On the cold stone bench, Rishi exhaled. “That was you?” he asked, staring at Dimple. His brain delighted at the impossibility of this, at the sheer coincidence that that tiny, serious girl in the blue lehenga now sat opposite him, looking at his sketch pad.
Dimple laughed, shaking her head. “I know. Crazy.” Shrugging, she added, “I mean, not crazy crazy. We do both live pretty close to each other, and our parents are part of the Indian community in NorCal, which isn’t that huge. . . .”
“No.” Rishi rubbed the back of his neck. “Still crazy.” Softly, he said, “Kismet.”
She looked at him, big eyes luminous and almost black in the light from the phone. “Kismet.” And then Dimple Shah put her hands behind his head and pulled him in for a kiss.
? ? ?
In retrospect, Dimple wasn’t quite sure how it happened, exactly. One minute they were talking about the crazy coincidence of having met about eight years ago at some random wedding. And the next she was attached to Rishi’s face.
Her heart pounded in her chest; it echoed around the world. Her blood was fire, flames licking at her skin—
Oh God. He wasn’t kissing her back.
Why wasn’t he kissing her back?
Rishi sat rigid as a statue while her mouth moved against his. The minute Dimple realized this, she pulled back. Cheeks flaming, she forced herself to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . um, I don’t know what happened there. Exactly.”
Rishi cleared his throat, his eyes slightly glazed. Dimple turned away, back to his sketch pad, although she wasn’t seeing a single sketch anymore. “I’m sorry too,” he said, and her heart sank, dripping in a sad, cold puddle to her feet. “I’m sorry you stopped.”
She turned, hope quickening her pulse. “What—”
And then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, one hand moving up to cup her cheek, thumb just under her jaw while his fingers tangled in her hair. Rishi kissed her with purpose, with meaning, like he believed this was exactly where they were supposed to be in this moment. He kissed her till she believed it too.
Some moments in life were intensely disappointing. You waited and waited and waited and then . . . Summer vacation turned out to be boring. Your big trip to NYC was awful because people were rude and it rained the entire time. The movie you’d been waiting to watch for months sucked when it finally came to theaters.
This moment was nothing like that. This moment was like Diwali and Rishi’s birthday and a new Leo Tilden YouTube video all rolled into one. No, scratch that. It was way better than all of those things combined. Rishi was fairly sure he lacked the lexicon to put into words what was happening in his brain—and his body—right then.
Rishi felt clearheaded, bright, delighted, amazed. Dimple’s mouth was soft and small and full against his, her body was warm as it pressed into him, and the smell of her skin and hair flooded him like a thousand stadium lights. He was kissing her. He, Rishi Patel, was kissing her, Dimple Shah. And she’d initiated the kiss. How the heck had this happened? How the heck could one guy get so lucky?
When they finally pulled apart, Rishi’s mouth tingling still, Dimple smiled shyly and looked down at their hands, entwined between them on the bench. “So,” she said softly. “That was unexpected.”
He leaned over and kissed her forehead, like it was the most natural thing to do. Was this going to be their thing now, casual kissing? He hoped so. “Unexpected but awesome.” Rishi paused. “Right?”
She laughed and looked up at him. “Definitely.”
He grinned, his heart soaked in happy.
Her smile fading a little, Dimple looked down at his sketch pad, still in her lap. “Rishi . . .” She took a breath, apparently steadying herself for whatever she wanted to say next. Rishi felt that familiar guard come back up around his heart, like some electric fence. “You should show these to Leo Tilden. Really. These are . . . they’re just amazing. We can go show them to him right now.”
He saw in her eyes that she truly believed it, that she felt he had this great gift to offer the world and how it’d be a tragedy if he didn’t, and a surge of affection threatened to flatten him. He tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I think it’s probably too late.”
Dimple shook her head, the set of her jaw stubborn. “We can find out from Kevin what hotel they’ve put him up at. There has to be some way to—”
Rishi ran a gentle thumb over her bottom lip. “Can we just sit here instead? Can I look at you?”
Silently, she nodded. Rishi studied everything there was to study in her face—every curve and line and shade of color. Then he reached over and took his sketch pad from her lap.
“What are you doing?”
Flipping it open, he grabbed a pencil from his bag and began to draw. “Oh, you’ll see, my friend,” he said. When Dimple tried to peek, he turned, shielding the page from her view.
She laughed. “So it’s like that?”
Rishi grinned but didn’t respond. In another minute he’d finished the sketch. He ripped out the paper, folded it, and passed it and the pencil over to her. It was silly, but his heart beat faster. This moment felt more serious than it had any right to feel.
? ? ?
Dimple opened the paper. It was an amazing sketch, which, if she hadn’t seen Rishi do in about a minute, she would have believed had taken a lot longer. It showed a boy, hair flopping in his eyes and bulging muscles ripping his shirt sleeves—Dimple snorted—handing a fierce-looking girl a paper flower. He’d captured her so perfectly in just a few strokes—her oversize square glasses, her wild hair, the furrow in her brow. Underneath the sketch, he’d written:
Will you go on a date with me?
Yes
No
Dimple took a deep breath as an uneasy pulse beat within her. He was trying to make it official, and she wasn’t sure she wanted official. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, really.
Underneath the “no,” she wrote in:
Other
And handed it back to Rishi.
He studied the paper, and she could see the slight disappointment tint his features. But when he looked back at her, he had rearranged his expression to reflect just curiosity. “Care to explain?”
Dimple reached over and turned off the flashlight app on her phone. Somehow it was easier to say things under cover of darkness. The foggy night worked as a salve, taking the sting out of words. “Rishi, I can’t be your girlfriend.”
A beat of silence. “Why not?” He said it softly, not as a judgment but simply in an effort to understand.
Dimple’s heart hurt. “It’s not why I’m here,” she forced herself to say firmly. She refused to be one of those girls who gave up on everything they’d been planning simply because a boy entered the picture. “You know I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
“Even if the relationship feels right?”