He heard Dimple’s sharp intake of breath and looked to see her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. His heart sang.
“No, not . . . I meant, well, Hari’s name is . . . but you . . . ,” Isabelle began, but clearly her upper-class manners made it hard for her to explain what she had meant.
? ? ?
They talked about inconsequential, safe things for about fifteen minutes. The guys were pretty silent except for perfunctory replies to Isabelle’s string of inane chatter about which sorority she wanted to join. She wanted everyone to know how her mom would just die if Isabelle wasn’t also a part of the Alpha Omega Toe Jam legacy like her grandmas on both sides.
Eventually, thankfully, conversation looped to Insomnia Con.
“Hari and I think we’re going to win it, don’t we?” Isabelle smiled and leaned toward him, and he rubbed her shoulder, his face slack as he stared down the front of her dress.
Rishi raised his brows and turned to Dimple. “I don’t know; I think we have a good shot. Your idea is really good. Innovative, just ambitious enough . . . I think we’re going to kill it.”
Evan looked up, his eyes showing the merest interest. “And what’s your idea?”
Rishi looked at him, forcing himself to feign a bit of surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed Evan perched on his chair like he was king of the table, the restaurant, and the world. “Oh. Well, I don’t want to give it away. You know, ‘inspire’ you guys inadvertently.” He laughed uproariously and watched in glee as Evan and Hari turned red. “It’s just that good.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, bro,” Hari said, glancing at Evan. “Our ideas are popping. Too bad we have to share them with a couple of girls. Can’t believe they split us up even after my dad made that donation.”
Evan, at least, had the decency to look slightly discomfited while Isabelle whined, plaintively and squeakily. “Heyyy. We’re just as good as you guys.” She stuck her tongue out prettily, but there was a stiffness about her that belied a deep discomfort. She looked so much like someone playing the part of spoiled rich girl that Rishi wondered if she practiced it in the mirror to fit in better.
Beside him, Dimple sat up straighter. “If anything, having girls on your team will just make your idea better.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose, like she did when she was feeling especially fired up about something, Rishi had noticed. “Research shows that women are better coders—”
Hari yawned, loudly and long, cutting her off. Dimple’s cheeks felt like they were on fire; she fell silent.
Rishi turned to him. “Well. I guess that just goes to show you. All of Papa’s money can’t buy good manners.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw Dimple’s jaw just about come unhinged. Isabelle went strangely still, and Evan looked up slowly from his menu. Hari leaned forward toward Rishi, his tawny cheeks a healthy fuchsia. “What. Did. You. Say. To. Me?”
Rishi smiled congenially. “Oh, you heard me. If you have to be nasty to prove you’re better than others, then . . . well. Let’s just say breeding isn’t everything.”
Hari’s hand clenched into a fist on the table, and Evan put a hand on his forearm. “Chill, bro. Don’t let him get under your skin.”
A taut tension stretched over the table. Dimple sat, rigid in her seat, refusing to look at anyone, gazing into the middle distance. Rishi felt a beat of guilt. He hadn’t listened to her. She’d wanted to make this a reconciliatory thing, and he’d been the exact opposite of reconciliatory, whatever that was.
“I’m sorry I’m late! Once Abuelita begins talking, she doesn’t stop. And then she foisted all of this food on me; I don’t even know where I’m going to store it. . . .”
They all turned at the husky voice. It was Celia. She had two bags of stuff with her, including her purse, and her purple just for show glasses were pushed up, holding her curls back. She paused, looking at all of them in turn. “What’d I miss?”
Dimple wanted to die.
She couldn’t believe Rishi. What was he thinking? Hadn’t she specifically told him not to interfere? He was supposed to just hang out, not basically challenge Hari to a duel. Her fist itched with the urge to punch something, and his ribs were so close. . . .
If she didn’t feel like it’d make it worse (ha, as if that were even possible), she’d leave right then. Just tell Celia she felt sick and take off. But instead she forced herself to smile a little. “Nothing. You didn’t miss anything. So what movie did she rope you into watching?”
Celia handed her bags to the solicitous waiter in a bow tie and sat down, sighing mightily. As she launched into the trials and tribulations of watching Little Women with her seventy-two-year-old Dominican grandmother, Dimple allowed herself to tune out.
She glanced at Hari, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. He was on his phone, texting someone furiously. Isabelle was enraptured with Celia’s story, which was interesting. Maybe she really did like her. Evan was smiling politely, but Dimple could tell by the way he kept glancing at his cell phone screen that he wasn’t totally into the story. If she had to guess, they were probably here just as a favor to Isabelle.
Finally, she stole a look at Rishi—and felt her cheeks heat when she saw he was looking at her, too. Then she sat up straighter, remembering she was mad at him for what he’d said to Hari. She tried to show her fury through her eyes, but he just smiled at her. She shook her head at him, and he raised his eyebrows, like, What? But she saw the tips of his ears turning pink. Oh, he knew what he’d done.
The waiter, somehow intuiting the pause in Celia’s story, melted back into view. “Are we ready to order?” he asked, smiling around at them. Dimple would say one thing for these ridiculously expensive places: The service was impeccable. She couldn’t imagine this ever happening at Bombay Bistro, a tiny Indian buffet place that was her family’s idea of a fancy dinner out.
Once they’d all ordered (Dimple was the only one who’d ordered a cup of tomato basil soup, in spite of Rishi pressing her to order something more filling. What part of “I can’t afford this place” didn’t he understand, anyway? Dumb rich people.), conversation inevitably turned to where everybody “summered” when they weren’t doing peasantlike things like Insomnia Con. Isabelle swore by Boca Raton, where her family had a home, but Evan liked Prague, and Hari said the girls in Bermuda couldn’t be beat (eww).
Rishi glanced at her, and Dimple stiffened. There was something in his eyes . . . she could tell whatever he was going to come up with she wasn’t going to like. Before she could open her mouth to stop him, he was off, like some unstoppable rocket. “So, tell me, Hari, which part of India are your parents from?”
Hari looked up slowly to glare at Rishi, but Dimple saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He was uncomfortable. “My parents are from San Mateo.”