Chapter 42 #2
Simran has no idea what to say. She honestly never thought Kiran understood things that well, not when she’s been away from home so long.
When Simran doesn’t respond, Kiran shakes her head. “I’m getting more wine.”
And just like that, Simran’s alone again.
She doesn’t want to be here if her mom and masi come back, so she takes her plate and goes back to the table she’d been at earlier with TJ. No one’s there either, but she’s about to sit down anyway when something gives her pause.
A toothpick is resting on her crimson napkin.
Her eyes skip to everyone else’s plates. No one else has one. An odd feeling steals over her. Like she’s being watched.
She scans the room. Her gaze skips to the far corners of the reception hall, the ones that are darkened, where people go to be hidden, to avoid music and eyes.
Her eyes skip over him once before her brain catches up. It’s the way he stands, leaning against the wall with a glass of water, his ankles crossed. She’d recognize that careless stance anywhere.
Rajan.
Simran wonders if she took more hallucinogens without realizing. She blinks, but he’s still there. It doesn’t make sense. He left. Didn’t he? Was Paul making it up? Did Rajan lie?
Maybe it doesn’t matter. He’s here, oversize navy jacket hanging open to reveal a dark orange hoodie. Very out of place among all the suits. And he’s gazing at her.
Simran starts to draw toward him. She’s passed several tables before she’s stopped by someone at the juice bar—a family friend, cooing over her anarkali. Once Simran has disentangled herself, she glances back at Rajan. He’s still there. And now that she’s closer, he’s looking at her differently.
He hasn’t seen her dressed up before, she realizes. His gaze lowers, brushing along every fold in her anarkali, catching on every sequin. Grazing over her hip. She feels a flush following the trail he leaves. His gaze drops to her feet—her feet, hidden under the hem.
She forgets all her questions. Everything else fades. Maybe this is a dream—because what she does next makes no sense. Slowly, subtly, Simran gathers the fabric of her anarkali. She lifts it a few inches. Revealing her leg from the ankle down.
She pretends to adjust her shoe, in case anyone is watching.
It’s platformed, detailed, and matches her clothes.
Of course she should show it off. When she drops her hem, the fabric falling back into place, Rajan taps his collarbone.
She looks down to see her chunni is obscuring her necklace.
Casually, she takes it off, under the guise of re-draping it.
The exposed necklace feels cold against her collarbones.
She can’t stop looking at him. He can’t seem to stop, either, because he tilts his head and taps his ear.
She mirrors him, letting her mass of hair fall back, revealing her heavy earrings tapping against her jaw.
She sees the breath he takes from across the room. Finally, he points at the ceiling and lazily twirls his finger.
Her heart rate kicks up. She feels every sensation a million times more, the slide of fabric against her skin, the aggressive A/C blowing stray hairs against her neck. She turns on the spot. Her anarkali swishes heavily around her legs.
When she faces him again, he’s downing the last of his water. He sets the glass on a table and disappears into the foyer.
Entranced, she follows. On her way she nearly bumps into somebody who’s just entered, probably arriving fashionably late.
“Excuse me,” she mutters, but they don’t seem to hear, shouldering past her roughly.
She scans the large foyer. Only a few people here.
There’s a table near the entrance with a photo album people are signing for Neetu and Gurjeevan.
But no Rajan. As she walks forward, sticking close to the wall, she starts thinking she did hallucinate him. Why, after all, would he be—
Someone pulls her into the dim service hallway. She stiffens until she hears his voice.
“Hey, Auntie. Miss me?”
And that voice, that voice melts four days of tension. It fills her chest instantly, relieving the ache so fast she could cry. “Rajan,” she breathes, as he lets her go. “I thought you left.”
“I’m going to.” He looks at the wall behind her head. Despite his lighthearted greeting, he’s not smiling. There’s something off about him. “But there were a few loose ends to tie up first. Where’s the last Ace ledger?”
The question is so out of left field that she’s thrown. “The Ace ledger? How do you know about that?”
“Because Nick needs it. He knows you have it.”
It’s in her purse, of course, where it’s been since the night she took it. But this isn’t how she pictured their reunion going. “Why come here to ask that? Why not wait? Why—”
“Simran,” he interrupts. Her questions die on her lips.
He tugs on one of her curls. As it bounces back into place, he puts his hand on the side of her neck, fingers sliding under her mass of hair to the nape.
His thumb strokes the sensitive skin right behind her ear.
“Simran, tell me where that ledger is, and I’ll go. ”
She can hardly think when he’s touching her like that, when he’s saying her name like that. “I don’t want you to go.”
He braces his free hand on the wall behind her, and she notes that he’s holding himself differently. Leaning a bit to one side. That hand on the wall doesn’t seem to be for her benefit, but for his own.
Suspicion overtakes her. She reaches into his unzipped jacket and takes a fistful of his hoodie, hauling him closer.
She only notices because she’s watching his face—he winces. He definitely winces.
“What happened?” She starts patting him down. “Where does it hurt?” When her hand goes to his ribs, he pushes it away. There’s sweat beading on his temple. She touches it. His skin is clammy, and he smells very faintly of gasoline. “Rajan, what’s going on?”
He twists his head away from her touch. “It’s from when I hurt my shoulder, that’s all. Just...tell me where the ledger is. Please, Simran.”
She clutches onto his hoodie, feeling lightheaded. She doesn’t want to give it to him. If she does, he leaves. That’s the last thing she wants. She half thinks if he tries, she’ll drag him back, make him press her into the wall exactly like this again.
Rajan’s expression changes, like he’s following the direction of her thoughts.
He bends down to her. His hands settle on her hips, nose grazing her necklace.
He inhales, then quite suddenly presses his face fully against the side of her neck, lips on her pulse.
She squeaks, unable to think, to do anything.
She doesn’t remember what he was asking her, not when he’s found the shape of her leg under the layers of fabric, running one hand down the back of her thigh.
“You,” he breathes, lips brushing against her earring, “dressed like this,” he draws a fistful of her anarkali into his hand, pulling it up, “is driving me up the wall, let me tell you.”
She loves his hands on her. Reverent. Yet deliciously disrespectful. “Dressed like what?”
He looks at her straight on, the blacks of his eyes swallowing her up. “Like a bride.”
Her lungs cease to work. But just then, a stifled gasp has her pushing away instinctively.
It’s TJ.
TJ, staring wide-eyed from the end of the hallway. Simran smooths down her anarkali. “TJ—”
TJ marches toward them. “Get away from her!”
Her glare is fixed on Rajan, who has already stepped back, hands now in jacket pockets. “TJ,” he says with a lazy grin. “I see you haven’t learned how to relax.”
“I cannot believe this.” TJ looks furious. “I’m going to—”
“TJ,” Simran says, louder. TJ halts in her tracks, focusing on Simran for the first time. Uncertainty flits over her face.
Distantly, in the foyer, there’s a scuffle of shoes on tile, a commotion that seems to be brewing.
It wouldn’t be the first time an altercation broke out at a wedding, but Rajan glances in that direction immediately, his smile fading.
He backs away. “Don’t worry,” he says to Simran. “I’m gonna take care of everything.”
He disappears down the hall before she can ask what he means. TJ blocks her path before she can follow.
“Holy shit,” TJ is saying. “Holy shit.”
“TJ, I have to—”
“There are tons of people in the foyer now,” TJ says harshly. “You can’t go out a second after him looking like—the way you do right now.”
“What—”
TJ grabs her hand and drags her farther down the hall to a private washroom. Simran glances over her shoulder, but Rajan’s gone.
TJ tows her inside. “You need to take a minute.”
Simran glances into the mirror as TJ locks the door behind them. Her eyes are too bright, tendrils of hair falling over her cheeks, her cheeks burning—flushing all the way into her neckline.
Simran flushes even more. She can’t look her cousin in the eye.
“God,” TJ says. “So much is starting to make sense. So. Much.”
“Please don’t lecture me.”
TJ pauses. “Why?”
She sounds so baffled, so hurt, so frustrated.
Simran braces her hands against the sink. TJ’s question could mean so many things. Why him? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you see how badly this was going to end?
“Actually, you know what?” TJ says after several seconds of silence. “Let’s just drop that messed-up topic for now. Why don’t we talk about how your mom has cancer.”
Simran closes her eyes. The washroom is beginning to spin. “Who told you?”
“I overheard.” TJ’s voice is flat. “Your mom and mine were talking. Loudly. My mom was pissed.”
Simran keeps her eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
Silence. Then, all at once, she finds herself crushed into a hug. Simran’s eyes fly open. “You’re...not mad?”
“I’m so mad, Simran.” TJ’s voice cracks a little. “But I understand now. God, I finally, finally understand.”