Too Good To Be True

Avani

Wise and stupid.

I’d lost count of the number of days that had passed since I’d handled yet another simple situation with my brilliantly complex emotional reflexes.

I wasn’t proud of myself.

I played and replayed the entire sequence with Aman in my mind, and redirected minute details from each scene to remake the memory of when I’d seen him last.

I could’ve explained how I felt, told him it was perhaps too soon, that I needed time.

Instead, I’d walked away and asked him to leave.

This was so not how it went in the romance novels I read.

I mean, what happened to the classic third-act break-up? Wasn’t I supposed to mindlessly fall for him for the first two-hundred-and-fifty pages before I found out that he’d fucked up big time? Instead, I’d ended the story before it had even begun.

A part of me was curious to find out how it would’ve gone, but the bigger part of me felt a certain comfort in staying curious.

It was true.

He was … too good to be true. Anyway, it was easier to get over a small disappointment at the start of things than to get over a heartbreak later.

It had taken me about two weeks to feel as close to Aman as I did, so I imagined that’s how long it would take for me to undo those feelings for him.

I had forced myself back into my regular routine.

Wake up.

Chai and gossip with Shanta Tai.

Bookstore.

Classes.

Coffee or dinner with the gang.

Study.

Late-night comfort shower.

Scroll through my last text thread with Aman.

Fall asleep.

Every morning I woke up telling myself that I would call him and deal with the situation like an adult, but mornings rolled into afternoons and then evenings, and by the time it was night I would push it to the next day.

Every time.

What could I say to him that would make me sound like a sane person anyway? I’d frozen when I had the chance to say what I felt, and now anything I said, no matter what it was, would be insignificant.

Through all of it, one irritating question repeatedly played on my mind: Was I being wise or was I being stupid? Wise, because I was proud of the fact that I had my own back and could save myself from being further disappointed.

I had kept my past in mind and let it be my guiding light for the future.

I hadn’t been beguiled into believing that life was offering so much so easily.

Stupid, because, well, I could deny it, of course, but the truth was that Aman had brought me joy.

He’d brought light and laughter into my life and successfully revived my flirting skills from a garbage heap of bad dates and mundane dating-app conversations.

He had made me want to spend that extra minute every morning doing my hair so he could brush it off my shoulder or tuck it behind my ear mid-conversation.

He had made me want to read the newspaper aloud every day so I could surprise him with the elevated stock price of his company’s shares.

He had made me want to slow down my pace every time we were walking anywhere together, only so he could stop, turn around and hold my hand to make sure we were walking side by side.

It was almost like God had made this perfect guy walk into my life and then thrown in all my trust issues for funsies.

On the weekend after that Thursday, I had taken a bus to visit Aaji in Pune.

She hadn’t asked me any questions, but she knew that my unannounced visits always came with a need for comfort.

She bustled about, fussing over me, cooking and feeding me more food than I could eat in a whole week, and rushed off and bought me two new books.

Romance novels, of course, because nobody supported my addiction to them as much as she did.

But I didn’t feel like reading them.

Instead, I found stuff to fix around the house, including the drain of her kitchen sink, and went with her to yoga class.

When I got back home on Monday morning, I felt calmer, but as the day progressed, the uneasiness crept in again.

I sat in class the next day, staring into space, thinking of nothing in particular, while Mr Desai droned on about how modern constitutional law was the offspring of nationalism, when my phone vibrated in my bag and I sneaked a peek at it.

Aman: Hey, gorgeous.

So I’m going to get right to the point.

I’m sorry for springing the relationship stuff on you the other day.

I might’ve gotten ahead of myself.

However, we still deserve a conversation, don’t you think? I won’t rush you.

I’m here whenever you want to talk.

Can’t wait to hear your voice.

It’s been too long.

I mean, COME ON, ! How can you not want to be around this guy?

I read and re-read the message, and every time I did I felt a tiny sliver of joy warming up my chest. I had done a pretty great job of convincing myself that not being near him wasn’t a big deal.

That was until now, until the possibility of actually seeing him again became real. He was right. We did deserve a conversation.

Me: Dinner at mine? 9 p.m.?

Aman: I’ll get dessert. :)

I needed to get home. I waited for Mr Desai to finish whatever he was talking about, packed my stuff quickly and bolted out of class. I had just enough time to rush home, shampoo my hair and order Chinese takeout.

But first … I fished my phone out of my bag and pulled up Martin’s contact card. I hit the call button and he answered almost instantly.

‘Ssup, babe?’

‘I asked Aman to come over for dinner.’

‘You did?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Was someone holding a gun to your head?’

‘Martin, please.’

‘What do you need to hear?’

‘That this is just dinner and I don’t need to freak out about it.’

‘This is just dinner. You don’t need to freak out.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s okay even if you do freak out. Just put your thoughts into words so it’s a healthy conversation.’

‘Okay.’

‘He’s a good guy.’

‘I know.’

‘And you are a great girl.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Babe, you’re one of the nicest, most caring people I’ve met. You’d guard your people with your life and you have impeccable taste in friends …’

‘I knew I should’ve called Maya.’

‘Love you too. Call me after,’ he said before hanging up.

I got into a taxi to head home, and had just tapped open my phone again to call Maya when I saw her name flashing on my screen.

‘I was just going to call you,’ I said as soon as I answered.

‘Martin just called saying you’re meeting Aman for dinner.’

‘Yeah, I should talk to him.’

‘Do you want me to come over later?’

‘Not really, no. I’ll be fine.’

‘Ani?’

‘Hmm?’

‘It’s okay to do something and regret it than to regret not knowing what it would’ve felt like.’

‘I’ll call you after, okay?’

‘I’ll be here, cutie. I love you.’

‘I love you.’

Maya. I wish I could put her in a locket and wear her around my neck all the time. That woman worked better than crystals.

She’d made me feel instantly calm, and I let that feeling seep into my being—before following it up with a flutter of excitement that I hadn’t felt in a while.

I was about to rush into my building when I stopped in my tracks and turned around to see a car parked outside.

And there it was.

Aftershave.

Aman walked towards me, that familiar, dimpled smile lighting up his face.

‘Hi, gorgeous.’

White shirt, blue jeans, holding bags of what looked like too much food for two people.

Hadn’t he said just dessert? For a second I wasn’t sure if he was walking towards me in slow motion or if I was dizzy from all the extra oxygen reaching my brain because I was finally breathing after the twelve days that I hadn’t see him.

God, I’d missed him.

And now that he was here, whatever little restraint I had imposed on myself vanished.

He’d set the bags of food down on the floor, and I let him scoop me up in his arms as I wrapped mine around his neck and buried my face in his shirt’s collar.

He smelt of shower gel, laundry detergent and aftershave, and suddenly my eyes burnt and tears began to roll down my cheeks as I held on to him tighter.

There was absolutely no need for this to get so dramatic so quickly.

We hadn’t even got to whatever conversation we were supposed to have, and I was already a mess.

Maybe it was the guilt of having behaved the way I had.

Maybe it was the utter confusion about why I had issues with trusting this man who had given me nothing but happiness in whatever time I’d spent with him.

Maybe it was just the relief of having him close to me again, smiling at me and holding me like he never wanted to let me go.

‘I missed you too,’ he whispered as he placed a kiss in my hair before lowering me back to the ground.

I smiled against the fabric of his shirt as my hands moved from the nape of his neck to his chest. My head rested against it so I could hear his heart beating.

At a very normal rate.

‘Your heart’s not racing,’ I mumbled.

He laughed. ‘What?’

‘My heart’s beating so fast. Yours isn’t. I thought you were excited to see me.’ More mumbling.

Aman held my face in his hands and tilted it up. ‘It was racing until I saw you,’ he said.

‘So, you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying you bring me calm.’

I gently ran my thumb over the stubble along his jawline. He turned his face so he could place a kiss in the palm of my hand.

We picked up the bags of food and walked in silence into the elevator and then into my apartment.

The energy between us was familiar, but still a little tense.

Maybe he was wondering how to begin the conversation we’d decided to have, just like I was wondering how much to reveal to him and how much to keep safe.

I didn’t know yet what he’d want to know, but more than that I didn’t know exactly how much I wanted to share.

It had been more than a year since I’d sat down and actually spoken to someone about all the things that haunted me.

I didn’t know if I was ready to bare myself just yet.

What I did know was that I had to apologize to him for being a complete ass. So I spoke before he could.

Aman

There she is.

We’d barely walked into her apartment when turned to me and said breathlessly, ‘I’m so sorry.

I’ve acted like a complete and utter brat, and I want you to know that that’s not who I am.

At least not all the time.

I mean … I’m better than that.

I’m sorry I froze.

I’m sorry I was rude.

I’m sorry I didn’t call or text you.

I thought of it, I went over all our chats, over and over again, but for some reason I couldn’t get over whatever I was feeling.

I don’t know how to explain it and I know it wasn’t nice.

I’m sorry I acted selfishly and didn’t give a thought to how you must’ve felt.

But I want you to know that whatever I did or did not say wasn’t because of you.

It was because of me.

It was because I have … these issues … that make it tough for me to simply believe that a perfectly great guy like you would want anything to do with me.

My life in the past few years has been weird and I didn’t know it would creep up on me like it did the other day.

I like you. And I like spending time with you. So please believe me when I say I really am sorry.’

She took a breath, shut her eyes tight, then opened them and looked at me earnestly.

I wanted to gather her in my arms and hug her so tight that all her broken pieces would be glued back together.

I wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling the way she did.

I wanted to kiss the tears off her cheeks and pull her to my chest so the world wouldn’t be able to get to her in whatever way it had in the past.

Instead, I smiled. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’ she asked, surprised.

‘Yeah. Okay.’

‘That’s all you want to say? You don’t need to know why I acted the way I did?’

‘The only thing I NEEDED to know was that you like me.’ I tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She looked at me with those big, beautiful eyes of hers and an expression that looked like a mixture of amusement and relief.

Like she wanted me to say more but was relieved that I had accepted her apology without any more dialogue.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips and her eyes lit up in the way they always did when she was about to say something playful.

She got on her toes and placed a soft kiss on my chin before she turned to walk towards her bedroom.

‘I’m going to take a shower,’ she announced from her bedroom door.

My eyebrows shot up of their own accord. ‘Are you going to leave the door open?’ I asked.

‘Umm, no.’ She narrowed her eyes.

I sighed. ‘Then don’t tempt me with details I have nothing to do with, sweetheart.’

‘Why will I leave the door open if you’re in there with me?’ She winked.

‘Really?’ I blurted out.

‘No!’ She laughed an exaggerated laugh as she went into the bathroom and locked the door.

And there she was, my little flirt.

May, June, July 2023

Playing with fire.

If I said what followed over the next few months was fun, it would be an understatement.

What followed over the next few months was a fucking fairy tale! It was like someone had installed new batteries in my clock and given every wall in my mind a fresh coat of paint.

Let me walk you through it.

I had almost the whole of May off from classes, and then some more.

I spent more time at the bookstore.

Maya, Rhea and I went on several museum and art gallery dates.

I spent a whole week with Aaji, helping her pack for her trip to Kashmir with her gal pals (her words, not mine).

Martin and I hosted baking lessons for kids at the store on alternate weekends.

Martin baked and I was just the guinea pig used for tasting all the shit the kids made.

I might or might not have got a terribly upset stomach for all of the following week, but it was nothing Shanta Tai’s rasam and regular cuddles from Aman couldn’t fix.

Speaking of Aman, we spent most of our evenings together.

After the conversation at my house and the heartbeat-calming shower, which I sadly took by myself, we came to the conclusion that we should take it slow and see where it goes.

We agreed we both loved spending time with each other, so we decided to start there.

‘So you’ll be my time-spender?’ he asked goofily, his mouth full of the world’s best spring rolls from Prashant Chinese Corner.

‘I can be your money-spender too, Daddy,’ I shot back, winking.

He laughed so hard that I was sure the rest of the spring roll would come out of his nose, while I cringed visibly at the words that had left my mouth.

I spent the rest of the dinner convincing him that I had no interest in his money and he spent it laughing at me for the shit I sometimes blurted out.

That was the evening I knew exactly what I wanted to spend all my time with him doing.

Making him laugh.

He had the brightest laugh I’d ever heard, and it came from deep within.

His brows bunched up, little lines appeared in the corners of his eyes, which turned into slits, and his dimples put on a full show.

He also had rich-people teeth, that were unbelievably clean and white and perfectly aligned.

And sometimes—just sometimes when I absolutely killed it with my one-liners (especially the flirty ones)—he pressed his face into the palms of his hands and his shoulders slumped, as did his neck, in the sense of a subtle surrender.

Which told me I’d won that round.

And I didn’t have to try too hard either. He laughed easily and at all my jokes, so he was great for my already inflated ego.

The other day we were rearranging the books in his gorgeous library at home (my idea!) when, without any explanation, he cleared a tiny corner shelf at the top.

‘We can leave that empty,’ he said.

‘Why would we leave a whole shelf empty? We have so many books that can go there.’

‘That shelf isn’t for those books.’

‘You’re doing that thing where you use a lot of words to get to the point, sir.’ I rolled my eyes as I wiped another leatherbound Jane Austen clean and placed it on the opposite shelf.

‘I want you to give me a list of your favourite romance novels. All the dirty ones with the dirty covers. This shelf’s for those.’ He carried on with the task at hand like he hadn’t just laid me on a table, made careful incisions in my chest cavity and sliced a piece of my heart out for himself.

I slowly turned and stared at the back of his head, till he laughed and, without turning around, said, ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

The god of guts and overconfidence must have shone her brightest spotlight on me, because I strode over to him, turned him around, lowered that gorgeous head of curly hair with both my hands and locked my lips with his. I knew I’d caught him off guard, as his face showed equal parts surprise and delight.

‘Wow,’ he breathed. ‘What was that for?’

‘No reason. Just felt like it.’

He broke into a wide grin, grabbed my waist and picked me up like I was a bag of feathers and floof.

He carried me to the coffee table, raised his left leg up on it so I now had the world’s most comfortable seat as I wrapped my legs around his waist.

We must have made out for a minute—or twenty—when I finally pulled back and looked into those deep brown eyes.

‘Going forward, please always do whatever you feel like. Whatever,’ he said, smirking.

‘I always do!’ I blushed as I dismounted from his leg. (It wasn’t as dirty as it sounds.)

I know, I know. We’d decided to take it slow, but … let’s be serious, I was taking it slow by not ripping his clothes off and stripping down to do something I haven’t stopped thinking about.

On days when we weren’t eating Chinese takeout on my couch or making out in his library, Aman and I took long walks in the city.

I hated, hated, hated the summer heat that Mumbai spat up all through May, so Aman would pick me up late at night, when the roads were emptier and the breeze cooler.

We would walk along Girgaon Chowpatty, Marine Drive and the bylanes of Colaba, or sometimes just sit by the sea at the Gateway of India.

His company made the flags that were hoisted on all official buildings and historical sites in the country, so he got special access to sit right under the Gateway at any time of the night after the place had been closed to visitors.

I wasn’t surprised.

He could tell me his family owned the Gateway of India because Queen Victoria lost it to his great-great-grandfather in a taash party during Diwali, and I would have believed him in a heartbeat.

We would talk about video games, comic books, pet peeves, twerking and just about anything that came into our heads. Or we’d stare at the sea while I rested my head on his shoulder and he drew little circles in my palms with his fingers.

I would try to match my breaths with his just so our bodies moved together.

We were a fucking postcard, y’all!

Later at night, I would lie in bed smiling to myself like an idiot. I tried to warn myself about getting ahead of things, but mostly just immersed myself in the calm I felt every minute I spent with Aman. I hadn’t felt that in a very long time.

Baby steps, .

Baby leaps.

June started with me visiting the private airport in Mumbai for the first time. Did you know Mumbai had a private airport? I always thought chartered flights flew out of rich people’s backyards. Turns out I was wrong.

Aman had to fly to Italy for a couple of weeks for a work conference, followed by a family vacation, so I graciously offered to drop him to the airport. In his car, to his private jet.

‘I would say I’ll miss you, but Professor Umbridge says one must not tell lies,’ I said, pretending to be coy.

‘In that case, I’ll miss you too. And I will definitely not be checking out the half-naked Italian women on the beaches of Sicily.’ He smirked as he hooked one arm around my waist and pulled me closer.

‘And I …’ I started. ‘I …’

‘Yes?’ he drawled.

‘Fine, I’ll miss you for real. Ugh. Don’t look at Italian boobs, please.’ I rolled my eyes and tucked my head in his chest. ‘Not that I care,’ I added.

‘Absolutely love this carefree side of yours. No Italian boobs, I promise,’ he whispered, holding me closer still.

‘Good. And get me a fridge magnet, okay?’ I said as I hugged him tight.

‘?’

‘Hmm?’ I murmured against his chest.

‘Who’s Professor Umbridge?’

I looked at him squarely in the eyes and said, ‘Aman, don’t dare walk into my bookstore again.’

I still had a week before classes would start after summer break, so I took an impromptu trip with the girls, Martin and Dhruv. Our destination wasn’t Italy, but a close second. Mahabaleshwar.

The six-hour-long drive to the hill station felt immeasurably long till we got to our hotel just in time to witness the sunset.

The world made sense again.

The view from our room’s balcony was to die for and the breeze was cool with the anticipation of the monsoon.

Maya, Martin and I bunked together in one room, and Rhea and Dhruv took the second one.

By this point we had all kind of started pretending that we were blind and didn’t bother asking them about their relationship status—even though we had a million questions.

Are you two dating? Is it serious? Is it casual? Does Rhea know what casual means? Do you guys think we are stupid?

But Rhea looked happy, so we let them be. Which meant that Maya, Martin and I spent most of that weekend together, chatting, (over)sharing, laughing, doing extensive skincare routines, taking long untimely naps and longer rambling walks.

‘Babe, when Aman asked you for pictures from the trip, I’m pretty sure he meant ones of you, preferably naked.

Haven’t you sent him enough pictures of the sky already?’ Martin joked on the second evening, after the sun had sunk below the horizon and I had reviewed the photos I’d taken of a perfect painted sky.

‘Yeah, there is a sky where he is.’ Maya laughed. ‘And maybe a much prettier one.’

‘Speaking of pretty …’ I picked up my second glass of Long Island Iced Tea from the side table and lay down on my stomach on the bed, where Martin and Maya were lounging. I increased the brightness of my phone screen and turned it around towards them.

‘Mother … fucker,’ Martin whispered, bending forward to take a closer look.

‘I call Photoshop,’ Maya said, one eyebrow raised. ‘That can’t be real.’

I proudly shrugged and turned the screen back towards me to gawk at the image Aman had sent of himself earlier that morning.

Sit back, relax, let me paint a picture for you.

Aman. In white swimming trunks that hung low, low, LOW on his toned, tight waist. He was kneeling on the beach, flashing those high-grade man thighs, with sand peppered across his legs and chest.

His right hand gripped the neck of a beer bottle tightly enough for those veins in his forearms to pop, and his left hand rested carelessly on his thigh.

His toned, muscled torso was tanned and glistening like he’d just stepped out of the ocean after a swim. There were specks of crystallized salt on his collarbone and his neck muscles were flexed in the way I knew they did when I said something goofy.

And there it was, that gorgeous, gorgeous smile on that gorgeous, gorgeous face.

His wet hair was brushed back like he had just run his fingers through it and his eyes were hidden behind what must have been a stupidly expensive pair of sunglasses.

I’d always wanted a tattoo. But I could never decide what would make me feel hot enough to get an image of it branded on my skin for the rest of my life.

Now I knew. This exact picture of Aman, tattooed in colour on my left fucking butt cheek—because the right one was reserved for Daniel Radcliffe’s autograph whenever I saw him.

‘How the fuck have you kept your hands to yourself?’ Martin asked.

I took a huge sip of my drink and replied, ‘I mean, I’ve barely managed to keep my pants on when he walks towards me in those dress pants and shirts with the sleeves folded up to his elbows. If he ever wore his swimming trunks when I was around, I would lose it.’

I made a mental note to never go swimming with Aman. Or to the beach. Or to the sauna. Or anywhere that would require us to not be fully clothed.

‘Bitch, lose it. PLEASE!’ Martin exclaimed.

I smiled to myself, rolled on to my back and opened Aman’s chat.

Me: I think you should wear your swimming trunks every day. To work, to the gym, on our walks. Every day.

Aman: You’re still staring at that photo from this morning, aren’t you? You little creep.

Me: Listen, I’ve had a couple of LIITs and the true beauty of that photo is just beginning to shine through. Let me admire it.

Aman: You haven’t sent me any pictures of your pretty face, you know that?

Me: Your face was in that picture too?

Aman: Funny.

Me: Yummy.

Aman: I gotta go. Everyone’s waiting for lunch. Call you tomorrow?

Me: Have fun. Can’t wait.

One more LIIT and I would have typed, ‘I love you.’

I could barely sit still through the first week of the new semester because Aman was going to be flying back to Mumbai that weekend.

I finished all my laundry, cleaning, bill payments and other adult bullshit before that, so I could spend every minute possible with him. He, obviously, hadn’t made any such plans with me, but in my head it was all decided.

I was sitting in the last class of the day when my phone pinged.

Aman: What’s my girl doing?

Me: Who’s this?

Aman: I’m sorry I didn’t text earlier.

Me: Do I know you?

Aman: Do you think you can be mad at me while I feed you dinner?

Me: Did that line work on the Italian women?

Aman: I know you’re hungry! I can practically hear your stomach growling. Also, Italy has women?! I didn’t know.

Idiot.

I was staring at my phone with a wide, goofy smile on my face when the professor announced the end of class.

I texted ‘Where are you?’ as I packed up, said goodbye to my classmates and walked out of the university campus. I was about to refresh the chat window to see if he had replied when I looked up, and there he was.

Leaning against his car, parked right opposite my university gate, looking all tanned and gorgeous and completely clothed. (Dammit.)

I crossed the road and walked towards him.

‘Hi, gorgeous.’ He smiled as he took my face in his hands.

I tried to keep it together, but my lips continued to stretch into a smile till I was sure my gums showed. Aman was finally back home. Where I could watch, smell and touch him …

‘Hi,’ I said breathily and leaned in closer to his chest. I wrapped my arms around him and tucked myself in. He placed a soft kiss on my head and hugged me back.

We drove back to my place and ordered in our favourite dinner—Chinese takeout. I was in the kitchen putting away the dishes when Aman dashed in, took my hand and pulled me out to the balcony. The monsoons had arrived.

I may have mentioned this before—I’ve never really been a fan of the rains in Mumbai. Growing up, I loved it when it rained in Pune, because that just meant better weather and a day off from school.

But the rains in Mumbai? They were a whole different monster. The roads got messed up, water clogged every other lane in the city and traffic became a worse nightmare than it already was.

Although the city still functioned as though the shower had just gently moistened its spirits, I hated going to uni on rainy days, hated how gloomy and wet it got for days on end and hated how my books began to smell all musty.

But this year, the monsoon felt new. Less annoying. Maybe slightly beautiful too.

The blue-and-white overhead canvas had been pulled back, and Aman stood in the centre of the balcony, getting drenched in the rain, with his hand stretched out towards me.

‘Come on! Don’t leave me hanging. It’s the first rain of the season!’ he said, eyes glowing with excitement.

‘This is all incredibly movie-like.’ I laughed.

‘Are you just going to stand there?’ he asked as I hovered on the threshold of the living room.

‘Your shirt is very see-through right now. Don’t mind if I do,’ I teased.

He took two big strides towards me and caught me by the waist. And before I could protest, I was scooped up like a toy and out to the balcony, getting drenched with Aman.

‘I’m wearing contact lenses!’ I gasped as soon as I felt the sting of the water in my eyes.

‘Close your eyes,’ he said, setting me down.

I closed my eyes and lifted my head up as I let the rainwater wash away the heat from my body. The past few weeks had been horribly hot in the city and this was much needed.

I could still feel my cheeks glowing red from being so close to Aman after almost two weeks and I moved closer to him as I gripped his shirt like I never wanted to let him go.

I could feel his hands move from my waist to my shoulders, to my neck and then on to my cheeks. I could feel his breath as he closed the distance between our faces and leaned in so our lips were just an inch apart.

‘Next time, if I’m leaving the city for more than a day, I’m taking you with me,’ he murmured against my lips.

‘Clingy,’ I murmured back. I felt him smile before he held my neck and kissed me.

Now I get why the poets go on about romance and the rains.

The monsoons were really going at it this year. Most of my classes through July had turned into online lectures as none of our professors were badass enough to swim through the city’s gutters, jump waterlogged railway tracks or simply teleport themselves to university. Losers.

So that meant that my days included spending a few hours at the bookstore, coming home before rush hour—to avoid pedestrian traffic (yeah, that’s a thing in Mumbai)—attending online classes till 8 p.m. and then spending time by myself, with my friends or with Aman. Or reading. Or catching up with Aaji. Or chilling with Aman.

Yes, there was a lot of Aman. My days would start with butterflies in my tummy from playing and replaying in my mind every touch and every kiss we shared, and end with the anticipation of more.

Whenever I felt like an obsessed teenager, with the hormones doing all the thinking for me, I took a couple of minutes to have a serious one-on-one chat with myself in the mirror.

But the stupid smile that invariably appeared on my face even as I reasoned through things was bribe enough to make me to feel everything I was feeling without assuming the worst. So I did just that.

Occasionally, to keep myself in line, I dissected every meeting and scrutinized every conversation I had with Aman, but every time the familiar feelings of doubt crept up on me, he did something to push them away.

One Saturday we were chilling at my place with a 3,000-piece Disney puzzle, with no plan of action for the rest of the day. It was a rainy afternoon, so we’d ordered takeout khichdi and chicken tandoori, and Aman made me a drink of rum and hot water.

‘Aaji drinks rum and hot water on rainy days too,’ I said. ‘With a stick of cinnamon in it.’

‘You should be having a drink with her then,’ he said simply.

‘Maybe someday soon.’

‘Today?’

‘Today?’ I exclaimed. ‘We can’t just go to Pune today.’

‘Why not?’

I had no answer.

So, in the next few minutes, I found myself packing an overnight bag to visit Aaji. With Aman.

He casually offered to fly us in his private jet so we could be there in fifteen minutes—of course I should have guessed that would be his solution—but I pointed out how we would then not be able to take a detour for corn fritters and chai in Lonavala on our way.

Also, hello, what about climate change? Ashok was immediately asked to arrive, and off we went.

I had high expectations from the drive, but both of us passed out in the car the minute it hit the highway.

I woke up when we were about forty minutes away from Aaji’s home and turned my head sleepily to look at Aman, whose head was resting on my shoulder and his fingers intertwined with mine.

His shoulders moved in a relaxed rhythm as he breathed in and out.

His perfectly shaped lips were parted just slightly.

I gently reached for my phone and indulged in a selfie with the most adorable man in the world.

A strange feeling started pooling at the bottom of my stomach as I stared at that picture of us.

Was I leading him on? Why hadn’t he asked me anything after that conversation we’d had two months ago? Did he look at this as just a casual relationship? Was he seeing other women on the side? Was he seeing me on the side? What was I doing in his life?

‘You’re a creep, Joshi.’ His voice brought me out of my trance. He was sitting up now, though his head still rested at a lazy angle on the seat. I glanced at his sleepy face and bit my lip to hide a smile.

I reached over and ran my fingers through his tousled hair and then over his cheek.

‘Why am I a creep?’

‘Because you take pictures of innocent men while they sleep.’ He stretched and put his left arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Almost.’ There it was, that feeling of calm again. All the doubts vanished and a fine cocoon of joy enveloped my heart.

Feelings were so deceptive. Which ones was I to believe?

What started off as a weekend in Pune at Aaji’s house ended up becoming two nights and two whole days of overeating, yoga classes and endless discussions, most of which were strangely titled, ‘Oh, do you know what did when she was six (and seven and ten and fifteen) …?’

Aman decided to work from home on Monday and I took a sick day. I texted Martin to tell him I’d see him on Tuesday morning.

Martin : Have fun, Virgin.

Me : I’m in my grandmother’s house, you pig.

Martin : If you can dry-hump your man in the bookstore’s supply closet, your childhood bedroom is far from inappropriate. Unleash those whore-mones.

I rolled my eyes, locked my phone screen and made a mental note to make out with Aman in my bed at least once before we left for Mumbai. Martin knew me too well.

‘Where did you find him?’ Aaji whispered as we sat chatting in the living room on Sunday night after Aman had gone to sleep in the guest bedroom.

I laughed at the thought of what a simple, yet ridiculous question that was. He wasn’t a sweater I’d picked up at a thrift store. He was a man. A beautiful man.

‘We met at the bookstore, Aaji,’ I said, laughing, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze.

‘And now he is your boyfriend?’ she again whispered.

‘No! I mean, we’re hanging out … I don’t know.’

‘Hanging out? What are you, laundry?’ she snapped.

‘Aaji!’ I let out a snort. ‘I’ve just met him. We’re taking it slow.’

‘How old is he?’

‘He’s thirty-one.’

‘Then you are taking it slow. He isn’t,’ she replied calmly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have you seen how that man looks at you? If you weren’t my granddaughter, I would marry him.’

I raised my eyebrows and looked at her in surprise. All those yoga classes and sangria nights she had been attending with her ‘gal pals’ had made her feistier than I remembered.

‘I could if I wanted to,’ Aaji added nonchalantly.

I shook my head and stifled a laugh. I leaned over and hugged her.

‘I like him,’ I said softly.

‘I can tell.’ She smiled.

We stayed like that, hugging each other on the couch, as my mind started going to places I feared and my eyes began to sting from tears I hadn’t anticipated.

I missed feeling like this. Protected, tucked into Aaji’s arms when life seemed a little too much. She always knew what to do and say.

And although I knew she was always a phone call away, I missed how she stroked my hair when she understood I was silently fighting the demons nobody could see.

Like I was in that instant.

‘Not everyone is the same,’ she said quietly after a while.

That opened the barrage I was holding back. I cried softly as I held on to Aaji. She gently patted my head and rocked me in her arms.

I could pretend all I wanted, but I was taking this anything but slow.

I knew I was playing with fire, and I liked it.