Can't Help Faking in Love

Can't Help Faking in Love

Chapter One

“Welcome to the real world. It sucks. You’re gonna love it!”

—Monica Geller, Friends

Harsha Godbole had never been dumped like this before.

She sat across from her now ex-boyfriend during their lunch date, a forkful of spaghetti midway to her mouth, as he explained that he was ending their three-month relationship to marry a complete stranger.

“I really like you, I do,” Shashank insisted, sipping his iced americano. “But I was just introduced to a prospective match, and with all of my parents’ life experience, they probably know enough to make the right choice for me, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh.” Harsha set her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin, her lips pressed together. The men she’d dated in the past had given her far simpler reasons—There’s no spark; I’m not ready for a serious relationship; Your family is too much to handle—but to be rejected by a thirty-year-old man because he was letting his parents choose his bride? What decade was he stuck in, the 1980s? And now that she thought about it, why was he meeting prospective brides while still dating her?

Shashank looked at his wristwatch and did a double take. “Shit, I have a meeting in ten. I hope we’re good? No hard feelings?”

It would have been funny if it weren’t for the dread slowly sinking into the pit of her stomach.

Harsha forced herself to smile. “Of course. Thanks for lunch.” She grabbed her purse and laptop bag and strode out of the Italian restaurant, refusing to turn around and check if he was looking her way. She didn’t need any more disappointment.

She tugged on a stray coil of her curly black hair as she walked through the trafficfilled streets of Bangalore while cars honked and auto rickshaw drivers cursed at each other. If only the noise would drown out the fearful thoughts crowding her mind. Maybe moving here had been a mistake. Sure, it was cheaper than living in California, and there was no way she would move back home to Mumbai, but now she was not only friendless in this strange new city but also single. Alone. And—to top it all off—unemployed.

Her best friend from college, Sasha, would say she was being hard on herself. After all, Harsha was getting through life as a struggling freelance photographer, armed with just her camera, a steady hand, and an eye for beauty. Her double degree in sociology and photography from Berkeley had proved useless in getting a job in Bangalore, the city of software engineers, so she was relying on her camera to make her some money until she could figure something out. Research online promised her that Bangalore’s urban, cosmopolitan vibes would feel familiar to her Mumbai roots, but with better weather and cheaper rent. Though the cool breeze was a constant, freelance jobs were few and far between. She had landed her last gig at a college graduation only because her aunt knew a professor there. That was two weeks ago, and her bank account was depleting by the minute. Her coffee addiction didn’t help.

Sighing, Harsha pushed open the glass door to Sunstag Café, the only place that felt anywhere close to safe right now. She ignored the tinkling of the wind chimes and the “Welcome to Sunstag!” greetings of the baristas she saw every day and stormed upstairs to her usual spot by the wall.

“Well, you don’t look happy. All good?” Veer, her favorite barista, said, quirking an eyebrow as he passed by her table with an empty tray.

“Yeah, I just—” Harsha’s shoulders slumped, but she stopped herself from saying more. He was a barista, not a bartender. He wasn’t going to listen to her sob story and offer sage words of advice. “Never mind.”

Besides, the only thing he knew about her was her coffee order, although he teased her every day, acting like he didn’t.

Veer shrugged, brown eyes bright and that goofy smile on his face like always. Maybe he was in a happy relationship, unlike Harsha. Maybe he didn’t just get dumped by a man worthy of being the Indian Bachelor. Not everyone can be so lucky, Harsha mused.

“The usual?” he asked.

“Yeah, thanks.” She lowered her eyes and handed him her Sunstag loyalty card. The tears were going to come any minute now, and she didn’t want his sympathy.

“Blended mocha with whole milk and caramel syrup,” he said as he headed downstairs. “Coming right up!”

She half-smiled at his retreating back, not even bothering to correct him. The familiar joke didn’t make her laugh like it usually did. Harsha had only failure on her mind.

Sighing, she hunched in her seat and idly scratched her knee. At least she always had Sunstag to return to, where her favorite baristas made the best coffee and brought it right to her seat. At least she didn’t have to carry her own coffee up one flight of stairs every morning and afternoon. Gotta be grateful for the little blessings in life, right?

Her phone chimed, and she dug her hand into her bag eagerly. Maybe Shashank had seen the error of his ways and was ready to reconcile. After all, who gave up three months of almost-love for a parent-recommended bride they barely knew?

Shashank had been her perfect match on paper. Her family would have approved of his career, status, and upbringing; society would have gone gaga over how good he and Harsha looked together . . . and sure, maybe their relationship wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine in the real world, but was any relationship? They had had a good thing together—potential. Didn’t that matter?

Harsha unlocked her phone screen, then exhaled. It was a text from the second-last person she wanted to hear from—the first being her father.

Maa:

Are u free? Need to talk to u

She scowled and put her phone face down on the table. What was it this time? More nagging about how Harsha’s lack of marital status was bringing shame to the entire Godbole family? Or that capturing people on the best days of their lives wasn’t a respectable enough way to make money? Or that she needed to come back home after three months of being away and put on a happy front for the sake of their extended family? She didn’t need that toxic energy in her life.

Which was exactly why, a month before she had graduated from college, Harsha made the decision to separate herself from the Godbole family—and their money.

Before moving to America, Harsha wouldn’t have had to think twice about doing as her parents said. Having your cake and eating it too—that was life with the Godboles in a high-rise penthouse apartment. The full-time housekeeper ready to do all the cooking and cleaning. The driver taking Harsha to and from the places she visited. Her parents willing to find her a handsome groom.

It was chocolate cake with the most delectable icing. No wonder most of the girls from her private school had opted for that kind of lifestyle.

The only thing missing was the cherry on top of the cake: freedom and unconditional love. And, unfortunately, Harsha would rather have the cherry than the actual cake.

She exhaled and took out her laptop, deciding to scour the internet for anyone looking to hire a photographer, when Veer appeared with a foaming hot latte. The smell of vanilla wafted into her nostrils, and she smiled contentedly. Her post-lunch coffee always cheered her up, no questions asked. “One triple-shot espresso with peppermint syrup,” Veer said with a wink.

She smiled weakly. “I already know you’ve brought me the right order. I can smell the vanilla.”

“I’m a barista. It’s not the most exciting job on the planet.” Veer let out a huff, scratching his stubbly beard. “This is the only fun I get to have.”

“Fine, I’ll play,” she said. “Oat milk?”

“Yes.”

“Half a shot of coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Extra whipped cream?”

“Yeah.”

“Five pumps of vanilla?”

“How have you not died of a sugar overdose yet?” he asked.

“I have good genes,” she said primly.

Veer gave her a once-over, then looked away, smirking. “Yeah, I can see that. Enjoy.”

Her lips turned up the slightest amount. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure you’re doing okay?” Veer’s forehead creased. “That smile looks a little too small for how great my sense of humor is.”

Harsha made a big show of rolling her eyes. “Maybe you’re just not as funny as you think.”

“Impossible. See you.” Chuckling, he went downstairs, probably back to the counter, and Harsha took a sip of her overly complicated coffee, leaving a red lipstick stain on the cup.