In Call It Coincidence, bestselling author Nona Uppal crafts a swoony yet emotional romance about an unforgettable first date, a devastating falling-out and the possibility that some loves are destined to find their way back.
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Three years ago
‘What’s the verdict?’
‘Late, obviously.’
Here’s what my profound yet wholly regrettable experience re: first dates has brought to me—a rock-solid sixth sense that can scope out, within seconds, if a date is going to suck or end up in me taking them back home. (You can stop reading here, Mom.) This is the third one this week; so, I’m either too desperate and the likelihood of the universe sending an eligible bachelor in place of my date is indirectly proportional to the extent of my desperation . . . or, every single man within a five-kilometre radius of where I live comes to dates with a non-negotiable fatal flaw in tow.
Not this one though.
He’s just . . . late. Which, before the pitchforks take for my scrawny throat, does not mean he’s late by five—or even ten—minutes, but a whole forty-five! A little south of an hour! And he hasn’t once apologized for it, unless you count a ‘Hey, running twenty minutes late’ by-the-way text sent—mind you, after I had already been waiting for the last twenty minutes—as an apology.
So, it’s not about being late, really. It’s the callousness. It’s the not caring about it. It’s the whiplash of an excellently written bio countered by a man who can’t be bothered to do the single most important thing on first dates: show up on time.
‘I wouldn’t normally be this pissed, you know?’ I squeal into my receiver, finally padding towards the bar counter my date is standing up against, waiting for me, after I’ve spent close to an hour loitering outside the restaurant, biding time—god forbid strangers snicker behind my back, exchanging gossip and dissecting, as filler conversation, the story behind that girl sitting at the bar who has most certainly been stood up. (Fine, I know this because I’ve done this to people.)
All at once, our eyes meet, the glimmer of familiarity softening his sharp gaze around the room. I look at him, feign a smile, bobbing my head to tell him to give me a moment, and add: ‘But like, be decent? Apologize?’
Sarina, my childhood best friend, the platonic love of my life and the only person who not only tolerates but, secretly, enjoys my persistent bickering before first dates, sighs from across the line, ‘I get it, Naina, but it’s not really their fault, na? When are boys ever taught to apologize growing up? Remember Nitin from school? The one who put gum in your hair and laughed while I had to cut it out with safety scissors during lunch period?’
‘Yes, and I had a crush on him, Sarina. Maybe I’m attracting these men,’ I say, shifting my phone from one ear to the other. ‘Anyway, he’s here. I’ll call you when I’m done.’
I watch my date gawk at his phone from all the way across the room while I stand still, considering my choices of intoxication. A margarita would get me just tipsy enough to want to stay a little longer, maybe even flirt a little, and I’ve already had enough sugar in my coffee today for a cosmopolitan, so a tequila soda it is—classic, tough to mess up no matter the bartender’s relative inexperience, and easy to knock back through an hour of tired small talk.
When did this become my life—willing myself to survive dates I never thought I’d have to go on? No, I was done. At twenty-five, I almost had it all. A great—although slightly soul-sucking—job straight out of college, a wonderful— Fine! Decent!—boyfriend and a normal family life, as normal as it can be. I was happy. I had enough. I was content.
Until my ex, he-who-shall-not-be-named, decided that this ‘stability’ thing was too much for him, that his twenties with me by his side were a little less roaring than he’d expected, and that he wanted to have more fun before the clutches of adulthood took him hostage forever. He could’ve just said what he really meant—I want to have sex with other girls, Naina, which is an activity he promptly took to a week after our break-up—but I spared him the horror, read between the lines, and said goodbye like it wasn’t breaking my heart, and my plans, and my bank.
Like today, my date for the night is scheduled at South Delhi’s poshest new restro-club Django. I’d suggested the place: I knew a friend who knew a friend who could get us a pretty decent discount. And this way, I got to put down my card for the dinner in advance so the guy doesn’t pick up the bill; I don’t want to feel pressured to agree to a second date just because he paid for this one.
But life, as they say—rather tritely but hey, if the shoe fits—is full of surprises. As I curve along the U, my date and I finally close enough to properly register each other, knowing now for certain it’s us we’re looking for, I suddenly feel the built-up dread wash away. The anger and anxiety give way to something softer, calmer, something . . . wait, these can’t be butterflies? I inch up closer to the man I am formally bound to spend the rest of the evening with. With a gait that can only accompany a stature and built like that, he saunters over towards me and, with his arm outstretched, opens the conversation with, ‘You must be Naina. I’m so sorry I’m late.’
Turns out, six foot two is awfully tall on a man—and while height has never been a criterion of mine, oh my god. Maybe my luck isn’t rotten after all.
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