“?‘Underneath Mrs. Murry’s chair Fortinbras let out a contented sigh.’?” Dimple closed the book and sat back to look at Rishi, smiling slightly. It was crazy how words—just black squiggles on a page—could bring memories rushing back. She remembered lying in bed under the covers, long after she was supposed to be asleep, her flashlight shining on these same pages. “I love this book,” she said, stroking the cloth cover that was so much fancier than the $2 paperback she’d had. “I still remember feeling so . . . so cozy, thinking of the giant Murry family. How they all loved each other, how they looked out for each other no matter what. It used to make me wish my parents had popped out a few more.”
Rishi leaned in, eyes wide. “Okay, but what happened to the dad? Does he ever come back?”
Dimple snorted and reached for the last bite of her salmon slider. Rishi had pretty much inhaled his French onion soup while she read. “I can’t believe you’ve never read A Wrinkle in Time. It’s a classic.”
“I guess I was too busy reading comics. But seriously, does he ever come back?”
Dimple pushed the copy of her book forward. “Tell you what. You read that, and I’ll read your comics.” She paused, frowning. “Oh, wait. We can’t take these out of the store, can we?”
The tips of Rishi’s ears went pink. He dropped his gaze to where his thumb was tracing patterns in the woodwork of the table. “Ah, not usually. But these are, um, my books. I ordered them and had the waiter put them here for us. So we can.”
Dimple’s heart fluttered. Rishi had made a real effort for their non-date. He’d scoped out a place he knew she’d love—and she did; if she could live here under one of the tables forever, she’d be perfectly content to do just that. He’d bought books that meant something to her and to him. She knew she should discourage him. She also knew she didn’t want to. If this was how Rishi Patel showed his interest in her, if this was him wooing her, she wanted more. More, more, more.
Dimple took a sip of her virgin cosmo and set it down, forced herself to meet his eye. “Rishi . . .”
He looked up, every muscle taut. “Yeah?”
“I, um, just wanted to say . . .” God, why couldn’t the legal drinking age be eighteen in the US? European teens didn’t know how good they had it. Then again, you had to be twenty-five to drink in Mumbai, so maybe they didn’t have it that bad. Why the heck was she thinking of drinking laws now? Dimple forced herself to refocus. “I . . .” She swallowed. “I’m making headway on the coding. I got past that snag we were talking about yesterday.” Ugh, coward.
His face fell, and her heart followed. “Oh yeah.” He forced a smile like watery chai. “Good.”
Willie the waiter came over then, that eager, toothy smile still plastered on his face. “Hi! How was everything, guys?”
“Great.” Dimple smiled at him. “We’re ready for the check.”
“Okeydokey!” He slipped the leather check holder from his pocket, and Rishi reached for it.
“We can split it,” Dimple said immediately.
But he just shook his head, put in a few bills, and said to the waiter, “Keep the change.”
“Are you ready to go?” He was smiling, but it was that same watery chai smile. He’d lost his luster. He’d lost his luster because of her.
Dimple’s chest felt tight. She should say something to put this right. To tell him how much she appreciated what he’d done. For once she should just lay out her feelings. She opened her mouth—and then closed it again. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
? ? ?
They walked outside, the air heavy and pulsing with all the things left unsaid.
This is your chance, Dimple. Say something. Tell him you’re having fun, at least. But she found she couldn’t overcome the silence.
At the Beemer, Rishi opened her door, like before, and Dimple slid in. Rishi hopped in his side. The air felt different from the first time they’d gotten in . . . emptier, stiffer. Colder.
Rishi glanced at her. “I thought we might go watch a movie or something, but if you want to go back to the dorms, that’s totally fine.”
Dimple began to say that the movies sounded fine, but the thought of this continuing silence, this hurt/awkward mixture of pauses and emptiness, was too much. She took a breath. And another. “Actually,” she said, “if you’re up for it, there’s somewhere else I’d like to go. It’s about fifteen minutes away. Bernal Heights?”
Rishi raised his eyebrows. She saw the hope there, and it made her happy. “What’s in Bernal Heights?”
“Oh, you’ll see, my friend,” she said lightly, even though her heart was hammering in her chest.
He smiled and started the car, pulling into the street. “Okay.”
Dimple’s mouth was dry. She’d never, ever done something like this before. To give herself something to do, she glanced sideways at Rishi and said, “You forgot the book.” She set A Wrinkle in Time in the center console. “You’re not going to look it up on the Internet and read the CliffsNotes, are you?”
He laughed. “No, I’m really looking forward to reading this. I have a theory: Charles Wallace is a killer robot.”
Dimple stared at him. “A . . . killer robot.”
“What? You said it’s sci-fi, right?”
Dimple groaned. “Hai Ram, not every sci-fi has to have a killer robot in it, Rishi Patel. Just read it.”
“I don’t see the point if there aren’t any killer robots, but okay,” Rishi said, and Dimple thought, I love the way your eyes twinkle when you’re messing around.
About fifteen minutes later, Rishi pulled over. “This is it, Bernal Heights.” Across the street, an old homeless man was yelling at thin air in a flat Boston accent. Rishi wondered what his story was; how someone from Boston ended up there, a fifty-something-year-old street person. His story would probably make an interesting comic. Everything’s not a story, Rishi, Pappa would say. Your head is in the clouds again.
Rishi got out of the car and held Dimple’s door open. Her face shone, pink-and-gold-tinged in the setting sun. She looked . . . excited. Rishi tried not to get his hopes up.
He’d obviously read this whole thing wrong. He’d thought the kiss meant that Dimple was conflicted; that maybe he could win her over even though she’d said this was a non-date. That obviously hadn’t worked to his advantage. She’d been aloof on and off through dinner, and he was fairly sure she saw his gifts as over the line. Ugh. Rishi still felt the echo of the sting of rejection, even though she hadn’t said anything outright. Well, he wasn’t going to give her the chance. From now on he’d be friendly and nothing more. That was his new motto: Friend. Amigo. Dost.