Chapter Thirty-One #2
Saffi raised an eyebrow, unsure if she should be offended. “I think I’m starting to see where your ego stems from.”
Dimple continued as though she hadn’t heard.
“Where do I begin? You reported the miscarriage of justice when it was far from your fault. Despite the fact that enough evidence was presented for a jury to convict someone, you made sure the correct verdict was reached in the end. But look how that turned out. You blame yourself. Atlas and Eli blame you as well, and you let them. Even though the only reason you’re here is to fix their mistakes.
And you have the gall to ask how they’re holding you back?
They’re doing so because you’re letting them.
The only way to move on is to stop letting them. ”
Oh. That was—Saffi didn’t know how to respond. Everything from her brain to the tips of her fingers felt numb.
Still, intentions didn’t matter as much as people thought they did. It was a point her father had emphasized as soon as she’d been old enough to understand it. The courtroom was no playpen. Every misdeed had consequences—whether natural or lawful.
She cleared her throat. “Didn’t realize you hated Andino and Taylor so much.”
“I don’t hate them,” Dimple countered immediately.
“I like them fine. Before meeting Atlas, I’d never had someone I could talk about all my favorite old films with.
And Eli is perfectly polite and gentlemanly.
It’s an odd thing to come across these days.
But it’s not about anything they’ve done to me. It’s about what they’re doing to you.”
Saffi swallowed. “Careful, Kapoor,” she said. “It’s starting to sound like you care.”
“How many times have I told you to call me Dimple?”
Saffi should’ve felt horrified, but the flipping in her stomach wasn’t of discomfort.
“You really could have so much more,” Dimple said, but her voice sounded distant.
As though it were coming from the plane’s intercom.
“Where’s your hunger? Why work with Atlas and Eli when you could open your own agency?
Why save face for your father when you could run for office yourself? All you have to do is want.”
Was this why every moment with Dimple Kapoor felt so grand? Why every breath she took felt like it should be recorded in history books? Simply because she believed it. Despite what anyone said or did to her, she believed it and so it became true.
Saffi shook her head. “I do it because I care about them,” she argued. “And because they’d do the same for me. It’s selfish to go about life only living for yourself.”
“You think they’d do the same for you?”
“Of course they would.”
Dimple gave her a sad look. “What you’re describing is unconditional love. And it does not exist.”
But even an ocean away, Saffi’s parents still worried about her. They accepted that she wouldn’t call, text—hell, even email—and settled on a postcard every few months. They met her in the middle. If not unconditional love, then what was that?
“It’s not real,” Dimple said, “and I will prove it to you.”
“That’s ominous,” Saffi muttered. “If you kill my family, I’ll make you regret it.”
Dimple looked at her as though it was the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “It’s a wonder the way your mind works. Such extremes you go to. Relax, Saffi. What would murder prove?”
But Saffi couldn’t relax. Not when she felt like she’d just been trapped in a burning building.
“Why Dimple?” she asked suddenly. Another question that had been on her mind for some time. If she was going to burn anyway, she wanted to make the most of it. “As your new name—why Dimple?” It wasn’t uncommon in some parts of the world, but there had to be a reason she had chosen it for herself.
Dimple studied her curiously. “You’re full of questions today.”
“Only because you’re full of answers.”
That response seemed to amuse her. Dimple sighed, leaning back against her seat.
There was a flash of red and Saffi looked over just in time to see the lighter.
How the hell had she gotten that past security?
Saffi turned to check if anyone was watching, but the flight attendants had disappeared.
It was then that she realized the plane had already taken off. Neither of them had noticed.
Saffi watched as Dimple weaved the lighter between her fingers. A few times she looked like she might ignite the flame, but she always stopped herself short. There was no need for it, really, when Dimple herself was fire personified.
“Don’t you get tired of setting fires?” Saffi asked. The lengths Dimple had gone to just to hold on. To her career, to her image, to the damn lighter. “Don’t you wonder what life is like when the smoke clears?”
This drew her attention, molten brown irises looking at Saffi as though seeing straight through to her core. “Don’t you get tired of running?” she asked, which was fair enough. Because of course Saffi did. That didn’t mean she knew how to stop.
They made a funny pair: the fire starter and the evacuator.
There was so much more Saffi wanted to ask, but she was beginning to realize that somehow, to some extent, Dimple had begun to understand her in return. And Saffi wasn’t so sure this was a trade-off she was willing to make.
It was never a good thing to be known.
Cutting through the silence, Dimple finally answered.
“When I was sixteen, I was hiding out in the attic and I found these journals that my mother used to write. She was very depressed while she was pregnant with me and it seemed like, other than sleeping, writing was all she had the energy for. She used to say that she was absorbing all of my sadness so that I could be happy for the rest of my life. That was why she’d always refer to me as Dimple.
She never did get the chance to decide on a name before she died.
I suppose that one day I decided I wanted to be Dimple forever. ”
“Isn’t that unconditional love?” Saffi asked.
Dimple gave her a sad smile. “My mother was taken from this world and my aunt and uncle were allowed to live. Isn’t that proof enough that this universe is too cruel to allow for the existence of something so pure and altruistic?”
Saffi had nothing to say in response.