Chapter 30 Better to Crash a Wedding Late Than Never
Better to Crash a Wedding Late Than Never
Goa, Monday
Thud.
When my eyes open the next morning, the sun is blindingly bright, streaming in through the glass. I turn onto my side, away
from the dratted sun, rubbing my hand over my eyes and face. My fingers come away smeared with kajal, and my mouth is drier
than a desert.
Oh god, my head hurts.
I sit up, groaning as I massage my temples. Priti’s skirt and bralette are pasted to my skin, forming red marks, and I need
to brush my teeth and wash up so bad. What was that noise that woke me up? What time is it?
I get off the bed with effort and grab my phone from the table, glancing at Rudra. He’s asleep, in his fitted black tee and baggy jeans, lying on his stomach with his face pressed into the pillow. Oh, and he’s drooling.
I can’t help but smile. How cute is that?
Memories of last night trickle in. Of curling up beside him, latched on to his form, kissing him . . .
But my eyes find my phone screen right then, and I let out a gasp.
Rudra stirs, eyes cracking open. “Krishna?” he mumbles.
I’m leaping to my feet. I frantically rush to the bedroom door, which is still shut, and bang my fists on the wood, hard.
“Open the door, Priti! It’s four o’clock, ohmygod!”
We were asleep for twelve fucking hours.
When there’s no response, I press my mouth to the door, hoping my voice will carry through better and louder. “Priti, open
up, please! We’re late!”
Rudra’s up fully now, pushing his hair away from his face. He gets off the bed—it grates and creaks loudly, and I don’t even
want to think of how loud the bed might’ve been last night when we were making out—and joins me by the door.
“Let me try,” he says, gently motioning me back so he can take my place. “Priti! It’s four p.m. and we’re late! Open up!”
When there’s no response even after Rudra’s attempt, my heart speeds up inside my chest. Something’s gone horribly wrong.
What if Priti drowned in the bathtub, what if she choked on her toothbrush, what if she knocked her head into the nightstand
and fainted, what if—
Rudra turns the handle, as if on instinct, and the door swings open.
Wait.
What?
He pushes through the door into the room, and I hurry after him, my heart beating so loud I can hear it pumping in my ears.
The room’s empty.
The bedsheets are rumpled, the pillows are out of place, and there’s no sign of Priti.
“Krishna, check the washroom,” Rudra says, walking over to the bed. I rush to the bathroom and find the door open. Steam coats
the mirrors, the floor is wet, and Priti’s hair dryer is lying on the basin by the power port, plugged in, as if . . . as
if she took a bath.
When I walk back out, shaking my head, I find Rudra holding an empty plastic saree bag. It’s the same one that previously
held Priti’s black lehenga. Understanding rams into the both of us at the same time.
“She left for the wedding,” I say, the blood draining from my body, making me feel faint. “She left without us.”
The thud that woke me—that was the main door shutting behind Priti.
“She took the car,” Rudra says, cursing under his breath. “I didn’t see the keys on the table.” He slaps his forehead. “Jesus
fucking Christ, Priti, why do you always do this?”
Everything is going horribly wrong. Even after Priti and I fought, I never once considered how it might affect Rudra’s and
my plan. I thought I would have a chance to help her reunite with Mansi regardless.
But now she’s gone. She’s gone on her own, and oh god, what if she chickens out? Or worse, what if it all goes horribly wrong
and Mansi doesn’t feel the same?
What if she needs us and we’re not there?
My head is consumed in a white-hot panic, the sort I haven’t felt in a long while. This is like the panic I felt the day before my SATs, when I had this horrible pain in my gut and I desperately wanted to fall sick so I wouldn’t have to attend my exams the next day.
I thought I’d left that sort of feeling behind forever when things worked out exactly how I’d planned.
But I was wrong.
My chest is moving up and down rapidly and my head is spinning. I’m seconds from bursting into tears again.
Rudra closes the space between us with one stride and clasps my cheeks, a worried look creasing his face. “Krishna—”
“The plan,” I gasp.
“It’s okay.” He strokes my hair, my cheeks, my shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“It is! It is to me, Rudra. We need to get to the wedding now.”
Rudra scans my face helplessly before realization dawns on him and something fissures behind his eyes. “You still want to
go ahead with your original plan.” He says it not like a question but a statement. Hurt laces his voice.
“Of course!” I cry out. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Rudra steps away from me, his hands dropping to his sides, looking crushed beyond measure. My body instantly misses his warmth.
“Okay, then,” he says, and his voice is completely devoid of emotion. His face hardens.
I stare at him, bewildered. My head is aching from anxiety. Why the hell is he reacting like this? Does he not want to do
this for Priti anymore?
“Get ready,” he says, his shoulders stiff. “We’ll leave in fifteen minutes.” He walks out of the room, shutting the door behind
him. Hard.
I want to go after him, ask him what’s going on, what’s changed since last night, but I need to be there for Priti. Helping her is my priority right now. I don’t think I could bear to see her come out the other side of all this even more heartbroken and tormented.
We take thirty minutes more than I thought we would. Which means we’re forty-five minutes late.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, rinse my arms, underarms, and legs, and let Rudra freshen up and get dressed in the bathroom
while I get ready outside.
He’s being cold with me, and it stings because I don’t understand why.
Horrible thoughts peal through my mind as I chew over why he might be acting this way. Does he regret our kiss? Does he not
see a possibility of us anymore? Or was it not truly serious for him? Has he ascertained I’m getting attached to him and is finding ways to break
away? Because why would someone like him fall for me in such a short span of time?
Trembling through the motions and shoving those god-awful thoughts into a mental box, I get into my choli. It’s half-sleeved
with a sweetheart neckline and shows a hint of my stomach, while the lehenga falls to my ankles, swirling and rising perfectly
when I spin around, just the way I like it. I know this because I’ve worn it once before, at a shaadi, not because I’m twirling
right now. I’m neither in the mood nor have the time to twirl.
The chunni goes around my neck, two pallus draping down my back. The whole set is the loveliest shade of beige, patterned
with tiny swirls and flowers all over in muted gold. It’s one of my favorites, though I’m always terrified of spilling daal
on it. Luckily, it’s easy to hook, even at the back, so it takes me less than two minutes to get into it.
I can still hear water splashing inside the bathroom when I reach for my makeup bag. I don’t do a full makeup look because that would take way too long. Instead, I just put on tinted sunscreen. I top it off with eyeliner, kajal, lipstick, and a crystal bindi.
I’m clasping on my jewelry—necklace, earrings, and a maang tikka set—when Rudra steps out. This is the fastest I’ve ever gotten
ready in my life. It’s a miracle I haven’t screwed up my makeup. The crystals of my jewelry throw flecks of light around the
room as Rudra walks out of the bathroom, steam curling around him like he’s in a movie. My mouth nearly drops to the floor.
Because he’s wearing a freakin’ black kurta. And . . . his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.
Fuck me.
No. Fuck #desitiktok, actually. Thanks for the corruption, y’all.
Half of his hair is in a man bun again, wisping softly in the mist. Our eyes meet across the room. Then his trail my body,
from top to bottom, and I can almost feel invisible hands caressing my form.
When he looks back up at me, I find myself wishing he would just stride up to me, slam me into the dressing mirror, and—
He breaks eye contact. Clears his throat.
“You ready?” he asks, adjusting his sleeves.
“Y-yeah, just a sec.” I pick up my gold highlighter and dab the inner corners of my eyes, needing something to do. “Okay,
done.”
He doesn’t say anything, just walks right out. I stare after him, dismayed. But there’s no point. If he wants nothing to do
with me, then all right. Priti’s more important right now, anyway. Squaring my jaw, I gather my skirts and follow him.
“How are we planning to get to the wedding now that the car’s gone?” I slip on my high-heeled sandals as he takes the room
key from the holder. “Uber? Ola?”
“There are no Ubers or Olas in Goa,” Rudra says.
I stop short. “What? How are we going to go, then?”
Rudra opens the door and steps out, holding it for me. I hurry out. He closes the door, and it automatically locks. “There
was a motorbike parked outside. I saw it last night,” he says, not looking at me as he calls the elevator. “I think it belongs
to one of Ms. Fernandes’s helpers. We could borrow it.”
“You know how to ride a bike?” I ask, eyes wide. We step into the elevator.
“Yes.” Rudra presses the button for the ground floor, and the doors shut, leaving us in this closed space. During the ride
down, we’re both quiet and standoffish, refusing to meet each other’s eyes. Internally, I’m fuming.
Downstairs, we find the sardar ji instead of Ms. Fernandes this time, and he confirms that the bike does indeed belong to
one of the helpers. Luckily, the helper himself is easy to convince, and within minutes, we’re both rushing out into the parking
lot, armed with the keys. The bike is parked next to where Rudra’s car was. It’s sleek and black, with Hero scrawled across the engine.
Rudra props open the compartment beneath the seat and takes out two helmets. He hands me one and puts on the other, strapping