Screw my luck.
A crackle beside me breaks me out of my thoughts, and I turn to Amrit, finding him unwrapping a strip of mint. “Want?” he asks.
“Yes, please,” I beg, and take it from him, popping it into my mouth, needing to get rid of my bad breath before Amrit passes out from the stench.
He guffaws suddenly, and I stare at him, mid-chew, eyes wide, as he doubles over with laughter.
“What?” I say, afraid he’s laughing at me.
“Their faces,” he says, giggling uncontrollably. “When you rushed out and threw up in front of them. Absolutely priceless.”
His laughter is so contagious that before I know it, the hysteria is catching up to me, and I’m cracking a grin.Despiteeverything.
It doesn’t help that he looks gorgeous as always, his head thrown back against the railing, adorably crooked teeth shining in the moonlight. Wind-blown, deep-brown hair and eyes a shade that’s just a touch lighter than his hair.
Damn it.
This is all Bollywood’s fault, and Shah Rukh Khan’s too, for injecting thoseDDLJ-esque fantasies into my head. They’re the reason my idiot self ended up here in the first place, believing Amrit and I would have a whirlwind summer romance like Raj and Simran.
From the momentI first saw him two months ago, the signs have all been there. My cousins had invited him, along with a few other neighborhood friends, over to Nani’s house for dinner. After being introduced, we spent the rest of the party talking, huddled in a cozy corner of the living room while sipping Nani’s special masala chaas. I remember thinking I had never met someone like him: confident, driven, and charming.
And yet, all this time later—despite the obvious undercurrents of chemistry between us, the long late-night text conversations, and copious amounts of flirting—we haven’t even confessed to liking each other. Can you really blame me for hoping that tonight might bethe night?
Until a few disastrous minutes ago, he was supposed to be my solution to salvaging what’s been the most unadventurous vacation ever. Sure, he was always strictly meant to be a fling, but over time, I’ve grown to like him more than I’d care to admit.
A sudden wave of melancholy hits me at the thought. I’m headed back home tomorrow night, and Amrit to a family wedding early in the morning. I’ve visited India every summer these past eight years, following the year after Mummy, Papa, and I emigrated to the US. But in a few months, I’m going to be at Johns Hopkins, away from home, and my vacations will be spent visiting my parents up north in Portland. Not Nani or my cousins, who all live in India. This might be the last time I’ll see Mumbai for a while. This might be my last chance with Amritever.
As if reading my mind, Amrit turns to me, smiling. “I’m going to miss you, Krishna.”
“I’ll miss you too,” I say dolefully, throat clogged with regret. “I can’t believe I’m going back tomorrow. The summer’s just flown by.”
And you’ve spent your entire vacation not taking a single risk, likealways, a voice in my head chines mercilessly.Coward.
Wrong, another voice pops up in support.You had alcohol for the first time in your life!
And you couldn’t even do that rightcomes as a quick and easy rebuttal from—
“Don’t worry,” Amrit says, interrupting the argument flaring between the two Krishnas in my brain. He pinches my cheek, making warmth prickle under his touch. “If I ever come to the US, the first thing I’m going to do is hit you up.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He bumps his shoulder with mine. “It’s a date.”
Before I have the chance to make any use of that signal to salvage the night, the balcony door slides open once more, and Srishti pokes her head out. “Krishna, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Chakna is here, and I—Are you sitting next to someone’sbarf?” Her nose scrunches up with disgust.
Srishti’s my favorite cousin—a title previously held by Priti, before... well, before she decided to become a Grade A bitch instead. Srishti’s a year younger than me, but we’re a pair of inseparable nerdy queers, only out to each other in our extended family. She’s also probably the only person I know who’s read even more than I have. We’re barely halfway through the year, and she’s already met her reading goal of thirty books. Mine’s withering at ten, unfortunately.
“That’smybarf,” I say, ears pricking at the mention of chakna. I’m perennially hungry and have the appetite of a teenage boy, so it’s a wonder my metabolism keeps up with me. It works overtime, and I don’t give it nearly as much credit as it deserves.
“???, ???,”*Amrit says. “I’m sure you’re famished.”
He knows me entirely too well.
He gets to his feet, and I try, but I can barely keep my head up, let alone my five-foot-three frame of flesh, bone, and blood that’s more chai than water. Thankfully, Amrit grins down at me and sticks his hand out, pulling me up, and I stumble against him.
Inside, everyone’s huddling around the kitchen island, which is piled with chakna—Lay’s, Kurkure, Bikaner aloo bhujia, Doritos, and dips to go along with it. Divija didi, angel that she is, is paying the Swiggy delivery guy at the front door.
Not needing any more motivation, I grab a disposable cup and pile it with snacks. I’m starving and severely hangry, and the loud chatter and music arenothelping.
