Chapter 26 The Emotional Whiplash of Crying One Moment and Being Horny the Next
The Emotional Whiplash of Crying One Moment and Being Horny the Next
Goa, Monday
Getting ready is a whole ritual on its own. Priti pulls a sexy black bodycon dress from her duffel that I just know is going to have her looking snatched. Most of her clothes are black, or at least outfits with one piece of clothing that’s black, and it suits her vibe. And I’m
sure the girlies dig it.
It’s both funny and sad that someone as attractive as Priti, who could literally get any girl she’s ever wanted, is desperately
in love with someone who’s getting married tomorrow. For that, she seems pretty sane right about now. I’d be genuinely losing
my mind.
Rudra’s getting ready in the living room (Priti not-very-politely shooed him away and he stepped out immediately, his bag
and guitar case in tow), and the door between us is locked shut, giving us our privacy.
I open my suitcase, surveying my clothes, as if I’m going to find a gorgeous new outfit miraculously tucked into it by some magical fairy godmother. I have two outfits left—the lehenga choli in the saree bag I’m planning to wear to the wedding tomorrow and a half-sleeved sky-blue kurti.
Everything else has been worn and needs washing, or at least ironing and perfuming. All I have is some spare underwear because
I live by the policy that one can never pack too much underwear for a trip.
I sigh, taking out the kurti and holding it up in front of me. Not very Goa-like, but it’ll look cute with my jean shorts.
It’ll have to do.
“You can’t wear that!” Priti exclaims. “We’re in Goa, Krishna, not Varanasi.”
“First off, this is a very cute kurti and it’s a stereotype that you can’t rock Indian-wear in a club. Second, I don’t have
anything else to wear. Only the lehenga choli for tomorrow.”
“Okay, sorry,” Priti says, and I gape at her, surprised to hear that forbidden word come out of her mouth of its own accord.
“It is very cute, but you need something that’s sexy. Not cute.”
“Well, all I have left is clean underwear.”
“How about . . . this?” Priti digs around in her duffel and takes out a black halter-neck bralette and a short black denim
skirt with silver chains hanging from it.
“No way.” I stare at the outfit as she lays it on the bed. “Nope.”
“Why not?” Priti demands, hands on her hips. “It’s hot.”
“I’m not saying it’s not hot. It’s just—no. I’ll wear my kurti, thanks.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.” She walks over to me, looking at the outfit from where I’m standing, as if trying to see what
I’m seeing. “What’s the problem, really?”
“It’s—” I start, flushing. “It’s going to show my whole stomach. And my underarms aren’t shaved. Like, I shaved them four
days ago.”
“No one gives a fuck if your underarms are shaved or not. And no, it’s not going to show your whole stomach, because this skirt is high-waisted. Besides, what’s wrong with showing your stomach? You’ve got a great stomach.”
“Says the one with the washboard abs.” I grab my paunch, pointing to it. “I have a tummy. It’ll stick out. I’m extremely soft
around my stomach and hips.”
“Listen. Just try them on. If you don’t like them, you can wear your kurti.”
Priti picks up the clothes and shoves them toward me. I hastily grab them, holding them against my chest. Then I grumble something
about the utter lack of right to choose and head into the bathroom to change. I don’t have a problem with wearing short stuff,
but I’m not confident enough to pull off Priti’s style.
Inside, I strip in front of the mirror and stare at the halter-neck top.
Oh shit, wait.
I open the door, poking my head out. “Priti, could you hand me my nipple covers? They’re in my suitcase, to the right.”
“You don’t need them. It’s a padded bralette.”
I shut the door and pick the flimsy thing up. She’s right. There are pads sheathed inside the front lining. Luckily, the bralette
can be tied around my neck and back, so I don’t have to worry about it not fitting. Once I put it on, adjusting the knots,
I find that it’s steady on my boobs. If I don’t raise my hands too much, the baby hair on my underarms will go unnoticed,
as will the ones on my stomach and back. And it’ll be dark, so there’s that.
I slip on the skirt next, and like Priti said, it’s high-waisted, so it covers up my tummy entirely, the denim material bunching
around my waist. It flares at the bottom, ending mid-thigh, chains clinking as I rotate, looking at myself in the mirror.
Fuck.
I look hot.
The first thought that comes to my mind is Rudra seeing me in this, and it makes my mouth go dry. But I dismiss the thought
just as quickly.
I step out of the bathroom, and the AC makes goose bumps prickle up along my arms. I rub at them furiously, walking over to
Priti. She’s dressed as well, and she looks mind-blowing.
The dress fits her like a glove, hugging her sharp, slim curves and baring her brown shoulders and legs. She’s putting on
fresh coats of thick kajal, eyeliner, and lipstick. She steps away from the mirror once she’s done, to check and see if her
makeup’s good.
“You look unfairly hot,” I say. “As always.”
She turns to me, looking me up and down, and her eyes widen. “Shut up.”
“Um. Okay?”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Priti walks over to me, and her strong perfume wafts to my nose. She grabs my shoulders roughly, making
me crane my neck to look at her. “Krish. You look like a total baddie.” She marches me over to the mirror, standing behind
me and shaking me vigorously. “Do you see it? Do you see yourself?”
“I—I do,” I stammer through the shaking, but I can’t help but smile. It feels good being complimented by Priti.
Priti grins. “See? Nothing wrong with taking my fashion advice once in a while.” She sits me down on the ottoman in front
of the dressing mirror. “Now let me do your makeup. We need to complete the look.”
Priti spends the next five minutes patiently working on my face.
She does a smoky eye for me with winged eyeliner and kajal and proceeds to pull a packet of tiny silver sequins from her makeup case.
She sticks one to the inner corner of my eye, and three in a line along the outer curve, starting from the point where the wing of the eyeliner ends.
Then she puts some brown lipstick on my lips, the same shade she’s wearing.
We both sing along to the music playing through her phone set on the bed, and she passes comments and compliments about how
this smoky eye looks so good on you and how the sequins really make your eyes pop and how you should dress like this way more often.
In return, I tell her how I could never be as hot as you and how not many people have the balls to revamp their wardrobes the way you have.
I can’t help but enjoy every second of the whole process, not just because Priti’s giving me a glow up, but also because this
is different. This is the most sisterly thing we’ve done in eight years. Last I remember spending time with her, we clipped
Nani’s towels to our heads to mimic wigs and dashed around from room to room, playing house on fire, pretending to be part
of a Barbie firefighter squad responsible for rescuing everyone in the house.
Now we’re both here in Goa on a road trip after lying to our parents about our whereabouts, getting ready together to go out
partying. We’re sharing clothes, doing our makeup, blasting music, and singing along. It’s the best time we’ve had together
in eight years, and I just never ever want this moment to pass.
A smile sprouts along my face as Priti sets my hair with her fingers, giving it an artfully messy look.
“Why are you smiling?” she asks.
My smile grows more solemn. “I’m just thinking about how I love this.”
“Love what?”
“This. Us. Right now.”
Priti pauses for a moment, stepping away, and I think she’s just checking out my final look, but she smiles too. “Yeah.” She reaches out and affectionately brushes her fingers through my hair. “It’s been a while since we did something without fighting, huh?”
The thought of it makes tears spring to my eyes, and Priti stares at me in horror, immediately scrambling for some tissues.
“Eye makeup, Krishna! Eye makeup!”
“I’m sorry, I just—” I grab the tissue and hold it under my eye, soaking up the teardrop before it has the chance to spill
out, careful to not ruin my makeup. “I’ve just missed you so much.”
Priti’s gaze softens, and she sits back on the dressing table in front of me. “I know. I’ve missed you too.”
“But you hated me.” I wave my hands furiously in front of my face, tipping my face toward the ceiling in the hopes of defying
gravity.
“I didn’t hate you.” Priti sighs. “I know I’ve made you feel that way, but I never hated you.”
“I wish we hadn’t lost out on all those years.” My voice cracks, but at least I’ve got the tears under control. Barely.
“I guess—I guess there’s no point regretting all this, you know? This whole wild trip happened for a reason. And maybe the
reason was for us to get over our childishness for once.”
“I didn’t make you out to be the sort of person who believes things happen for a reason.”
“Honestly, a lot has changed in the past year.”
I squash the tissue in my hand, tension building in my palm. I want to ask her if she’ll come see me in the US, wondering
if she’ll ever tell me about FIT. But we’re finally on good terms, and I know this is just the start. It’ll be a slow buildup.
She will tell me. I know she will.
Overcome by the sudden surge of emotions, I lean forward and wrap my arms around Priti. She protests, “I’m not a hugger! No, no, Krishna,” and that only makes me laugh and hug her tighter, until I’m probably crushing and suffocating her.
When I pull away, she’s scowling at me, readjusting her hair. I snort. “There’s the Priti I’m familiar with.”
She opens her mouth to throw me a retort, but a knock on the door interrupts us, followed by Rudra’s voice. “Hey, are you
girls done yet?”
“Almost!” Priti calls out, turning to me and mouthing, Such a gentleman, making us both burst into giggles again.