28. Miley
W hen I was giving myself a lesson on tennis today, I looked up who is playing tonight’s women’s final. A young American up-and-comer is challenging the world number one, and I am excited to root for the underdog. Especially because she’s American.
We head to our seats and I notice escalators to my left that go up. Most people are crowding onto them and we skirt around to head to the courtside section.
“I still can’t believe these seats,” Rohit says. “Quinn and I come every year. When we were younger, our parents brought us and they had great seats, but not as good as this. More recently, since we’ve had to pay our own way, our seats have not been so good.” He chuckles as he looks around.
We are a few rows up from the very first one and even I can appreciate how amazing these seats are.
Rohit points behind us. “Do you see those boxes? Those are where the celebrities sit.”
My jaw drops. “Our seats are closer than celebrity boxes?”
“I know, can you imagine?” Rohit wonders in awe. “Celebrities who love tennis can often be found in the courtside seats, but ones who come because it’s just another New York social event will sit in a box, often invited by whoever owns or sponsors the box.”
“How do you know all of this?” Miley asks, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Do you see the ball kids on the court? They are going to run and grab the balls that don’t make it over the net or go out. Their uniforms are always designed by Ralph Lauren. Reena is always talking about how she’d be a ball kid for the clothes. She told me celebrities are always invited to sit in the Ralph Lauren suite. If you look closely at some of the boxes, you can see some of the other sponsors.” He leans close as he points to the suites behind us.
“Oh, that one has seat cushions that say Emirates!” I notice one is still mostly empty, for now.
We don’t have long to star-gaze, because the match begins and I am eager to show off the little knowledge I’ve gleaned from my recent research. Honestly, I wanted to have something to talk to Rohit about to show him I am willing to take an interest in his life. Dare I say I enjoy his company, and that’s not something I’m faking.
I know Rohit is just really good at pretending—he’s a known playboy—and he’s just committed to acting like the perfect boyfriend. He has already told me he’s really good at lying to his parents so he has had plenty of practice. Obviously, today is just part of our ruse. It means nothing outside of the fake relationship we’ve created.
Besides, who would ever say no to courtside U.S. Open tickets?
I am starting to develop feelings however, and I’m using all my energy to tamp it down. I have no plans on getting my heart broken ever again. It’s hard to shake my fear that no man can ever really be trusted. If I ever did believe in a man, a relationship, it would be with Rohit though.
Rohit nudges me in the side and points to the big screen. Justin Bieber’s face fills the screen, his wife next to him. Throughout the match, they show many of the celebrities in attendance. I have recognized a few, but not all. Justin Bieber I know, obviously.
During the changeover, I grab Rohit’s hand and we head into the crowd that is stationed in front of Justin’s box.
Once we get close, I get out my phone and turn it to selfie mode, and snap a quick picture of us with Justin behind us. Right after we get our picture, security guards start ushering people away.
We giggle all the way back to our seats. Well, I giggle. Rohit has a chuckle that warms me down to the core.
When we get back, I show Ruby and Charlie the picture.
“What the hell is he wearing?” Ruby asks. Justin has on some polka dotted hat and these crazy sunglasses. “Those sunglasses look absolutely vulvar!”
We all fall into an uproar, but it’s true. His sunglasses do look like vulva.
I cheer so loud at every point, feeling the power of the crowd around us as they lift up the American player. She must feel amazing to be playing on the biggest stage, surrounded by a hometown audience that’s rooting for her. Thinking about it makes me tear up slightly.
“You okay, goose?” Rohit notices the change in my demeanor.
“I’m just so proud of her!” I exclaim.
“Proud of someone you only found out existed two hours ago?” Rohit laughs and raises one eyebrow.
I lean into this shoulder. “I get emotional, you know that.” Although I was hoping he had forgotten that first run in at the hospital.
“I do know that, and I love that about you.”
Love . Did he just say he loves something about me? He surely doesn’t mean romantic love, though. I wish he did. But he just means that he finds my emotional side, the one I keep hidden from most people, endearing. I remind myself that I can’t get too attached. I can’t hope that our relationship is more than what it is—just play-acting in front of my sister, like he agreed to. The problem is that I’m already more than attached.
From Rohit’s perspective, he’s my placebo boyfriend as a means to an end so he can come to the wedding and support me through a night of being in Harrison’s presence. It’s a little excessive that he got roped into all these other events in between the gala and the wedding, but here we are. Hopefully he’s enjoying the tennis match at least.
I look at Rohit and he’s so engrossed in the action on the court that he doesn’t notice me watching him. Even from this angle, I can see a sparkle in his eyes. He’s in his happy place, that much is clear, and the thought that I was able to bring him here, and contribute to his joy is thrilling. I bite my bottom lip to stop a giddy grin and focus back on the match.
It’s match point for the American; if she can win this point she wins the whole tournament. They volley back and forth. The crowd is rapt. Her opponent hits the ball out, and the crowd goes wild. I am on my feet screaming. Rohit is cheering and wraps me in a hug. We give high fives all around, to all our seatmates, even the fans behind and in front of us.
I cry during the trophy ceremony when she gives her speech. She thanks her dad and her family and I am bawling. Rohit puts his arms around me and holds me tightly. I beam up at him. This moment is so special, with the win, the crowd, and just sharing this all with Rohit. I secretly wish his feelings were real, because I can’t deny that mine aren't.
“If we hurry, we might be able to beat the crowd for the next train back to Manhattan. Let’s go,” Rohit says. He grabs my hand and leads us out of the stadium. Ruby and Charlie follow closely. Once we leave the grounds, we climb uphill to reach the subways. We soon see we didn’t need to rush at all, because the crowd has already beaten us.
We aren’t even able to get onto the subway platform, it’s so crowded.
We inch our way slowly down the subway steps, but come to a dead stop on the stairs.
“Is it always this crowded?” I ask.
“Worse,” Rohit answers.
I am jostled from every direction, so I lean into Rohit. He puts his arm around me and it feels so nice, how perfectly we fit into each other, despite our height difference. I close my eyes, imagining a different scenario and sigh contentedly. He stands behind me and rests his chin on the top of my head while wrapping both arms around me. Rohit leans down and kisses the top of my head.
I crane my neck to look at him. He gives me his most mesmerizing smile and I feel all warm inside. This is a feeling that I want to bottle up and carry it with me forever. When this fake relationship ends, I want to be able to revisit this moment in my memories.
I take out my phone and snap a selfie of us in this position. I want to memorialize this feeling.
I know I’ve been avoiding relationships, but these feelings I have toward Rohit make me realize I want to be in a real relationship. It’s time to let my guard down and trust someone again. I crave the intimacy. But will I want a relationship with anyone but Rohit? The past few months with Rohit have changed me, forever.
A few trains arrive, fill up with passengers, and leave. We finally get on the subway, but we stand. Everyone is still riding the high of the match and it’s loud and boisterous. People are laughing and enjoying themselves. We say bye to Ruby and Charlie as they get off first on the east side.
“Rohit, this is my stop. I’ll see you at work,” I say, edging closer to the door to step off. In New York, you have approximately 0.2 seconds to exit and enter a subway before you either get pushed or the door closes in your face.
“I know it’s your stop, it’s the stop I get off to get to work!” he says with a chuckle, and then he’s behind me. “Also, I’m walking you to your door.”
“You don’t have to. It’s perfectly safe here,” I say.
“I’m not worried about your safety, I just want to walk you home,” he replies.
“If you insist.” I roll my eyes, but inside I am glad. I don’t want this night to end.
We walk the few blocks back to my apartment side by side.
He nudges me in the shoulder with his arm. “I hope you had a good time tonight.”
“The best. Thank you for explaining sportsball to me,” I say.
“Maybe we can start to differentiate the different sportsballs? Maybe we can call my sportsball ‘tennis’?” He reaches for my hand, which I happily let him hold.
“Nah, a ball is a ball is a ball, they’re all the same,” I joke. Rohit’s free hand pantomimes pulling a dagger from his chest, and he lets out a small noise like I physically wound him, but then he’s laughing.
“Miley, not all balls are the same, and if you haven’t figured it out by now, I may have to show you,” Rohit whispers suggestively.
My breath hitches, and I can’t think of a reply, but luckily, it’s New York City and a loud horn blaring in the distance saves me. We get to my building and climb the stairs up to my apartment. I grab my key to open my door and Rohit takes a hold of my elbow. He turns me around so my back is to the door and I am facing him.
He is so close to me, I can smell his cedar and sandalwood—a scent only associated with him . I inhale deeply, wanting to capture the aroma of him forever. He steps in closer and leans his arm into the door above me.
We are sharing the same airspace and I feel dizzy with anticipation.
“Miley,” Rohit whispers.
I feel my lips part open, eagerly awaiting. I tilt my head up so I can see him clearly.
He clears his throat and I can barely hear the words. “Goose, I can’t do this anymore.”
The air is pushed out of me as I deflate. I knew this was a distinct possibility. It was just too much for him. I can understand that. My family can be overwhelming. This charade is ridiculous. It’s taken up so much of his time. He has better things to do. I don’t meet his eyes, I avert my gaze so I don’t have to see the pity reflected back to me.
“I’m sorry my family has been so overbearing and that I’ve made you do all of this for me. I can find another date for the wedding. Actually, I’ll just go by myself. It’s totally fine,” I ramble, letting my inner stream of consciousness fall out in my embarrassment.
I turn around, because this moment wasn’t what I was expecting. I just want to escape into my apartment before the tears start to fall.