Better Catch Up, Krishna Kumar

Chapter 1

Liquid Courage? More Like Liquid Embarrassment

Mumbai, Thursday

“I’m about to throw up” is the last thing I expect to say inches from Amrit Acharya’s glorious lips.

And yet, there’s a searing burn in the back of my throat as the chole bhature from lunch rises up from my stomach. Panicked,

I lurch to my feet and stumble away from the couch—where mere seconds ago I was about to have my first kiss with my ridiculously

hot Ishaan Khatter look-alike crush, mind you.

My hand springs to my mouth as I stagger through the crowded living room of Rajeev bhaiya’s house.

There’re people everywhere—the air around me heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke, vape fumes, and alcohol. I wonder if

I’m dreaming them all up, because when did our small end-of-the-summer cousins’ get-together turn into a full-blown house

party? I don’t even recognize half the people I’m shoving out of the way to get to the bathroom.

Through the blaring music, I can faintly hear Amrit calling after me, but I don’t register what he’s saying, because that’s when I catch sight of the long line of people waiting to use the bathroom.

I can’t possibly push through to the front without causing a scene, despite my leaving tomorrow being the reason this party’s happening in the first place.

So it’s either hurl right here and be forever brought up in anecdotes as “the girl who confettied Rajeev’s floor with the

inner lining of her stomach” and have Amrit chime in with “Oh, Krishna Kumar? She nearly threw up in my mouth, bro,” or . . .

Get somewhere, anywhere, secluded. Fewer people equals less chance of being immortalized as “the vomit girl.” Mind addled with alcohol, I slide open

the nearest door and stumble through, and it’s only when the hot summer air hits me in the face that I realize I’m on the

balcony.

In the corner, through my blurring vision, I spot an embracing couple spring apart. It’s not complete privacy, but it’s still

better than a room full of people—and blessedly far away from Amrit. Without another thought, I keel forward onto my knees

and projectile vomit on the floor.

I should’ve known downing those four shots of vodka was a bad idea. At the time, I was feeling bold, relying on liquid courage

to help me finally get my tongue into Amrit’s mouth, but look where I ended up.

A hand finds my back moments later, rubbing soothing circles on my spine, while another twists my hair into a knot and gathers

it at the nape of my neck. Sweat breaks out all over my body, and I don’t know if it’s the puking or Mumbai’s heat that’s

doing it to me, but the cotton of my kurti is soaked through. Amrit appears in the periphery of my vision.

It’s his warm hands on my back and curling into my hair.

Stomach emptied, I collapse against the railing, Amrit slowing my descent.

The cool touch of the metal seeps into my bones, not unlike the oxidized jhumkas scraping the soft skin underneath my ears.

It doesn’t take long for the mortification to sink in after that, the acknowledgment of what just happened—or rather, what didn’t.

How, instead of him being all up in my guts, as I originally planned, they’re on the fucking floor.

“Are you feeling okay?” Amrit asks gently, clasping my hand tight. I can’t even get myself to be happy about the fact that

he’s holding my hand, because my mind’s already thinking up ways to eject myself from this humiliating situation. If only

Juhu Beach weren’t so far away from Mulund, I’d have flung myself into the sea and swum halfway to Oman by now, ready to start

a brand-new life in a brand-new country. “Do you want me to get you some water?”

“No,” I manage, wishing I could turn into a puddle of Krishna goo.

“I warned you,” a voice quips from the side after I finally have the chance to catch my breath. I look up to find my cousin

and archnemesis, Priti, staring down at me, a scowl plastered across her striking face. Her best friend, Rudra, stands next

to her, infuriatingly stoic, as always. “I told you not to have that many shots.”

“I’ll be right back,” Rudra declares suddenly—before I can utter a single word—and marches inside.

I’m pretty sure he just wants to escape what he assumes is an ensuing fight between Priti and me. I wouldn’t be surprised;

I’ve lost count of the number of times the two of us have fought over the years.

But instead of reacting to Priti’s comment or continuing to reel from the embarrassment of throwing up in front of Amrit,

I scan her face. There are black streaks on her cheeks, her usually artfully drawn, inches-thick eyeliner and kajal having

leaked down her face . . . as if she’s been crying.

It hits me then that Priti and Rudra were the couple who jumped apart when I barreled out onto the balcony. Rudra might’ve been consoling her, but I don’t, for

the life of me, know why. I didn’t think Priti was capable of tears.

She seems to register my bewilderment, because she wipes at her cheeks with the heel of her palm then, ducking her head so

the ends of her short, wavy hair cover her face.

“That was literally your first time drinking, and there’s something called capacity,” she snipes, and I know she’s just trying to bat the attention off herself, but it works. It doesn’t take much for her to

piss me off—at least, it hasn’t these past eight years.

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” I retort, and it’s such a silly, childish thing to say, but I’m equal parts mortified and irritated

right now. Trust Priti to put me down when I’m literally on the ground.

Just then, Rudra comes back with a disposable cup of water and holds it out to me. I stare up at him in shock, not having

expected Priti’s quiet best friend—who’s never bothered with me much despite having known me for nearly a decade—to willingly

return to help.

Amrit takes the cup from Rudra before I can reach for it and raises the rim to my mouth, urging me to sip.

“Whatever,” Priti says, her closing remark as her gaze swings between us. With a huff that makes her bangs twitch, she walks

off. Rudra wordlessly follows her, leaving Amrit, me, and my pool of vomit alone.

The door shuts behind them, dulling the noise, and Amrit settles beside me, leaning his back against the railing. I gulp down

the rest of the water and set the empty cup aside, trying hard to ignore the awkward silence that’s settled between us and

the heat creeping up my face at the reminder of what was about to happen before I ruined everything.

We were so close on that couch together earlier, flirting and touching all along our sides. I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the

general heady atmosphere of the house party, but it was as if all my dithering through the summer came to a sharp halt, and

I found myself leaning toward him, his arm that was previously draped over the couch behind me sliding around my waist, making

flutters erupt in my stomach . . .

Screw my luck.

A crackle beside me breaks me out of my thoughts, and I turn to Amrit, finding him unwrapping a strip of mint. “Want?” he

asks.

“Yes, please,” I beg, and take it from him, popping it into my mouth, needing to get rid of my bad breath before Amrit passes

out from the stench.

He guffaws suddenly, and I stare at him, mid-chew, eyes wide, as he doubles over with laughter.

“What?” I say, afraid he’s laughing at me.

“Their faces,” he says, giggling uncontrollably. “When you rushed out and threw up in front of them. Absolutely priceless.”

His laughter is so contagious that before I know it, the hysteria is catching up to me, and I’m cracking a grin. Despite everything.

It doesn’t help that he looks gorgeous as always, his head thrown back against the railing, adorably crooked teeth shining

in the moonlight. Wind-blown, deep-brown hair and eyes a shade that’s just a touch lighter than his hair.

Damn it.

This is all Bollywood’s fault, and Shah Rukh Khan’s too, for injecting those DDLJ-esque fantasies into my head. They’re the reason my idiot self ended up here in the first place, believing Amrit and I would

have a whirlwind summer romance like Raj and Simran.

From the moment I first saw him two months ago, the signs have all been there. My cousins had invited him, along with a few other neighborhood

friends, over to Nani’s house for dinner. After being introduced, we spent the rest of the party talking, huddled in a cozy

corner of the living room while sipping Nani’s special masala chaas. I remember thinking I had never met someone like him:

confident, driven, and charming.

And yet, all this time later—despite the obvious undercurrents of chemistry between us, the long late-night text conversations,

and copious amounts of flirting—we haven’t even confessed to liking each other. Can you really blame me for hoping that tonight

might be the night?

Until a few disastrous minutes ago, he was supposed to be my solution to salvaging what’s been the most unadventurous vacation

ever. Sure, he was always strictly meant to be a fling, but over time, I’ve grown to like him more than I’d care to admit.

A sudden wave of melancholy hits me at the thought. I’m headed back home tomorrow night, and Amrit to a family wedding early

in the morning. I’ve visited India every summer these past eight years, following the year after Mummy, Papa, and I emigrated

to the US. But in a few months, I’m going to be at Johns Hopkins, away from home, and my vacations will be spent visiting

my parents up north in Portland. Not Nani or my cousins, who all live in India. This might be the last time I’ll see Mumbai

for a while. This might be my last chance with Amrit ever.

As if reading my mind, Amrit turns to me, smiling. “I’m going to miss you, Krishna.”

“I’ll miss you too,” I say dolefully, throat clogged with regret. “I can’t believe I’m going back tomorrow. The summer’s just

flown by.”

And you’ve spent your entire vacation not taking a single risk, like always, a voice in my head chines mercilessly. Coward.