said no. Then at some point a slow song came on, but it was really lame. I can’t remember why I didn’t—”
“Spice Girls. ‘Two Become One,’” I interrupt, nearly yelling out the answer.
Jay appears startled by my outburst, but quickly shrugs it off. “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, then some slow Clapton came on … which was more my speed … but you had a boyfriend then, so…”
His voice trails off, and I let silence fill the room.
“I had kind of a crush on you back then,” Jay admits.
I turn to him, eyes wide. “You did? Seriously?”
“Why do you think I came to visit Seema so often?” he asks, chuckling a little.
Jay Singh—THE Jay Singh—had a crush on me once? Me? Wow. Wow. Wow. Say something clever. Prove to him you’re worthy. I finally come up with “I had a little bit of a crush on you
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