When Dimple Met Rishi
Page 64
Looking at the faces of his family, Rishi knew one thing: He had to find out. Now. Oh my gods, he’d been so stupid. So very stupid.
He straightened up and threw his duffel bag in the backseat of his convertible. “I’m going,” he said, jumping into the driver’s seat.
“Where?” Ashish asked, his face both hopeful and wary.
“To try and win your bhabhi back,” Rishi said, grinning.
He raced down the tree-lined driveway, the sound of his family’s whoops and laughter cheering him on.
Dimple was nearly to the Stanford campus when her phone buzzed. She reached into the console, only to realize she’d stuck it in her purse at her last rest stop. Reaching into her purse, she riffled around until she felt the hard edge of her phone underneath a pile of papers. She dumped her purse out on the seat next to her, looked down to see Mamma’s face flashing on the screen.
Dimple laughed; Mamma had called her three times already, just to make sure she was awake. She didn’t get the concept that driving while talking on the phone was almost just as dangerous as falling asleep behind the wheel. She pressed the reject button to send it to voice mail when her eyes caught on a piece of paper that had fallen from her purse.
Glancing back up at the road to make sure she wasn’t going to drive off, Dimple smoothed out the piece of paper. It was the twenty-five expressions exercise Rishi had done on the night of their non-date-turned-date, at the top of Bernal Heights Hill. Dimple’s breath hitched as she caught sight of the fluid lines, when she remembered how perfectly honestly he’d captured her, how she’d been sure he’d been watching her, studying her.
And then their summer together began to come back to her in blinks and flashes—the way Rishi stood up to the Aberzombies for her; the way he’d worked tirelessly to help her make her prototype the best it could be, even though he didn’t really care about web development himself; how he’d been willing to make a fool of himself dancing so she could win the talent show; how he’d set up the meeting with Jenny Lindt because he knew how important it was to her. And, in a wave, it came to her: the realization that Rishi Patel loved her so deeply, so truly, that she’d never find that again, no matter how long or hard she looked. For the rest of her life, she’d be comparing men to him. He’d be the yardstick of the perfect relationship, the truest love.
Dimple found herself bypassing the exit that would take her to Stanford University. Instead, she kept her eye out for the SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT sign. If she hurried, she could get to him before he boarded his flight to MIT .
• • •
Rishi had told Dimple during their time at SFSU that he was going to MIT on the twenty-seventh of August. She’d remembered because it was the day she’d planned on leaving for Stanford too. There could be only so many flights from San Francisco to Logan Airport, right? And it was still early in the day. He probably hadn’t left yet.
She pulled into the airport parking and rushed inside, scanning the monitors for the next departing flight to Logan. There was one leaving in forty minutes, at Terminal 2. Perfect. Dimple ran to the terminal, hoping he’d be there. Her heart was in her throat, pounding a frantic rhythm. She should’ve texted him first. Or, or e-mailed him. Something. What would she say if he looked at her blankly? Or what if he looked horrified? Maybe she should’ve thought this through a little more.
But Rishi wasn’t in Terminal 2. Dimple scanned the crowd twice, three times, but he definitely wasn’t there. She walked up to one of the waiting passengers, a young woman reading, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hi,” she said. “Is this the terminal for people going to Boston?”
The woman nodded briefly before going back to her book. Dimple looked around, her heart sinking. She was turning around, wondering what to do, when the woman said, over her shoulder, “There’s another flight to Boston in ninety minutes. Terminal 1.”
• • •
Dimple waited just outside Terminal 1, but he never came. She was sure he’d said his flight left before lunchtime, which meant this was the only other possible flight. Maybe he’d changed his ticket for another, earlier day. He definitely wouldn’t leave later—classes started soon, and he’d want to be ready. So he’d gone across the country without even trying to reach out. And Dimple was an idiot.
She walked back out to her car and got in, steeling herself against the pain of a twice-broken heart.
Rishi found himself on the Stanford campus at the biggest freshman residence hall, where Dimple had told him she was going to be staying. He’d waited in the lobby for thirty minutes, trying to see past the streaming lines of freshmen and their parents, looking for her wild hair, her petite body.
But she wasn’t here. She’d said she was coming on the morning of the twenty-seventh, he was sure of it. He’d made a reminder in his phone when they were at SFSU , because he’d wanted to send her a bouquet of flowers for her first day.
Forty minutes.
Fifty.
He’d texted her about ten minutes into his wait (I’m in the lobby. I’m sorry. ) and she hadn’t responded.
Sixty minutes.
She wasn’t going to respond. Dimple wasn’t feeling any confusion, clearly. She’d made her decision and stuck to it.
And Rishi was an idiot.
He got up and walked out to his car, his steps plodding, weighed down with misery.
Dimple walked toward the Starbucks on the SFSU campus. Maybe she should’ve just gone straight to Stanford, but she couldn’t leave without saying a formal good-bye to this place. Maybe seeing it, touching that fountain, would help her put it—put him—behind her, once and for all. The sun was a bright ball of glittering fire; there was no fog in the air today. Even Karl was keeping his distance.
Oh, what was he doing here? Was he really that much of a sentimental fool? Why hadn’t he just gone where he was supposed to go?
But as if his brain were completely disconnected from his legs, Rishi found himself being transported to the Starbucks on the SFSU campus. As if he was dumb enough to hope she’d be there, perched on that fountain like last time, an iced coffee in her hands. . . .
He blinked.
And blinked again.
“Dimple?”
Her eyes flew open at the voice, her heart constricting painfully, her brain telling her it was stupid to hope, so very stupid. But—
It was him. Rishi Patel, staring at her with his mouth hanging open.
Dimple stood on shaky legs, her breath ragged, disbelief and hope mixing, swirling, bursting in her chest. Her hands were shaking so hard, the coffee threatened to fall to the ground. “Rishi?”
He stood there, staring at her. One word echoed in his brain, over and over, like a songbird’s call: “Kismet.” He was sure he looked deranged, the way his heart was hammering in his head and his chest and his throat all at once, the way his mouth felt dry, his entire body stiff and cold with shock. He reached out to her and then dropped his hand midway. “I texted—”
“I went to—”
They’d both spoken at the same time, and Rishi stopped and made an after you gesture with his hand. “Go ahead.”
Dimple bit her lip. Gods, she was beautiful. So, so perfect. His chest felt warm and way too tight. There was intense yearning inside him; he needed to tuck her head under his chin and smell her shampoo. That was the only thing he wanted right now, the only thing. But he kept himself rigid, held himself at an angle so as to not get too close.
“I, um . . .” She tucked a curl behind her ear, and he saw her hand shake a bit. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes searched his, trying to find answers.
Rishi tucked his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and stroke her cheek. “I, ah, I go here.”
Her eyes widened almost comically. Gods, she was cute. “You’re an SFSU student now? What about MIT ?”
Rishi shook his head and smiled. “I had a long talk with Pappa about how I’m an artist at heart.”
He caught a glimpse of Dimple’s full throttle smile, just for a second, before she put it away. “And he was okay with that?”
Rishi shrugged. “Eventually. He’s still getting used to the idea, but I think he wants me to be happy more than anything.”
He straightened up and threw his duffel bag in the backseat of his convertible. “I’m going,” he said, jumping into the driver’s seat.
“Where?” Ashish asked, his face both hopeful and wary.
“To try and win your bhabhi back,” Rishi said, grinning.
He raced down the tree-lined driveway, the sound of his family’s whoops and laughter cheering him on.
Dimple was nearly to the Stanford campus when her phone buzzed. She reached into the console, only to realize she’d stuck it in her purse at her last rest stop. Reaching into her purse, she riffled around until she felt the hard edge of her phone underneath a pile of papers. She dumped her purse out on the seat next to her, looked down to see Mamma’s face flashing on the screen.
Dimple laughed; Mamma had called her three times already, just to make sure she was awake. She didn’t get the concept that driving while talking on the phone was almost just as dangerous as falling asleep behind the wheel. She pressed the reject button to send it to voice mail when her eyes caught on a piece of paper that had fallen from her purse.
Glancing back up at the road to make sure she wasn’t going to drive off, Dimple smoothed out the piece of paper. It was the twenty-five expressions exercise Rishi had done on the night of their non-date-turned-date, at the top of Bernal Heights Hill. Dimple’s breath hitched as she caught sight of the fluid lines, when she remembered how perfectly honestly he’d captured her, how she’d been sure he’d been watching her, studying her.
And then their summer together began to come back to her in blinks and flashes—the way Rishi stood up to the Aberzombies for her; the way he’d worked tirelessly to help her make her prototype the best it could be, even though he didn’t really care about web development himself; how he’d been willing to make a fool of himself dancing so she could win the talent show; how he’d set up the meeting with Jenny Lindt because he knew how important it was to her. And, in a wave, it came to her: the realization that Rishi Patel loved her so deeply, so truly, that she’d never find that again, no matter how long or hard she looked. For the rest of her life, she’d be comparing men to him. He’d be the yardstick of the perfect relationship, the truest love.
Dimple found herself bypassing the exit that would take her to Stanford University. Instead, she kept her eye out for the SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT sign. If she hurried, she could get to him before he boarded his flight to MIT .
• • •
Rishi had told Dimple during their time at SFSU that he was going to MIT on the twenty-seventh of August. She’d remembered because it was the day she’d planned on leaving for Stanford too. There could be only so many flights from San Francisco to Logan Airport, right? And it was still early in the day. He probably hadn’t left yet.
She pulled into the airport parking and rushed inside, scanning the monitors for the next departing flight to Logan. There was one leaving in forty minutes, at Terminal 2. Perfect. Dimple ran to the terminal, hoping he’d be there. Her heart was in her throat, pounding a frantic rhythm. She should’ve texted him first. Or, or e-mailed him. Something. What would she say if he looked at her blankly? Or what if he looked horrified? Maybe she should’ve thought this through a little more.
But Rishi wasn’t in Terminal 2. Dimple scanned the crowd twice, three times, but he definitely wasn’t there. She walked up to one of the waiting passengers, a young woman reading, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hi,” she said. “Is this the terminal for people going to Boston?”
The woman nodded briefly before going back to her book. Dimple looked around, her heart sinking. She was turning around, wondering what to do, when the woman said, over her shoulder, “There’s another flight to Boston in ninety minutes. Terminal 1.”
• • •
Dimple waited just outside Terminal 1, but he never came. She was sure he’d said his flight left before lunchtime, which meant this was the only other possible flight. Maybe he’d changed his ticket for another, earlier day. He definitely wouldn’t leave later—classes started soon, and he’d want to be ready. So he’d gone across the country without even trying to reach out. And Dimple was an idiot.
She walked back out to her car and got in, steeling herself against the pain of a twice-broken heart.
Rishi found himself on the Stanford campus at the biggest freshman residence hall, where Dimple had told him she was going to be staying. He’d waited in the lobby for thirty minutes, trying to see past the streaming lines of freshmen and their parents, looking for her wild hair, her petite body.
But she wasn’t here. She’d said she was coming on the morning of the twenty-seventh, he was sure of it. He’d made a reminder in his phone when they were at SFSU , because he’d wanted to send her a bouquet of flowers for her first day.
Forty minutes.
Fifty.
He’d texted her about ten minutes into his wait (I’m in the lobby. I’m sorry. ) and she hadn’t responded.
Sixty minutes.
She wasn’t going to respond. Dimple wasn’t feeling any confusion, clearly. She’d made her decision and stuck to it.
And Rishi was an idiot.
He got up and walked out to his car, his steps plodding, weighed down with misery.
Dimple walked toward the Starbucks on the SFSU campus. Maybe she should’ve just gone straight to Stanford, but she couldn’t leave without saying a formal good-bye to this place. Maybe seeing it, touching that fountain, would help her put it—put him—behind her, once and for all. The sun was a bright ball of glittering fire; there was no fog in the air today. Even Karl was keeping his distance.
Oh, what was he doing here? Was he really that much of a sentimental fool? Why hadn’t he just gone where he was supposed to go?
But as if his brain were completely disconnected from his legs, Rishi found himself being transported to the Starbucks on the SFSU campus. As if he was dumb enough to hope she’d be there, perched on that fountain like last time, an iced coffee in her hands. . . .
He blinked.
And blinked again.
“Dimple?”
Her eyes flew open at the voice, her heart constricting painfully, her brain telling her it was stupid to hope, so very stupid. But—
It was him. Rishi Patel, staring at her with his mouth hanging open.
Dimple stood on shaky legs, her breath ragged, disbelief and hope mixing, swirling, bursting in her chest. Her hands were shaking so hard, the coffee threatened to fall to the ground. “Rishi?”
He stood there, staring at her. One word echoed in his brain, over and over, like a songbird’s call: “Kismet.” He was sure he looked deranged, the way his heart was hammering in his head and his chest and his throat all at once, the way his mouth felt dry, his entire body stiff and cold with shock. He reached out to her and then dropped his hand midway. “I texted—”
“I went to—”
They’d both spoken at the same time, and Rishi stopped and made an after you gesture with his hand. “Go ahead.”
Dimple bit her lip. Gods, she was beautiful. So, so perfect. His chest felt warm and way too tight. There was intense yearning inside him; he needed to tuck her head under his chin and smell her shampoo. That was the only thing he wanted right now, the only thing. But he kept himself rigid, held himself at an angle so as to not get too close.
“I, um . . .” She tucked a curl behind her ear, and he saw her hand shake a bit. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes searched his, trying to find answers.
Rishi tucked his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and stroke her cheek. “I, ah, I go here.”
Her eyes widened almost comically. Gods, she was cute. “You’re an SFSU student now? What about MIT ?”
Rishi shook his head and smiled. “I had a long talk with Pappa about how I’m an artist at heart.”
He caught a glimpse of Dimple’s full throttle smile, just for a second, before she put it away. “And he was okay with that?”
Rishi shrugged. “Eventually. He’s still getting used to the idea, but I think he wants me to be happy more than anything.”
