Weneedcaffeine because we intend to stay up even though Rudra’s going to be driving. I read somewhere that the likelihood of an accident reduces when all the passengers in the car are awake.
Rudra’s a good driver—he drove us to Juhu Beach once—so I’m not really worried about that. It’s more of the whole driving-after-sundown thing. Plus, Priti said the Mumbai–Pune expressway is smooth, winding, and monotonous, all of which only exacerbate the possibility of an accident.
And I intend to dieafterI’ve appended aDr.to my name. I’m notleaving a measly Krishna Kumar; do you know how many Krishna Kumars you’ll find if you search my name on Google? Hundreds.
(Okay,fine, I did a search once and there are lots of Dr. Krishna Kumars as well, but that’s not the point.)
We find ourselves a table by the entrance, under a poster that saysStories Are Best Served with Chai. I wait with our luggage while Priti heads to the counter to place our order: pav bhaji and adrak chai for me, and an anda bun and filter coffee for her.
Once we have our food in front of us, Priti doesn’t bother to make conversation and instead scrolls through her Instagram feed, so I occupy myself with my chai.
I sigh as the taste of the ginger and masala immediately kicks awake my tired senses. The pav bhaji is spicy, so that helps as well. I barely got any sleep last night, and I’ve been busy packing and then unpacking to separate some stuff for the road trip all afternoon.
Without looking up from her phone, Priti asks, “Have you texted Amrit again, by the way?”
I turn to her. She’s looking at me with her eyes narrowed. “No, why?”
“Just checking.”
“I don’t want to distract him from the wedding. Besides, how am I supposed to tell him I’m headed there to meet him? It’s meant to be a surprise.”
Until now, I was convinced that putting off messaging Amrit was the right thing to do, but I can’t help the frisson of anxiety that erupts in my gut.ShouldI be texting him? Should I have texted himalready? Will my unresponsiveness make him think I’m not interested in him anymore? Or will texting him make me appear too eager? Oh god, is this going to ruin—
The glass doors at the entrance swing open, breaking me out of mythoughts, and Rudra walks in. Unlike usual, he’s pulled his hair into a half ponytail, a few strands drifting down the sides of his face as the AC blasts down on him. He’s wearing a cream button-down shirt and baggy olive-green chinos and is carrying a guitar case and laptop bag.
Rudra pulls up a chair from the table next to ours and sits between Priti and me. The table’s small and our knees touch briefly, and I shift backward self-consciously. His eyes lock with mine, just for a second, and although he looks away just as quickly as I do, my heart races.
I’m always awkward around new people. I know Rudra’s far from new, but I’ve never been this close to him before. The fact that he looks kinda-sorta good (okay,verygood) right now doesn’t help in the least.
Knees at an appropriate distance, Rudra frowns at the luggage on the floor beside me. “How many bags have you both got?”
“Laptop bag, duffel bag, handbag,” Priti says.
“Laptop bag, suitcase, fanny pack,” I say.
“We’re going for, like, three days,” Rudra says. “Why do you need so much stuff?”
Priti sighs. “You do know that your enormous guitar bag is going to occupy more space than my and Krishna’s luggage combined, though, right?”
I peek at the label inscribed on the bag. “Wait, is that a Taylor acoustic?”
Rudra’s eyes go wide. “Uh, yeah.”
“Do you know howexpensive—” I pause. “Of course you do.”
“You’re familiar with guitars?”
“My dad plays, and I used to play keyboard. I’ve always liked to sing, so it’s nice to learn an accompaniment instrument. I’m just okay, though. Not an expert or anything.”
“You’re pretty decent,” Priti says.
I turn to her in surprise. “You’ve heard me sing?”
“I watched your covers on Instagram.” Priti flaps her hand, looking embarrassed. “Don’t look so surprised—we follow each other.”
“Do you have any guitar covers up online?” I ask Rudra.
“A couple,” Rudra says, his eyes falling to the table.
