“What?” I say, dumbfounded.
“I said I’m sorry.” Priti drops her hands, resigned.
I’m so shocked I think I temporarily paralyze myself.
“I crossed a line earlier,” she says, and I’m not dreaming it up—she soundsgenuineabout it. “That bit about the Desi identity thing especially. I’m sorry, okay?”
When I can finally get my feet to move, I mumble, “Okay,” and step aside.
Priti doesn’t mutter anything when she gets into the car, not like I expect her to.
I’m still reeling from her apology when we’re back on the highway. I did demand it in exchange for something else, but I guess Priti has a heart after all.
Cruising along the expressway at this time of the night is a cinematic experience. I lean my head against the window, my warm breath fogging the glass, soaking up the view outside.
We’re moving at a speed of over a hundred kilometers per hour, which might be fun for the passengers but can get quite monotonous for the driver, so I keep glancing at Rudra to make sure he isn’t dozing off. But he remains alert, hands steady on the steering wheel, body relaxed in his seat.
When the first tunnel comes, I roll my window down and stick my head halfway out, relishing the bite of the cool night air. The lights lining either side of the tunnel flash by, blurring together into a single gold strip. The wind is so strong my hair nearly comes undone from my butterfly clip, and I crow, “Woo-hoo!” with joy. I grin as my voice boomerangs back to me.
We emerge on the other side and I close the window, pushing my hair out of my face. I glance in Rudra’s direction, half expecting to find him annoyed by my rowdiness, but I’m beyond surprised to find him smiling instead. It’s nothing like Amrit’s full-on, toothy smile, but the corners of Rudra’s mouth are hiked up in amusement. It’s niceto see Rudra smile, because he looks ridiculously cute. He has these small dimples below his lips, and I wonder how I didn’t notice them before...
Hold up.
Shit.
Am I so boy-deprived that I’m finding Rudra increasingly cute with every passing moment? It’s not like it’s beendayssince I last saw Amrit. It’s been less than twenty-four hours.
I need to see a doctor. There has to be some sort of treatment for extreme horniness.
“There’s a sunroof in this car, by the way,” Rudra says, taking a long, winding turn. “You can use it. At the next tunnel.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course. It’s coming up in a bit.”
Half an hour later, I unbuckle myself from the seat as Rudra presses the button to open the sunroof. There’s a hissing noise and a low hum as the panel above slides open, fast-moving air gushing in. Priti sits up, startled, taking out her earbud as I wriggle between the seats to the back.
She frowns. “What are you doing?”
“Using the sunroof.”
Priti shuffles to the side as I slip through the gap. My shoes are already off, and I unclip my hair, letting it flow loose. I climb onto the seat, gripping the edges of the panel, and hoist myself up.
“Careful,” Priti says. “There’s a tunnel coming. Don’t let it lop your head off.”
I’m surprised at her worry about my head remaining attached to my person—but I suppose decapitation is a fair concern even for your least favorite cousin.
The wind hits me sharply as I stick my head out, knocking thebreath out of me for a moment. I push myself up until I’m standing at full height on the seat and waist-high out the sunroof.
“Holy mother—” I yell, voice cutting off abruptly as we enter the tunnel.
The people in the cars overtaking ours stare at me as they pass. I throw my hands up, my hair flying in a sheet behind me. My voice bounces off the curving walls of the tunnel, amplified as it ricochets back toward me. This feelsincredible.
There’s a tug on the hem of my kurti. I look down. I’m surprised to find Priti squatting on the seat and pushing herself up.
“Scoot,” she says, shimmying her lithe body through the gap to stand beside me. Because she’s taller, her torso’s almost all the way out. I grin as her hair blows back, bangs parting and exposing her forehead.
Priti catches me looking and holds her bangs in place with her hand, covering the forehead she’s been self-conscious about since she was six. “Don’t look!” she has to yell for me to hear her over the soaring wind.
