Chapter 7 #2
“You’re going to need to be more specific,” Rudra says as he puts the book back on the shelf.
“You said you thought I was spoiled—what did you mean by that?”
“Does it really matter?” Rudra leans against the bookshelf. Another thing people do that I find sickeningly attractive (fuck
you, internet, you’ve corrupted our generation).
“I’m curious.”
“It just felt to me like you were used to getting things your way.”
“Like?”
“The whole Amrit thing.” His eyes flash when he says that, though I don’t know why. “As it turned out, Priti was the one who was more insistent.”
So it wasn’t just me who noticed Priti’s own interests in getting to Goa. I really couldn’t care less, though. She didn’t
bother to tell me she was applying to American universities; far be it from her to let me know her real intentions behind accompanying me to Goa.
“But isn’t that good?” I ask haughtily. “Going after what you want? Amrit likes me, this is my last summer before college,
and I want to be able to say I did something. At least I know what I want and I’m going after it.”
“Knowing what you want is great, and I get that you’re kind of a hopeless romantic, but it’s the delusion behind it that seems,
I don’t know, over-the-top.”
“Delusion?”
“The whole thing with the big romance of it all. You’ve built this fairy tale in your head. Having the perfect kiss with the perfect golden boy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry if I don’t want to feel regretful about what’s supposed to be a special moment—my first kiss—for the rest of my life,” I
huff.
“Wait . . . your first kiss?” Rudra says, quietly shocked even as his eyes soften. “I—I didn’t know.”
It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s so surprised about until I realize he had no clue about my . . . romantic inexperience.
But I have too little time to feel embarrassed before Rudra regroups to add, “That just proves my point even more. It can
be a special moment without having to be perfect. It can be with someone who doesn’t end up being ‘the one’ for you. Under
spur-of-the-moment circumstances. You might like to meticulously organize every aspect of your life, but unplanned things
are best sometimes.”
“First off, you know you’re totally mansplaining me right now, right?”
“I told you my opinion doesn’t really matter. You’re the one who asked for it.”
“Second, what part of this heading-off-on-a-road-trip-to-crash-a-wedding-and-kiss-a-boy thing seems meticulously planned to you?”
“You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. What if it doesn’t turn out the way you want it to? What if he’s not ‘the
one’ for you?”
“FYI, I don’t expect a fairy-tale kiss. And who said anything about Amrit being ‘the one’?”
Rudra seems to pause at that, his face open and questioning. “You don’t think he’s ‘the one’ for you?”
“How could I? Our paths are heading in entirely separate directions. We’re not even in a relationship!”
“So what does he mean to you, then?” he asks, and I might assume he was nervous if I didn’t know any better.
“He’s a crush. I like him—I’ve liked him all summer—and more importantly, he likes me back. As far as my expectations go,
wanting to kiss a nice boy who’s interested and knows what he’s doing doesn’t seem particularly delusional, Rudra.”
“Experience doesn’t really decide how good a kiss is going to be.” Rudra’s eyes fix fast on me when he says that, and I fight
the urge to shake off the sudden, fluttery feeling that crawls up my body at his words. “It’s all about confidence.”
“Confidence comes with experience, genius.”
“That kind of experience isn’t everything. Look at you—you’re smart,” Rudra says. “You’ve done all those internships. Won those awards
and medals. Headed all those clubs. You were valedictorian. If anything, you are the catch in this scenario.”
I have to force myself to keep my mouth closed because it nearly falls open when I hear those words come from Rudra. I really
must’ve stepped into an alternate dimension.
“How do you know all that?” I ask, flinging my now-empty coffee cup into a bin nearby. Him knowing about my dreams of being
a doctor, I understand—I know how often I talk about it—but everything else?
“You followed me earlier today. On Instagram? I checked out your page.”
Wait.
I forgot about that. I—being the idiot I am—didn’t remember that in addition to my academic successes, I also have very juvenile
song covers uploaded on my page. Given the number of followers he has, I assumed he wouldn’t notice @notkrishnakumar with
her measly seven hundred followers. Much less scroll through my page.
I want to bonk my head into the shelf right about now.
“Why are you making that face?” Rudra asks, and I register that my face is all scrunched up like I’m constipated or something.
“Just pretend you didn’t ever look at my account.”
“Uh. Okay,” Rudra says. “Can I ask why, though?”
“I mean, it’s embarrassing that you saw my page. With my mediocre singing reels. You have one hundred and forty thousand followers
who love your music—you’re talented.”
“Thank you,” he says bashfully. “You’re a good singer. Definitely not mediocre—another thing to add to the list of why Amrit is the lucky one. Not that you have much to worry about to begin with.
I’ve seen the way he looks at you—he knows it too.”
For a moment, I’m taken aback Rudra noticed that at all. He’s always been so quiet and distant, lurking in the background,
that I forgot he was there during most of our parties and hangouts. Were Amrit and I so obvious about crushing on each other
that even he noticed?
I raise my chin, tamping down the surprise and going back to the pressing matter at hand. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think it’s rich calling someone spoiled when you’re loaded yourself,” I say, thinking back to what started this whole argument.
“True.” Rudra straightens, dusting the sleeve of his shirt. He discards his CocoCart cup.
I look at him in disbelief. “You’re not going to counter that?”
“No.”
“Why not?” I sound absurd, but Rudra has pushed all my buttons—and call it an achievement kink if you want, but now, I need
to win this argument.
“Because you’re . . . right?” he says, a smile playing along his lips.
“Anyway, we should head back. Priti will probably be wondering where we are.” He starts walking away, and I follow him, rolling my eyes, because obviously he’s gone right back to thinking about Priti.
Not that it concerns me, because my Raj is waiting for me in Goa.
And you bet I don’t need anyone to tell me “?? ?????? ??, ?? ?? ???? ??????”* for me to go claim him.
Rudra takes a left, slipping out of the alley of bookshelves, and I start to turn, when there’s a sudden jerk on the strap
of my fanny pack. I look back, frowning, and find the denim material stuck on the hook of one of the racks.
“Wait up!” I call after Rudra, and yank at the strap.
Rudra halts, and I stumble, finally free. But to my utter horror, the rack, constructed out of rickety metal, wobbles dangerously
for a moment. Before I can find my balance and rush to stabilize it, it teeters, piles of books falling to the floor.
And then the entire thing topples like a house of cards.
There is a loud, resounding crash as metal hits cement. Books skid across the floor, and a cloud of dust whirls upward, whooshing
right up my nostrils. Rudra and I are both frozen, watching the mess I’ve just created. My nose tickles, and I shut my eyes,
hoping to let the sneeze out, but nothing comes.
Great.
Just fucking great.
Trust me and my clumsy ass to pull over an entire rack of books when we’re already running late.
There is a shout from the other end of the warehouse, and it takes me a second, mid-sneeze, to realize we’re going to get
caught. But Rudra is quick to react, and he’s grabbing my arm and pulling me to the right, into a narrow corridor between
bookshelves set so close together I can barely move without almost shoving more racks to the floor.
Rudra stops at the end of the corridor, where a rack is stacked up against the wall, creating a dead end. I skid to a stop, breathing heavily.
“Where—”
“Shh,” Rudra says, pressing his fingers to my lips, and that successfully manages to shut me up.
He’s squinting through the gaps in the metal frame, distracted. I watch him, not daring to even breathe. I can’t think beyond
the facts that his fingers are on my lips and that he’s closer than he’s ever been.
It’s dark here, but I spot a flash of movement from the corner of my eye, and the grumbling of a man in Marathi. I don’t understand
what he’s saying, but he sounds very annoyed. Annoyed enough that if we get caught here, we’re royally screwed.
Rudra turns toward me, and retracts his hand, as if just realizing he was touching my lips. He suddenly looks all flustered
and sheepish. It hardly compares to how I’m feeling, enveloped in this dark, tiny space with him and that inviting apricot
scent of his.
My neck is turning hot, whether from the lack of air here or Rudra standing inches away from me, I don’t know. The last time
I was this close to a guy was when I was with Amrit last night, sitting on the couch.
It feels like that happened weeks ago.
The man mutters something, sighs, and starts walking away, back in the direction he came from. Thankfully, he seems to have
decided to sort the clutter out later. Because I don’t think I could spend one moment more here with Rudra Desai without feeling
like my legs will turn to jelly.
“Let’s leave before he gets back,” Rudra whispers, and I jerk my head to the side so fast I get a face full of book dust in
my nose.
Unfortunately, that triggers the sneeze I was about to let out minutes ago. I clamp my palm over my nose, fighting the ticklish, uncomfortable sensation, but before I know it, the sneeze rips free. And it’s not muted or dainty, as I hope it will be.
The sound is deafening in the quiet of the space.
And it doesn’t happen just once. I sneeze again, and then again.
Rudra looks stunned. I don’t know whether to be horrified or laugh.
When I finally come up for air, my hair falling into my face, I hear footsteps again, this time more hurried. Yells and curses
in Marathi follow, and my mind goes, Oops.
But Rudra and I are already running. We dash out of the corridor and twist toward the staircase before the man has a chance
to get a glimpse of us. Then it’s down the flight of stairs, a sharp turn, and into the chaos of the food mall again.
There’s no one behind the book tables, thankfully, so once we mingle into the crowd, there’s little chance the man is going
to find us. Rudra and I stop to take a breath by a juice shop, hands on our knees and adrenaline buzzing in our ears.
Then our eyes meet, through my mess of hair, and I can’t help it. I burst into laughter. Rudra watches me, and although he
doesn’t laugh, he’s grinning.
I’ve never seen him grin like that before. The shock on our faces when the rack initially fell, and then the astonishment
on Rudra’s when I sneezed, both play in my head, and at this point, I’m wheezing between chortles.
“Your face!” I say, wiping tears from my eyes. I know I’ll look back on this moment in the future and cringe with embarrassment
for my past self, but at this moment, I don’t care. This day is turning out to be comically shitty.
“You sneeze like my dad” is all Rudra says in return.