Sam covered his ears as he followed Wally out. “Don’t kill the mood. I’ll meet you back on the couch, or in bed. You decide.”
She wandered around his apartment as she removed her coat and boots. She peeked into his bedroom. It was simply decorated, with a bed, two bookshelves, a TV on a wall, and a desk holding computer equipment. The gray comforter was clean, and she lifted it.
“Did you change your sheets?” Meena sat on the bed as Sam came into the room and closed the door. Wally whined on the other side. “Were you hoping to get lucky?”
“Yes to both.” Sam sat next to her.
Meena leaned over and kissed him, then pulled him into the bed with her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
What she’d wanted was to spend time with Tanvi, to gently meander the conversation toward any tells. She should have known better, picked something that involved getting the two of them away from the house. Meena’s error had been in not being specific. That was how she wound up standing in the bedroom like a mannequin with her arms akimbo as the aunties trussed her up in three yards of orange silk. All she’d said was that she was curious about saris and how effortless they looked even though she was sure it was more complicated. A few hours later, the three had descended on her and were using her like a real-life dress-up doll.
“Stay still, Meena.” Sabina spoke with a giant safety pin between her lips. “Keep your arms spread out.”
“A cotton sari would have been better. Silk is too hard for practice.” Uma tucked fabric into the pale orange skirt tied so tight, it made it difficult to breathe.
“What am I, an old woman? I only have silk saris.” Tanvi unfurled the pleats and started again. “And since you gave Meena such a hard time about wanting to learn these things, forcing you both to do this is your punishment.”
“I didn’t realize this was going to be so complicated,” Meena said.
They ignored her.
“Tanvi, you’re doing the pleats for Gujarati style.” Sabina nudged her friend. “We’re showing her English style.”
Tanvi sighed. “I can never tell.”
Uma stepped back and sat in the chair by the french doors. “I’m going to look it up on YouTube.”
“Eh,” Sabina argued. “You don’t have to look it up. I know.”
Tanvi winked at Meena. “Sabina made us practice every week when we were teenagers.”
“It’s easy to forget when it’s not something you do every day.” Sabina turned Meena toward her. “Pay attention. There are two areas you must pleat. One in the front of the skirt, and the other is the sash. Both have to be neat and crisp.”
“But you can leave the piece over your shoulder unpleated so that the fabric hangs over your arm and you carry it on your wrist.” Tanvi tucked the pleats in the front, pulling the already-tight skirt and with it Meena’s whole body. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but a loose skirt can cause a wardrobe malfunction, and you don’t want to take a few steps and find yourself naked from the waist down.”
“You get used to it,” Uma said. “My mother always wore saris, even in winter. She had a permanent indent around her waist from the tight cotton string that held up the chanyo.”
“I’m surprised the woman wasn’t severed in half,” Meena mumbled.
“It’s not fashion if women aren’t suffering.” Uma ticked off the list on her fingers. “Heels, bras, skinny jeans.”
“The beauty of a sari is that it looks effortless in the way it hangs down your body.” Tanvi straightened the pleats.
“Even though it’s all held together by a blouse and chanyo that’s tied just short of suffocation,” Uma said. “That’s why I never wear it.”