“Of course, Nani Ji,” Priti says, pecking Nani on the cheek.
Nani picks up her remote to resume watchingMahabharat, and Priti and I shuffle toward the door. Just as we’re about to leave—
“Wait.”
We stop short.
“Have you informed your mothers yet?”
Priti and I exchange guilty looks.
“Actually, we were hoping you could do that for us—” I start, before Priti whacks me in the stomach, making the air whoosh right out of my body. I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from yelping in pain, fixing Priti with a murderous glare instead.
“You girls,” Nani says, sighing. “??? ??,*I’ll do it. But I can’t promise they won’t be annoyed.”
Hold up. Thatworked?
“Obviously, Nani,” I say, smiling.
“Now go. Shoo.”
Once outside in the living room, I give Priti a chumti. At the small but painful pinch, she whirls to face me.
“A return gift for that whack,” I say, smiling innocently.
“Grow up.”
“Never.” We approach the front door. “Are we taking an auto to Rudra’s house?”
“No.” Priti grabs a set of keys from a hook behind the door. “We’ll take my Activa.”
My face lights up. Priti’sneverlet me ride pillion on her scooter,despite my having set aside my ego on multiple occasions and begging her to let me tag along.
I practically skip out the door after her.
I’m convinced Priti is trying to scar me forever.
Twice we nearly rammed into a cow on the street, and once we were almost flattened against the footpath as Priti attempted to overtake a truck from the left. I have anAmericandriver’s license, and even I know that in India you’re supposed to overtake from the right.
I’m clinging to her for dear life by the time we reach the apartment complex the Desais live in—there is no shame in prioritizing self-preservation. When Priti finally brings the Activa to a stop in a vacant space in the parking lot, I secretly thank Lord Yamraj for delaying his collection of my soul.
She’s parked right behind a sleek midnight-blue BMW. There’s not much I claim to know about Rudra Desai, but I’d recognize his car anywhere, since I’ve seen it nearly every day these past two months.
It’s symbolic to Priti and Rudra’s morning ritual, which would begin with Rudra parking his car in front of Nani’s apartment building and honking twice to signal his arrival. Mere seconds later, Priti’s closed bedroom door would open, and she’d sashay out and roll her eyes (when she caught my gaze, though, that delightful scowl of hers would appear), yell “??? ?? ??? ???!”*at no one in particular, and leave the house for the day.
And cousins being cousins, the rest of us would rush to the first-floor window. I followed the others curiously that first time, climbing on the sofa and hoisting myself onto the windowsill next to Srishti.
One floor down, Rudra’s car was parked right in front of the entrance. Through the windshield, I spotted him sitting in the driver’sseat, wearing a black compression T-shirt and aviator glasses. No one bothered him as he waited, not even the chowkidar. Nani lives in a quaint old-people colony, and the watchman is like a hundred years old himself. They have little entertainment.
My eyes widened as I spotted a familiar logo on the bumper. “Is that a BMW?”
“Yep, it’s Rudra’s,” Srishti told me. Back then, I didn’t know he was from a rich family, which might’ve explained why an eighteen-year-old boy already owned a luxury car.
“And he’sreallynot her boyfriend?” I asked as we watched Priti get into the passenger seat. I was certain they both knew the six of us were watching, but neither of them threw us a glance as Rudra drove away.
“Definitely just her best friend,” Manas responded. “I’m sure Rudra likes her, though. Why else would he chauffeur her around anddrop her back home every day?”
“Maybe he’s chivalrous,” Varija offered.
