When Dimple Met Rishi Page 3

  Shoot. What if she called her parents to tell them what a psycho the Patel boy was, and then they called his parents? Rishi whipped out his cell phone and dialed home to warn Ma and Pappa.

  “Hello?” His mom answered, breathless, anticipatory.

  “Ma?” Hearing her voice made him feel even guiltier, more ashamed at how he’d handled the first meeting. All that hard work they must’ve put into arranging this . . .

  “Haan, beta! Did you arrive safely?”

  “I did, but—”

  “Wonderful!”

  “No, no, it’s not.” Rishi hung his head, inhaling the smell of coffee wafting off him. He sank down on the sunbaked lip of the fountain where a moment before, his future had been perched.

  A pause. “Kya hua?”

  “You might get a phone call from Dimple Shah’s parents soon. I just met her.” Rishi’s voice was a croak. “And it didn’t go well. I totally blew it.”

  He heard a scuffling sound and his mom saying something softly to someone else. Then his dad was on the phone. “Rishi?”

  Rishi squeezed his eyes shut. “Pappa, I’m sorry. Vijay uncle and Leena auntie are probably going to call you, and they’re not going to be happy.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I saw her; Dimple Shah. So I walked up to her and made a totally stupid joke about us beginning the rest of our lives together. And she . . . she threw her coffee at me and ran away.”

  A lengthy pause. “I see. And . . . did you introduce yourself before you made the joke?”

  Rishi’s eyes flew open. Dammit. Was he really that much of a moron? “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “So a perfect stranger approaches her on the street, tells her he wants them to begin the rest of their lives together. It doesn’t seem to be much of an overreaction to panic, does it?”

  Rishi’s heart lifted, just a smidge. Could it be that that was all it was—she’d needed context? Dimple hadn’t even known who he was! He smiled a little. “No, I guess not.” Then his smile fell again. “She’s not going to want to talk to me again after that.”

  His mother said something in the background, and Pappa replied, “Haan, that’s not a bad idea.” To Rishi, he said, “Do you have . . . the special gift?”

  Rishi frowned a little. “In my duffel bag in the car, yeah. But you don’t think it’s a little soon?”

  “It might be in the usual circumstances, beta, but now it’s the perfect way to show her who you are. Apologize for your mistake. She’s probably a very traditional girl, Rishi, if Vijay and Leena are any sort of indicator.”

  Rishi’s brow cleared. He could handle this. “Okay. You’re probably right.”

  “One minute. Ma se baat karo.” A scratching sound as he handed the phone to Ma.

  His mother’s voice was eager, bright. “Tell me, Rishi, what did you think of her?”

  Hmm. What had he thought of her? To be honest, he’d been too crazy nervous to really process everything he’d seen. He’d gotten out of the parking garage and was thinking about getting a bottle of water at Starbucks. And then she was just there, right in front of him, like some sort of huge cosmic coincidence personified. Sitting on that fountain, face upturned, drinking in the sunshine like a flower, looking completely beatific. Her curls had been wild, desperate for a comb. She’d been dressed in a kurta top, which he liked.

  But the way she’d looked at him—at first aghast, then hostile. And after that, totally and utterly murderous.

  Rishi was really lucky all she’d done was throw iced coffee at him. She looked like she’d be capable of much more, like breaking his nose or a brutal fishhook. “Uh . . . she seemed . . . spirited.”

  His mother’s peals of laughter traveled down the phone line. “Spirited! Good, good. Pappa would have said the same thing about me twenty-five years ago.”

  Sure, Rishi thought. But Ma’s spirit had a soft, tender underside. Dimple Shah he wasn’t so sure about. Something about the way her brown eyes spit fire behind those huge glasses . . . “Yeah. Maybe I should go, try to find her at the dorms.” The prospect made him uneasy, but the longer he waited, the worse this was going to be. Maybe once he explained himself and showed her what he’d brought, she’d be flattered. Maybe they could have a laugh about the whole thing.

  If this was San Francisco, Dimple would have to invest in some heavy-duty pepper spray. She’d barely been in the city fifteen minutes and already she’d been accosted by a predator. Maybe she and Celia could take some Krav Maga classes on the side, learn how to use their attacker’s size against them. Not that that dude had been very big. He was sort of built like Chris Messina, on the shorter side and slim, but strong-looking. She wondered what his deal was. In any case, iced coffee or not, Dimple could’ve taken him. She was no delicate flower.

  Adjusting her messenger bag, Dimple made her way to the coed dorms. She supposed she could bring her small suitcase in at some other time; she was too tired right now. (Thank you, psycho mugger, for the lack of caffeine.) She could set her stuff down, look into getting a map of the campus, and then head over to that pizza place to wait for Celia.

  • • •

  The dorm was a tiny rectangular room, just big enough for two twin beds and two desks. The inexplicable scent of wood shavings hung heavy in the air. The walls were institutional gray-brown; the carpet, ditto. On the headboard of one of the beds, some past student had inscribed, with a Sharpie and a careful hand: ipsa scientia potestas est. Dimple loved it, all of it, instantly and with an unadulterated passion.

  It was beginning. Her freedom, her independence, her period of learning—about herself, about the world, about her career. She was finally doing it. Here she wouldn’t be Dimple Shah, wayward, Americanized daughter of immigrant parents; she’d be just Dimple Shah, future web developer. People would judge her on her brain, not her lack of makeup. There would be no cliques like high school. Everyone was here of their own volition, to learn, to teach, to work together.

  She sent a quick text to Mamma and Papa:

  Got here safely! Dorm is nice. Papa, please take your medicine—and no more sweets today!!

  Then, smiling, she shut the door behind her and made her way past chattering students, here for various summer programs, down to the main lobby.

  Rishi spotted her again in the main lobby, looking at the rack of dusty campus maps. He hadn’t even checked into his room yet; he was so nervous he was going to miss her, he’d run to his car to get the gift and then run back here to find her. All the Insomnia Con students had been given rooms in the same dorm, so it wasn’t hard to figure out where she would be.

  But now, standing in the somewhat empty lobby, he wondered if she’d freak out again. She didn’t seem to be holding beverages of any kind, which was good. This time, Rishi thought, he’d be sedate. Chill. Breezy.

  Rishi smoothed his hair back, adjusted his shirt collar, and started forward.

  The maps all looked ancient, but Dimple supposed they would have to do. She grabbed one at random and turned around.

  And there he was again, mouth open, staring at the back of her head.

  “What the heck?” Before she’d even fully thought about it, Dimple had reached out and sliced him with the edge of the map.

  “Ow!” Clutching his forearm, the psycho staggered backward a few steps.

  Huh. Not much of a predator if all it took was a paper cut to deter him. “Why are you following me?” Dimple took what she hoped was a menacing step forward, map held out as a weapon.

  The boy eyed it warily, letting his arms drop. He was dressed pretty sanely for a psychotic attacker, Dimple thought, in a button-down blue shirt (sporting a wet patch still; her coffee, she guessed proudly) with the sleeves rolled up and well fitted jeans. His eyes, the color of deep caramel, were almost innocent-looking. It just showed, you could never trust appearances. “Well, I was about to explain that when you attacked me.”

  “I attacked you?” Dimple said slowly, eyebrows raised at his in
dignant tone. “Are you serious? You’ve been following me, being totally creepy—”

  He hung his head a little, the tips of his ears pink, the same way Papa’s got when he was embarrassed. “I’m sorry. ‘Creepy’ wasn’t what I was going for.”

  “Sure, buddy, whatever.” Dimple stepped carefully around him, alert for any lunging. “Just stay away from me, or I’ll call the campus police.”

  “No, wait!”

  “I mean it!” She turned again, brandishing the map.

  “Dimple, please, just let me explain. This isn’t what—”

  She lowered the map and frowned. “How do you know my name?”

  Man, she was taking a really long time to put two and two together. Weren’t Stanford students supposed to be bright?

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Rishi said patiently. “It’s me. Rishi Patel.” He waited for the light to dawn, for her to smile, smack her forehead, and say, Of course! But she just continued to frown at him, thick eyebrows knitted together. She was actually kind of scary.

  “Oh . . . kay. Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  Rishi stared at her. This was a joke. Right? Or maybe she was just incredibly embarrassed and didn’t want to admit she’d made a mistake. Maybe he should make this easier for her. “Hey, it’s okay.” He smiled. “This is all a little out there, I know.”

  She shook her head. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She looked too sincere to be messing with him. He felt the beginnings of doubt begin to creep in. “You’re Dimple Shah, right? From Fresno? The daughter of Vijay and Leena Shah?”

  Her eyes widened and she stepped back. “You know an awful lot about me.”

  Oh great. Now he was freaking her out again. He should just say it. “That’s because we . . . we’re supposed to be getting married.”

  Not this nonsense again with the marriage delusions. But, she had to admit, he seemed genuine. Sincere. Something dark and heavy began to squirm just under her diaphragm. “Wait. How do you know about me and my parents?”

  He looked totally confused. “Because our parents are childhood friends. They set this whole thing up. Your parents mailed my parents a picture of you, and vice versa.” Then his face cleared. “And . . . this is the first you’ve heard of any of this.” It wasn’t a question.

  Dimple was afraid she might be sick. If she actually had anything in her stomach, she would’ve been. The world tilted and spun, and there was a ringing in her ears. This was why Mamma and Papa had been so open about letting her go to Insomnia Con. This was what all the weird, guilty looks were about. And that damn Ritu auntie had probably been in on it too.

  “Hey, are you okay?” The boy—Rishi—came forward and put a gentle hand on her elbow, steadying her.

  Dimple wrenched her elbow away from him, heat flooding her cheeks. She really wanted to slice him with the map again, but managed to resist. “This is ridiculous. Okay? I can’t even believe—how do I know you’re not making this up, huh? Maybe this is just some sort of cheap, twisted pickup line.” Dimple couldn’t help it; all the anger and fury she should’ve been directing at Mamma and Papa was being misplaced and directed at Rishi instead.

  She saw his cheeks color, his jaw harden. But instead of lashing back at her, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, from which he extracted a small picture. It was her.

  Dimple remembered that . . . it was from last Diwali, when Mamma had insisted she go to the celebration put on by the Indian Association. She’d wanted to go to a local showing of the documentary Bridegroom instead. Hence the scowl. Now that she thought about it though, all her pictures pretty much looked like that.

  “And . . .” Rishi reached into his pocket again and pulled out a small jewelry box.

  Oh God, no. Please don’t let that be what she thought it was. He snapped it open. Nestled inside was a ring made out of gold so pure it looked almost orange.

  “My great-grandmother’s ring. My parents have kept this for me since I was born.” Rishi paused, looking down at the small, square ring. His expression was solemn, like he was holding something that could shape fortunes and mold destinies. When he looked back up at Dimple, it hit her how much this really meant to him. This wasn’t just an arranged marriage to Rishi; this was the rich fabric of history, stretched through time and space. “Believe me, I wouldn’t use this for a cheap, twisted pickup line.” He was speaking slowly, his words and tone measured, but she could tell he was angry.

  God, now she felt like a total jerk. It wasn’t his fault they were in this heinous situation. Dimple felt the anger drain out of her. She blew out a breath. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I just, I was totally caught off guard.”

  He was staring at her openmouthed.

  She frowned. “What?”

  “I just didn’t expect you to apologize. You’re so . . .”

  Dimple waited, one eyebrow raised.

  “Spirited,” Rishi finished, in a way that implied he’d considered, and then decided against, using a much less complimentary adjective. He put the ring back in his pocket, and after a moment, held out the picture to her. She took it. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “So . . . ah, this is awkward.”

  “Yeah,” Dimple began. And then she stopped. “You know what? Why is this awkward for us? The only people it should be awkward for are my parents.” She pulled out her cell phone right there in the lobby. “I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.”

  Rishi nodded slowly. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll leave you to it then.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Oh no. You stay right there. You’re their victim too.”

  Dimple dialed home and wasn’t surprised when it went to voice mail. “So. You two think you’re being clever, do you?” she said in her most biting voice, her breath coming hard and fast. “What did you think was going to happen? That I’d get here and fall into his arms?” She saw Rishi blush and hurried to add, “I’m sure he’ll make some girl very happy someday. But that girl is not me.” She jabbed righteously at her own chest. “So I hope you know you’ve ruined everything. I hope you’re ready to tell your friends—” She covered the cell phone mic and spoke to Rishi. “What are their names?”

  “Kartik and Sunita,” he whispered back.

  Dimple turned back to the phone. “—Kartik and Sunita that you’ve effectively ruined your decades-long friendship because you decided to deceive your only daughter. Good-bye.”

  She hung up, heart still racing, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Ridiculous,” she muttered, hands on her hips. Then, looking up at Rishi, she said, “So, what, do you live in San Francisco?”

  He shook his head. “I live in Atherton, with my parents and brother. I’m here for Insomnia Con, like you.”

  “Oh.” At least he wasn’t here solely for her. “So what are you going to do now?”

  Rishi shrugged. “I had planned for us to get to know each other, but obviously that’s not going to happen.” He smiled a little crookedly, and Dimple saw the strain in it. He was trying hard not to show how disappointed he really was. She felt a stab of sympathy for him and a harsher, meaner stab of anger at her parents. “I’ll probably hang out in my room for a while.” He raised his hand stiffly in good-bye and began to walk away toward the elevators.

  Something inside her sank at the sight of his retreating back. She didn’t want him to go just yet. Dimple heard herself call out, “Wait!”

  Rishi turned, eyebrows raised.

  “If you want, you could, you know, come to lunch with me and my friend Celia. If you’re hungry, that is.” She stopped short, unsure where, exactly, the invitation had come from. It was obviously just that she felt some sort of kinship with him because of what had happened, Dimple told herself quickly. They were like two trauma survivors, the victims of her parents. She was just being a decent human being. Nothing more.

  Rishi smiled again, but fully this time, unrestrained. It was like watching the sun ri
se, Dimple thought, or the streetlights come on at dusk. Gradual, powerful, brilliant, in a way.

  “Thanks,” he said, walking toward her. “I’d like that.”

  CHAPTER 6

  They walked to Little Gator Pizzeria side by side, the silence stretching on. Rishi was hyperaware of everything; the way Dimple felt walking beside him. How he could see the top of her head. How the curls on her left side were invading his personal space, and how he didn’t mind, not one bit. When the breeze blew, he could smell her shampoo, like coconuts and jasmine. Oh gods. He’d just inhaled deeply, and now she was looking at him funny.

  Rishi tried to smile casually. “So, who’s this friend? Do you know each other from Fresno?”

  Dimple shook her head and adjusted her messenger bag. “No, we met in the Insomnia Con forum and decided to room together.”

  He stared at her, waiting for the punch line. “You’re kidding. Right?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “You seriously met a stranger online and decided you’d live with . . . ‘her’ for two months, sight unseen?”

  She sighed. “It’s six weeks. And there’s no need to make the air quotes around the word ‘her.’ It really is a she. I checked her out on Facebook.”

  Rishi huffed a laugh, incredulous. He was beginning to doubt Stanford’s reputation. “Do you honestly not see the logical fallacy there? You’re checking to see if this person’s online persona is fake . . . online.”

  “Well . . . ,” Dimple said as they rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the Little Gator Pizzeria. The smell of grease and cheese clotted the air. Her eyes widening behind her glasses, she leaned in closer. “Either we’re about to get hacked to pieces by a serial killer or we’re about to enjoy some pizza. Only time will tell.”

  Rishi reached out to get the door for her, but with a flourish, she opened the door herself and walked in.