I nod. “Me too.”
“It’s like I mentioned at the fair,” he says. “I owed Meera a real apology. But that’s all.”
“Right,” I say. “I reacted badly, returned to my bad habits with you, and I’m sorry.”
He’s so quiet for so long that I’m sure he can hear how loud my heart’s beating. “Touchy and hostile,” he says finally. “As usual.”
Something like hope flares in my chest at the quiet, almost fond reference. I try not to get ahead of myself. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll work on that.” I lick my lips and say it before I lose the nerve. “Because I really want this.” I gesture between us, feeling exceedingly hot and awkward, but I force myself to go on. “I know we’re not without complications, in fact it’s more like complications-overload, but still.” I take a beat. “I want this.” When he doesn’t reply right away, I ask, “Are you going to say something?”
A surprised, sweet smile pushes at his mouth. He steps forward, and my knees feel gooey. “I like your outfit,” he says.
It’s the compliment from the terrace all those weeks ago. A laugh escapes. “What about my pedicure?” I’m wearing open-toed heels, so I reach my leg out to display that I’ve swapped colors from fuchsia to white.
He nods seriously. “Much preferred,” he says. “Though I miss the bandage.” We lock eyes. His are dark and magnetic; I have toremind myself our families are all around to keep from drawing closer. He voices the dilemma. “Rani,” he says, voice stuck in his throat. “You can’t look at me like that in front of mymom.”
I laugh again, and then before I can overthink it, I’m grabbing his arm and pulling him off to the side. We hurry down a more secluded path of the gardens, and the second we’re properly out of sight, his hands find my waist, my arms go up around his neck. His eyes, mirthful and soft, drop to my lips. I kiss him, and he smiles against my mouth.
“I have a question,” he says after a few minutes, breaking the kiss but without moving away.
“Shoot,” I say, still flushed against his chest.
His words are slow, considered. “This is your parents’ twentieth anniversary,” he says. “And you’re—”
Horror rises in my throat. “Don’t say it,” I groan.
“Nineteen,” he finishes. His voice fills with laughter. “You’re a honeymoon baby.”
I swat him. “It’s like you want me to throw up on you.”
He laughs and pulls me back in so our noses are touching. I love looking at him up close like this. I sigh and run a hand through his hair, his curls soft in my fingers. “I can’t believe you ever shaved this off,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Never should have told you that.”
“Promise to run all future hair decisions by me,” I say, and he nods with solemnity. I kiss him again, warmth glowing in my chest.
“Do you wanna leave?” I ask into his mouth.
He blinks, surprised by the suggestion but not refusing. “It’s your family’s event,” he says.
I lift a shoulder. “I think I’ve earned the right to play hooky,” I say. “Just this once.”
His lips push up. “Okay,” he says. “Where should we go?”
“My place?” The suggestion is out before I clock the insinuation.
He laughs. “Childhood fantasy for you, huh?”
I gasp. “Childhood fantasy foryou,” I correct, and he shrugs, not disputing. “We could also do Wanda’s,” I suggest as an evergreen alternative.
“Whatever you want,” Kush says.
I beam. “Perfect,” I say. “Should I drive?”
Epilogue
One Year Later
We mark the most important day in the Deshpande social calendar with the usual fanfare. Ajoba’s eighty-first birthday calls for our typical festivities of food, song, and dance at Taj Mahal Express. With an important difference: I have been formally released from the bulk of event planning duties. Aai customized the digital invites herself, and Baba organized on the logistics end, coordinating with caterers and guests in the days leading up. I haven’t been able to resistsomeinvolvement—the decorations, for example, demand my personal touch—but I appreciate having the choice to opt in.
