“I don’t even know what I’d do,” she says. “In high school, I thought I’d join NYU’s creative writing program and then write and teach and travel and help other girls do the same.” She doesn’t know what made her think of that. Maybe it’s being around all these creative people.
“So why didn’t you?” he asks.
“I didn’t get in.” She lowers her voice and remembers the letter informing her she had been wait-listed. The official rejection came two weeks later in a sad, thin envelope. The type of envelope that only ever carries bad news. Her parents and Kunal were right. Some things were better left as hobbies.
“But I’ve been thinking about it lately,” she says. “What it would be like to get away for a bit.”
“You should.”
“How?”
“Don’t you have time between graduation and starting work? Hell, I don’t even have the time, but I’m thinking of getting away, too. But then again, I can’t stay in one place for too long,” he says, and she wonders what it would be like to pick up whenever she pleased, be free of any anchors. Maybe the world is made up of two types of people: the Neils and the ones whose destinies are dictated by mob mentality.
“On a more profound note,” Neil says, “I tipped a busker today because of you.”
“You did? No way.”
“Yeah . . . a guy playing the saxophone at the Forty-Second Street Times Square stop. I put a dollar in his ripped case. You know, I always wonder how those guys learned how to play.”
“Yeah, I wonder that, too. I like to pretend that they’re all on the verge of making it big. What made you tip this guy?”
“Thought of you,” he says, his hazel eyes focusing on hers. “I remembered in that one text, you told me you always tip buskers. You’re probably getting scammed every day, but still. Most people would keep walking past them. At least, most people in New York would.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” she says. Her cheeks hurt from smiling too much. She made Neil Desai do something different in his day?
“Who are your other New Yorker soft spots? Besides the musically inclined performers?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Hm, let’s see. Cab and Uber drivers. Waiters. The men who own street carts and fruit stands. All of the Indian people I see who are the same age as my parents and are busting their butts at tough jobs so their families can have a better life.”
She loves that conversations with Neil are a pure unspooling of thoughts.
“Yeah, I see so many people and wonder, what’s this person’s story?” Neil says. “Where is he going? Where does her family live?”
She nods. “Same here. I wonder that all the time.”
He grins, putting his arm around her. “I’m glad you came out.”
“Me too.” She lets herself lean into him and almost pretends he’s her boyfriend, that they spend their mornings writing and their nights having a great time with great people.
Simran’s face becomes warmer as the pull from earlier rushes back. And then, she leans forward and kisses the man who isn’t her fiancé on his cheek.
He looks at her.
Music thumps around them, and the entire room is bathed in darkness. Each second is satiated, choking with possibility, and she realizes that there are two contradictory women residing in her who can have two contradictory desires.
She tells herself to stop, to leave. She’s already breaking so many rules. She could end this now.
You’re engaged! a voice inside of her head screams.
But then another one emerges. You want to know what this feels like. You need to.
Something inside of her anchors her to the couch. Being closer to Neil makes her feel safe and on edge at the same time. Is this what breaking rules feels like? Is this what she’s been missing?
She shifts toward him. Their lips meet.
Everything else becomes blurry.
There’s only Neil’s woodsy scent and Simran’s fingers sliding through his hair, his hand gripping her forearms, his lips against her earlobes. Nobody’s ever touched her this way. A mixture of freedom and excitement churn inside her. What the fuck is wrong with her? Kissing someone other than her fiancé should twist her stomach with guilt, make her realize that nobody could ever compare to Kunal, the only other guy she’s ever kissed.
But none of those sentiments come. Instead, she feels another electric rush of adrenaline. And that scares the shit out of her.
Neil’s lips are softer than Kunal’s; his tongue, more aggressive. He’s different in every way but feels right. With each second an entire life unfolds before her, one with passion and drive and encouragement and motion.
“I can’t,” she says, pulling away from him. Her lips are tingling the way they do after she eats too many jalapeños.
“God, you’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Her fingers graze his palms. “No, I’m sorry. I really am.”
Before Neil can say anything else, she stands up and runs through the thinning crowd, not stopping until she steps into a cab.
Nandini
Nandini stands as Meghna approaches her. Meghna scans her from head to toe, not even bothering to be subtle. Her small, round eyes seem to say, You are so American.
Nandini motions to the chair across from her. “Please, Meghna Ben, have a seat.”
Meghna sits down without cracking a smile.
She takes note of Meghna Patel’s salwar kameez, low bun, and disapproving eyes. She should have picked a different place to meet her daughter’s future mother-in-law. Why did she ever think that a woman like Meghna would enjoy bruschetta and Pinot Noir?
But it was too late. They’re both here. Plus, the Indian restaurants in Edison would take too long to get to (and likely require a shared car ride).
Nandini opens the black leather menu and pretends to study the appetizers.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Meghna says before she gazes around the restaurant and focuses on a table of middle-aged women, all tanned, toned, and wearing tennis whites.
After Nandini has ordered them both spinach salads and a mushroom risotto, she takes a sip of water and clears her throat. “So, how are things?”
Meghna keeps her face straight. “Fine. Just fine.”
“That’s good,” Nandini says.
Meghna also had an arranged marriage, immigrated to the United States, and spent years adjusting to life in New Jersey. Nandini thinks of how Meghna doesn’t believe in nannies, prefers her husband managing all of their family’s finances, and looks forward to cooking a new meal every evening.