“Anyway, this isn’t about me,” I say.
“No, it’s about Ryan, and your crush on him,” Mar teases.
“Can you stop? You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“More like I’m embarrassing you.”
I glare at her. “You should never drink.”
“Excuse me!” She stops a passing server. “Can we get another round, please? This evening is getting interesting.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Okay. Yes, sure, he’s cute. But we’reprofessionalsand there are boundaries and it’s not right for us to shit where we eat, so to speak.”
“First of all, gross analogy. Second, nobody’s shitting anywhere,” Maral says. “Commenting on someone’s looks—positively, no less—is a far cry from ripping his clothes off.”
I try not to let my brain conjure the image of ripping Ryan’sclothes off…and fail. I push my pint glass away. I need toreducedopamine production, and drinking isn’t helping.
“And I’d have thought,” she continues, “that for someone who compartmentalizes her sex life like a bento box, it would be no big deal for you to do that.”
“Well, maybe itisa big deal.”
Maral’s face exposes her surprise—and delight—like a showcase. I suddenly realize the error of my words, which could be construed as being more significant than they are.
“I mean,” I clarify, “that it would be wrong to cross that professional line. With him.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Shanthi says. “A couple beers won’t make himjeopardize his career.”
It’s like the universe is taunting me, because just then the server delivers our next round. I order a glass of water.
Ryan returns then, seeming unsurprised to see a third beer sitting next to his half-drunk second one. “Sorry about that,” he says.
Maral nods knowingly. “Girlfriend?”
I could kick her. I settle for a glower that could melt her skin off instead.
Ryan wipes at a small puddle of condensation on the table. “No,” he says simply, and she raises her brows at me, mouthing,No girlfriend.
So what if she’s not his girlfriend? There’s clearly something going on between him and the jovial woman in his phone. Given all the heart emojis she texts him, maybe shewantsto be his girlfriend, but he’s keeping things casual. Not that I’m judging—casualis exactly the term I’d use to describe my own relationships.Relationshipsbeing a stretch as far as descriptors go. Sexual acquaintances? Fuck buddies? Is that what Ryan and Celine are? Does Ryan have a lot of those?
Where are Maral’s inappropriate questions when I need them?
I drink my water, trying not to envision his hopping sex life, ormarvel at how the bar’s moody reddish lighting accentuates his jawline, or remember the way his body felt under mine earlier in the car.
Meanwhile, Maral yawns dramatically and checks the time as though she’s in a middle-school stage production. “Damn, it’s late. We should get back and finish that Reel,” she says to Shanthi.
“Yep,” Shanthi says, rising. “Time difference is kicking my ass. Does your body just get less and less tolerant of external influences as you age?”
Maral flips her hair. “I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask our village elders here.”
Ryan nods, deadpan. “It’s all downhill.” He reaches into his pocket. “I’ll order a car—”
“No need,” Maral says quickly. “We’ll just see you in the morning.”
Noting Ryan’s caught-in-headlights expression, I pipe up. “We don’t need to stay—”
“You both still have drinks to finish,” Mar insists. “Unwind, celebrate, enjoy.”
Ryan’s eyes find mine as Maral and Shanthi bid us a hasty good night, leaving so quickly you’d think a bomb was seconds away from detonating in here.
