This, breaking up, was inevitable. He was just being honest with her when she asked. He’d never intentionally misled her into thinking something obviously false. The Samir Jhas and Pinky Kumars of the world weren’t meant to be together. That was a logical, incontrovertible fact.
So… why did he feel sick to his stomach? He was experiencing none of the satisfaction that he usually got from making a rational, mature decision. Instead, he felt like he was making the biggest, most moronic mistake of his life. Every fiber of his being was drenched in regret and remorse.
The truth was, what he wanted most in that moment was to get up and rush to her room, to take her into his arms, to kiss her until her head spun, until she realized exactly how much she meant to him. To take back everything he’d said, to apologize, to tell her he wanted to be with her anyway, logic and good sense be damned. He closed his eyes, feeling like someone with an iron fist had just punched him in the stomach. He bent over, his body, his soul, crying out for hers. He wanted to soothe her, to undo the hurt he’d done, but where was the sense in that? Why did his brain know one thing but his heart insist on another?
Moving to put his head in his hands, Samir caught sight of the loose planner pages Pinky had found in his nightstand. On impulse, he strode across the room to his messenger bag, which was hanging neatly from a hook in his closet, and withdrew his planner. Opening it up, he began scanning the weekly calendar going back to the beginning of the year. Pages and pages of notes in his neat, blocky handwriting that soothed him just to see. Each part of his day planned out, so he could see everything coming. Breakfast. Tennis. Schoolwork. Listening to music. Basketball with Ashish. Shopping. Cooking with his mom. It was all scheduled in there, nothing at all left to chance. This was his life the way he liked it, here in black and white, predictable, manageable, controllable. No surprises.
And yet… Samir paced to the table in his room and set the planner down, pausing to look out the window at the dark, subdued lake. A silver moon glimmered on its surface, watchful and quiet. And yet… the best thing in his life so far, the most inspiring, amazing, scintillating thing—falling for Pinky—had happened unplanned. She’d texted him out of the blue, and he’d accepted her offer to be her fake boyfriend on impulse. There was nothing in his planner about that. One of the biggest disappointments of his life—losing that internship in DC—had also happened unplanned. He’d done everything he was supposed to; he’d been diligent and watchful, and the rug had still been pulled out from under him. So what did that say about life?
“Life’s what happens when you’re busy scribbling in your planner,” he said into his empty room, then wanted to laugh because he sounded like one of those inspirational quote posters you might find at the gym.
What if he’d been living some thin facsimile of life until Pinky had come along and thrown it all into turmoil? What if her chaotic energy wasn’t what would throw his life off course—what if it was her chaotic energy that had given his life a course? He’d done things here he never would have dreamed of doing if he hadn’t answered her text: He’d pretended to be a fake boyfriend to land an internship; he’d kissed a girl who’d scared him at first; he’d then fallen for said girl; he’d made friends with the Shark—and a strange opossum; he’d climbed rooftops and treetops when he much preferred standing on solid ground.
Samir turned and walked to the bed, where she’d left the stupid list he’d made. He snatched it up, fully intending to tear it into pieces, to feel the paper disintegrate between his fingers. Instead, he found himself reading the list, top to bottom, over and over again.
He’d written this. He’d written all these hateful, mean words because back then he hadn’t understood Pinky at all. He hadn’t seen the fragile, beautiful light she carried inside herself, like an entire universe of stars and suns and moons held in one person’s body. He hadn’t realized that her veins, her arteries, were just a road map to lead him to her. He hadn’t realized that everything she did, he’d begin to treasure. He hadn’t realized that, for the first time in his life, he would know what all those poems and novels and songs were about. He hadn’t known, couldn’t know, back then that when Pinky Kumar had invited him to be her fake boyfriend for the summer, what she’d really done was create a perfect storm for him to fall in love with her.
He was in love with her.
Samir stared down at his own handwriting, the words he’d scrawled going blurry as his eyes filled with tears.
“I love you,” he whispered into the empty room. “I love you, Pinky.”
But it was too late. She was gone.
Pinky
Pinky wiped her eyes and watched the sun come up. It had been a restless night, and her entire body felt soggy with the tears she’d spilled. But today was the day of the protest. She had a responsibility to those she’d promised to support. Pinky had to be there, breakup or no breakup. Mom’s disapproval or not.
She was washing her face when someone tapped at her door.
She opened it to find Samir on the other side, one hand up on her doorjamb. He was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, and there were dark bags under his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking like someone who was being torn apart on the inside. “I’m so sorry. Please, Pinky, talk to me about this.”
She forced herself to keep her face neutral, even though she wanted to slap him and kiss him at the same time. “There’s nothing to talk about, Samir.”
“Yes, yes, there is.” He tried to take her hand, and she jerked it away. “I’ve been a total fool. I just realized—I realized we’re perfect for each other. Well, maybe not ‘perfect’ if we tabulated the pros and cons, but—but we belong together. And I know—I know I can’t take back the words I wrote, or said, but I can’t just let you go like this. This can’t be it. Look, why don’t you make a list about me? It’ll make you feel better.”
She stepped back, out of his reach. “I’m not going to make a list about you.”
“You should,” he said, his eyes earnest. “You should. I know there are things about me that drive you crazy. So just lay them on me. Come on.”
Pinky turned and strode into her room, and he followed. “Samir, this is stupid. Okay? I’m not going to just make a list—”
“You know you want to. Come on. Just say whatever you’re thinking. I made a list about you. It’s only fair that you make one about me, too.”
“Fine.” She turned around, her temper flaring as she heard the words “I made a list about you.” He had. He had, and it was bullshit. “Numbers one through ten on my list: You’re a boring coward.” His eyes blazed with pain, but she kept going. “You say it’s because it was a survival skill and you had no choice but to become who you are, but I have to wonder. I mean, no almost-eighteen-year-old boy wants to have his entire life planned out, second by second, minute by minute, day by day. So you can deny it all you want, but all of this planning, all of this organizing, has nothing to do with surviving anymore. It has to do with you being afraid to just live life.” She spat the words at him, not censoring herself, inciting herself to be as cruel, as mean as possible because she wanted him to feel one-tenth of the hurt she’d felt last night. If Samir Jha had thought of her as a plaything, a way to pass the time this summer, she could play at that game too. “And so I guess I should thank you,” she continued, not paying any attention to the way his face had gone pale, a muscle in his jaw jumping as each word she hurled hit him head-on. “I’m glad we’re not going out together anymore. Fake dating, real dating—I’m done with all of it. Because I’m sick of being with a tedious, gutless drudge like you.”