When Dimple Met Rishi
Page 31

He’d gotten into the habit just months ago, having seen some special on TV . Rishi first tried it with one of Ma’s Bollywood magazines and found it weirdly compelling, not even minding that his fingers were constantly covered in paper cuts. Now he made roses and mums and lilies, the repetitive, familiar motion soothing.
He was on his third rose when he heard someone clear their throat. Startled, Rishi looked up at a small girl with wild hair. She sat on a high-backed armchair he hadn’t noticed in the corner of the room. A copy of A Wrinkle in Time was facedown in her lap, and her feet, sticking out from underneath her bright blue lehenga , didn’t touch the floor. She was staring at him through glasses that were too big for her narrow face. “Why are you ripping up those magazines? They’re not yours.” Her voice was high-pitched. It reminded him of Tinker Bell, a cartoon Ashish loved to watch, though he didn’t like to be teased about it. Rishi had learned that the hard way. He still had the bruise on his shin.
Rishi sat back, letting the rose fall from his fingers, and studied the tiny girl. She must be around his age, he decided, in spite of her unimpressive size. “You’re not a tattletale , are you?” he asked, in a way that implied (a) there was little he could think of that was worse than being one, and (b) she definitely looked like one.
“No,” the girl said immediately, almost before he was done speaking, pushing those oversize glasses up on her nose. “I was just asking.”
Rishi looked at her for another long moment, appraising. Then he said, “I’m bored.” And went back to rolling the paper for his next flower. “Why are you in here reading?”
The girl studied him for a minute before replying. “I’m bored too.”
Rishi nodded, but kept his eyes on his lily.
After a pause, the girl hopped off her chair and came up to the table, sidling into the chair across from him. Rishi watched her through his peripheral vision. She set her book carefully down, dog-earing a corner of her page with love. When that was done, she picked up a chrysanthemum and studied it closely, turning it this way and that. “I like it,” she pronounced finally, setting it back down and looking up at him. “How do you know how to do that?”
Rishi shrugged nonchalantly. “Picked it up.”
She nodded, curls bobbing. “Cool. Maybe you could teach me.”
“Nah, it’d take too long,” Rishi said. “Besides, your hands are too small.” Rishi wasn’t entirely sure this was true, but it wasn’t like the girl would know any better.
“Hey, that’s not—”
“Diiiiimple!”
The girl froze, looking toward the door. “That’s Mamma. I have to go.” She grabbed her book and began to slide off her chair, but right before she was completely out of reach, Rishi grabbed her wrist. She looked at him, confused.
He pressed the chrysanthemum into her small, sweaty hand. “Keep it,” he said, his gaze boring into hers like he’d seen Shah Rukh Khan do to a dozen different actresses in a dozen different Bollywood movies. “Remember me.” He paused. “And don’t tattle.”
The girl glanced down at the flower, and then up at him again. She nodded solemnly, like she understood the gravity of this moment. She wouldn’t tattle. Then, closing her fingers around the flower, she slipped out of the conference room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
CHAPTER 28
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?”