“I don’t,” Rudra says, and his eyes are brimming with hurt as they follow Priti, despite how hard he tries to hide it. He’s down so bad, it makes me feel sorry for him. I’m indifferent to Priti’s intentions—aslong asherdesperation getsmeto Goa, I couldn’t care less. But I can see that it’s bothering Rudra. “I have no clue what’s gotten into her lately.”
I’m reminded of something similar Srishti said to me during the house party after I told her I’d seen Priti crying:I know she’s always avoided you, but usually she’s at least cordial with the rest of us. I’ve barely spoken a word to her this time. Who knows what’s going on with her?
“Can I ask you something?” I say, and purse my lips thoughtfully.
“Yeah?” he asks, and turns to find me staring (fuck).
“During the party, Priti was crying when I rushed out onto the balcony to throw up.” Relating the incident to Rudra, despite him having been a witness, is still embarrassing. “You were comforting her. Did that have something to do with whatever’s going on with her now?”
Rudra shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He doesn’t let on to anything more than that, but I can’t make out if he’s telling the truth or simply avoiding the question. It’s not like he would be willing to reveal Priti’s secrets. “We should head in,” he adds, although he does look thoughtful, brows knitted, as if what I said connected two invisible wires in his brain.
I nod quickly. So quickly I almost crimp my neck in the process.
“And seriously, don’t worry about making it back on time,” he says as we hurry away from the men in the parking lot. “If we are late and the repairs take time, I’ll drive us back without stopping.”
I’m grateful for his reassurance, because with Priti and I both distraught, we need at least oneperson to be optimistic. And he’s the only one who’s not here for his own selfish reasons. He’s here for his best friend—and her clown of a cousin. It’s rare to find people like that nowadays, who take time out of their own schedules to do things for others.
“Thank you for doing this, Rudra,” I say, voicing my thoughts. “This whole trip.”
Rudra fidgets with his hands, resembling a human version of the two-shy-fingers-pointing-at-each-other emoji. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
We join Priti, who’s already seated at a table in the corner, and scan the menu. The variety is fantastic. And so much of it sounds mouth-wateringly good. I’mfamished.
Priti gets a paper masala dosa and filter coffee (she’s obsessed with South Indian food), while Rudra makes a comment about how he wishes this wasn’t a pure veg restaurant and reluctantly asks for a plate of aloo paratha and achaar. I get some rajma chawal. The service is swift, so I offer to wait at the counter while Priti and Rudra find a table, and carefully walk back with the trays of food.
“Tell me vegetarian food lacks variety again and I will cut you open,” Priti is saying.
“You literally eat eggs,” Rudra says. He thanks me as I set down the trays.
“It doesn’t matter. My argument is about you nonvegetarians constantly reducing vegetarian food to paneer and aloo. Would you have this variety in a nonveg restaurant?”
“Yes,” Rudra says, scooping up the aam achaar with a morsel of his paratha and popping it into his mouth. “Thrice as much.”
“Even when the curries and accompaniments are all vegetarian?” I say. It’s rare for me to find myself agreeing with Priti, but I’m on her team here.
“But thetaste. That comes from good meat.”
I roll my eyes. “Sorry, I stand firmly with Priti on this one. The argument is about vegetarian food apparently lacking variety, which it doesn’t. Also, you’re Jain.” I recall Priti mentioning it once. “Aren’t Jains strict vegetarians?”
“Oh yes,” Priti says, brandishing her sambhar spoon at him. “He’s been lying to his parents for years now.”
I tut. “Not exactly a model son, then.” I spoon rajma chawal into my mouth. It’s steaming hot, spicy, and delicious. “You’ll just eat anything that walks, swims, or crawls, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Rudra says, looking directly at me. “And I’m damn good at it too.”
My mouth goes dry. The rajma chawal gets stuck in my throat, and I have to swallow thickly to get it to go down.
Did Rudra Desai just make aspecificallybisexual dirty joke and look directly at me while saying it?
Priti grimaces, flinging a bit of dosa at him, “Ugh, shut up, you dirty bastard!”
Okay, I guess I’m not making things up. Rudradidmake a dirty joke. While looking at me.
That is the single hottest thing anyone has ever done in my presence.
I cough as the rajma chawal finally goes down, beating my chest with my fist and gulping down some water, anything to look away from him.
Luckily, his phone rings, and he picks it up, raising a finger to excuse himself. As he walks away, Priti pins her stare on me. “Are you blushing?”
