Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter
Twenty-two
“If soulmates do exist, they’re not found. They’re made.”
—Michael, The Good Place
Harsha woke up nestled in Veer’s embrace, his grip tight, as though he hadn’t let go for a second, not even in deep sleep. She let a soft smile curl her lips and opened her eyes, soaking in the rays of sunlight filtering in through the curtains.
Veer’s face was mere inches from hers, his mouth slightly open and a line of drool on his pillow. She held back a giggle, her eyes tracing the curve of his jaw, the peek of chest hair visible beneath his T-shirt. Her gaze went back up to his mouth when he snored, and she had the strongest urge to kiss him, at long last.
Do it, a voice echoed in her head that sounded suspiciously like Sasha. She snorted and shook off the impulse, snuggling closer still. They probably had time until her alarm rang at nine a.m. so they wouldn’t miss breakfast, after which she had to go capture behind-the-scenes photos of Neha and Rohan getting ready. If this was her last full day with Veer as her fake boyfriend, she was going to make the most of it.
The alarm rang seconds after she closed her eyes, or at least, it felt like that. With a loud groan, Harsha rolled toward her bedside table and turned off the alarm.
Next to her, Veer stirred. He rubbed his eyes and asked, “Did you snooze it?”
“No.” She sat up to stretch her arms and legs. “You snooze, you lose. It’s healthy to get out of bed right when the alarm rings.”
“I wake up to my alarm,” Veer said, frowning. “The only difference is, I have four alarms spaced five minutes apart. I get out of bed when the final one rings.”
Harsha padded out of bed to the bathroom. “You’re a goof.” She shut the door and decided the smile stuck to her face would only help her brush her teeth better. Veer knocked and entered after she yelled, “Yeah, come in!”
“Couples who brush together stay together,” he joked. He stood next to her and squeezed some toothpaste onto his red brush, which he’d left out in the open without a toothbrush cap. Unhygienic, and yet so typical of him. Harsha’s smile widened, but it was camouflaged by the toothbrush sticking out of her mouth.
They brushed in silence. Harsha liked that picture in the mirror before her. As much as she found tall guys attractive, there was something to be said about men who were only a few inches taller than her, like Veer. It was easy to rest her head against his shoulder, easier still for him to kiss her forehead.
She wondered, if all this had never happened, if there never had been a need to find a pretend boyfriend, whether she would have seen Veer in this light without the charade. Would they have grown closer at Sunstag? Would he have asked her out if she was single?
Would she have wanted him to?
Harsha spat out the frothy paste and rinsed her mouth. “I’m going to shower later,” she said, not waiting for him to reply as she yanked the door open. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
“Mm-kay,” Veer said just before Harsha closed it behind her. She leaned against the door for a bit, cursing herself for entertaining these thoughts. Because it wasn’t just the need for physical intimacy, a warm body next to hers, that had made Harsha snuggle up to him last night.
It was the want for him, specifically.
She heard the shower running, so she changed into jeans and a top and sat on the couch, jiggling her foot and waiting for him to come out. Did he have clothes in there? Was he going to come out with a towel tied around his waist? Harsha let out a breath and faced the other way.
“Hey,” Veer said a few minutes later, carrying the scent of aftershave and the hotel body wash into the room. “Just need to change, and then we can head down for breakfast.”
“Cool,” she answered. Her back was still to him. When the bathroom door closed again, she grabbed her phone and texted Sasha.
Harsha:
Soooo…Veer and I went to bed cuddling last night
Sasha didn’t reply. Harsha put on her shoes, waiting, but Sasha was probably busy with her friends and their wedding festivities. Goddamn it. The only thing that could ease the churning in Harsha’s belly was girl talk with her best friend.
Well…maybe pancakes would help too.
After a quick breakfast, Harsha and Veer rushed back to their room so she could get on with her photographer duties before Neha had to remind her to show up. “Are you ready?” came Veer’s shout from the bathroom, where Harsha had told him to wait until she was done getting dressed for the ceremony, since she wouldn’t have time to spare later in the day.
“Almost!” she yelled back. The pastel mint-green lehenga and gold-lined blouse hugged her curves just right; it was hard to look away from her own reflection. Harsha wasn’t vain about how she looked, just confident, but this outfit had the potential to change that. Deepika’s mother really was a fashion mastermind when it came to pastel.
“Harsha, you’re going to be late!” Veer yelled.
She shifted slightly to look at the back of the blouse, and tried without luck to tie the strings holding it all together. There was a zipper on the side, but she’d need to tie the blouse regardless. “I’m done,” she called to him.
Veer stepped out, a hand over his eyes. He was still wearing the faded cartoon T-shirt and gray sweatpants he had gone to bed in, since he didn’t need to get ready until later that night. “Can I look?” he asked, and she felt a surge of love—no, anything but that word— adoration for him.
“Yeah.” She blushed when his jaw dropped, then ushered him closer. “Help me tie the back of the blouse.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Harsha turned around, putting her curly hair all on one side, feeling Veer’s warm fingers work on the strings. “Is this tight enough?” he asked, and she licked her lips. Her skin tingled where his breath made contact with it.
“Harsha?”
“Yeah, it is,” she finally said.
Veer finished tying her blouse up. He put his hands on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “You look beautiful. You kind of remind me of that green pixie emoji.”
She laughed but leaned her head back, closer to his face. “That’s a fairy. I’m pretty sure pixies are up to no good.”
“Then you’re a pixie,” he said, smiling into her hair. “My pixie.”
The urge to kiss him, which last night and this morning had roused in her, increased to full power. “I’m getting late,” she said, stepping out of his grasp. “Let me just check my makeup.”
She touched up her red lipstick and put on another coat of mascara, then grabbed her camera from the side table. When she turned to look at Veer, he was smiling at her.
“What?” she asked, smiling back. “Can’t stop admiring my stunningness?”
“That’s not a word,” he said, laughing, “but yes. Exactly that.”
Eye contact for longer than three seconds was supposed to be uncomfortable, awkward, and sometimes creepy. But Veer looked into her eyes for a full six seconds before stretching his hand out for her to take, and she felt both butterflies and the overwhelming sense of relief and comfort.
Here was a man who knew more about her than her parents, who stood by her and cheered her on, who made her laugh endlessly, whose mere touch as she took his hand gave her more happiness than three months with her ex.
Was this love?
Veer dropped her off outside Neha’s room, giving her a tight hug and reassuring her that she could do this, and do it well. “Thank you,” she said, giving his hand one final squeeze before knocking on her cousin’s door.
Aunt Pinky, wearing a dressing gown like the others in the room, welcomed her inside. The room was abuzz with frantic energy; a man was working on Neha’s curls, a comb behind his ear and a hair dryer resting between his neck and shoulder, while the makeup artist dabbed foundation on Neha’s face with a thick brush. Her assistants worked on the bride’s guests, including Maa and Aunt Pinky.
Harsha got to work, clicking photographs and requesting the stylist to change hand positions so she could get a better shot. Neha’s eyebrows were knitted together, and the makeup artist had to ask her thrice to keep her face expressionless so she could finish drawing her eyeliner.
Every now and then, one of Neha’s friends walked in to announce a new problem: the florist was delayed, the panditji was throwing a tantrum about the direction of the wind and how it wasn’t “favorable” for a wedding, and the bar had run out of Uncle Madhu’s favorite whiskey.
“Okay,” Neha said each time, exhaling loudly. Clearly, she was in full panic mode but trying not to show it. Harsha didn’t blame her; there were a thousand things that could go wrong at any wedding, and, inevitably, at least ten of those things would.
Once the hair and makeup were through, Maa and Aunt Pinky helped Neha into her stunning red wedding lehenga. Aunt Pinky sobbed the whole time; the makeup artist’s assistant had to touch up her makeup and ask her to please control her emotions. Harsha, too, swallowed back her tears. What a special moment between family…and here she was, stuck behind the camera.
“I should head to Rohan’s room too,” she said in between candid shots, hoping it would give her some respite from the scene before her that she was most definitely an outsider to. “Someone needs to take pictures of him getting ready as well.”
Her cousin scowled and muttered something under her breath. Harsha put down the camera.
“What, Neha?”
“I just assumed you’d bring an assistant, like a professional would,” Neha said.
“Neha—” Aunt Pinky started, holding a hand out.
“I am a professional,” Harsha countered, grinding her teeth so tightly her jaw popped. “Aren’t I doing you a favor here?”
“A favor ?” Neha laughed aloud. “I’m paying you your full rate, by the way.”
“You know for a fact I’m undercharging you compared to that other photographer,” she fired back.
“Because he has decades of experience, whereas you don’t!” Neha said, standing up. “Forget it. I suppose we have enough pictures of me—the bride! Don’t we, Harsha?”
A hush fell over the room. Maa folded her arms, while Neha’s friends stared awkwardly at one another. Aunt Pinky stepped in, putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulder and sitting her down again. “Beta, it’s fine. Madhu’s invited some of his cinematography staff. They can handle Rohan’s pictures.”
Neha opened her mouth to protest, then shut it, instead plastering a fake smile onto her face. “Fine. Call them. Harsha, go on. Do your job.”
“Fine,” she replied testily. Slowly, the tension in the air dissipated, at least to a certain extent. Harsha wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and resumed her photography duties, exhaustion seeping into her bones, wishing Veer were there to comfort her. He was more family to her than the people she was actually related to by blood. What did that say about her?
What did that say about them?