If You See Me, Don't Say Hi

by Neel Patel

  “His name is Ankur Patel. I haven’t seen him all day. I’m a little worried.”

  “Are you related?” the desk clerk, a large woman with red cheeks and snowy white hair, wanted to know.

  I hesitated, remembering how in high school everyone had assumed you were my brother.

  “Patel,” I said, pulling out my ID. “See?”

  She laughed. “Oh, honey. This hotel is full of Patels. You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

  I smiled, stepping away.

  “I wish I could help,” she called after me.

  I walked past the lobby and into an open elevator. I could hear the sound of laughter above. I considered going to the party—maybe you were there—but changed my mind. My flight was before noon. I had already said good-bye to my parents—they were skipping breakfast the next morning so they could head back to the motel. Somehow, the idea of this made me sad, and I began to cry. Tears slid past my cheeks and my lips. I looked at my phone and realized that Jacob had called moments earlier, and this made me cry even harder. I pictured him in his Notre Dame T-shirt, cleaning up after the girls. They would be sound asleep in their Princess Jasmine beds. By the time I reached my hallway, I had pulled myself together, fishing out the hotel key from my purse and sliding it through the lock. The room was chilly and quiet, just as I had left it.

  Only this time you were there.

  * * *

  “What took you so long?”

  You wore the same suit you had worn that morning, but your jacket was slung over a chair, your shirt unbuttoned. The sight of you lifted me like a leaf in a breeze. You were lying on my bed, with your arms tucked behind your head as if it had been your room and not mine. I had always liked that about you, the way you could inhabit any space as if it belonged to you first.

  “You missed the reception. You’re a terrible wedding guest.”

  “I was hoping we could skip it,” you said. “I got back pretty late. By the time I came by the room you were already downstairs.”

  “How did you even get in? I don’t remember giving you a key.”

  You winked at me. “I have my ways.”

  “No, really,” I said. “This is scary. What if you had been someone else?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I searched the room for a sign of forced entry. There was nothing. I glanced back at the TV. An advertisement for cough medicine flashed across the screen.

  “Now what?” I said.

  * * *

  It was easier this time, to have your skin against mine, your lips against mine, your fingers tracing my back, unbuttoning my blouse. You were hungry for my body, kissing and groping and sucking, and I fed you every piece. Did you remember what it was like, to have me this way? I did. I remembered the smell of your hair and the taste of your skin. I remembered the cold tickle of your fingers on my thighs. I remembered the noises you made when I did something you liked. It was a peculiar sound, so unlike your usual voice. I should have felt guilty. I should have felt ashamed. I felt everything but. I ran my fingers over you and felt the newness of your body, rigid and firm. Your waistline was narrow, your stomach defined. Your arms were like rubber, ropey and weak. After it was over, you told me your date had been a disaster.

  “She was twice the size of her photograph,” you said.

  I pinched you on your arm, relieved. How foolish of me.

  The next morning, you woke up early and showered in my bathroom and combed your hair back in front of the mirror, enveloped in steam. You kissed me and asked if we would ever see each other again. I laughed at this and told you we would. There were other weddings, other weekends to be shared. It was just the beginning. You went quiet, and I wondered what you were thinking. I packed my suitcase while you watched me, a smile on your face. How could it be? That a smile could hide such secrets?

  We went to the park one last time, and sat on a bench overlooking the pond, and you picked up a small stone and tried to skip it, missing the water. The sun was warm against my skin.

  “Weddings are weird,” you said. “All that pomp and circumstance, all that drama, and for what? Do people even remember them?”

  “No,” I said, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice. “But I’m guessing one day you’ll find out.”

  You didn’t say anything. Then you put your hand over mine and said, very softly, “I’m not getting married,” and I glanced at my wristwatch and realized it was time to leave.

  * * *

  You insisted on driving me to the airport—you had rented a car—so we slipped out of the hotel without saying good-bye to anyone. During the drive, you were silent, and I was fighting back tears. Jacob was waiting for me. But I could only think of you.

  When we pulled up alongside the terminal you switched off the car.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “About last night?” I gathered my things. “So you were a little late; it happens. At least we got to see each other.”

  “Not that.” You shook your head. A plane descended over our heads and cast a shadow over your face. “I’m sorry about everything else. The way I treated you, when we were young, and after—for letting you go.”

  I put my hand on your arm. “Stop.”

  But you didn’t. Cars rushed by and an attendant came over to tell you to move, but you only stared at him. “To be honest—and this might sound weird—but I was a little jealous of you back then. We all were. You had this aura about you. It’s like you were somewhere else. You were there, but you were somewhere else. I never had that for myself.”

  I stared at you, uncomprehending. We were quiet for a while. Then you got out of the car and helped me with my luggage and when I looked into your eyes, I knew: something was wrong.

  * * *

  That was the last time we saw each other. I still remember the way you waited until I had walked past the sliding glass doors before getting back into your car, the heat from your embrace still warming my skin. It was impossible to talk after that. I returned to my world, and you returned to yours. Jacob picked me up with the girls, and I kissed each one of them on their heads. My life resumed its course: play dates and meetings and dinner parties with friends, day trips to a museum or a park. For months, I thought of you, our fated weekend returning to me like a dream, but then something would happen—a cut that needed tending, a fight between the kids, a large bill in the mail—and you would be plucked from my thoughts, the way a blade of grass, rooted to the earth, is plucked by a child. I didn’t stop to wonder where you were, or what you were doing. I didn’t do any of this until eight months later, on a cold winter morning, when I was standing alone in the kitchen and the phone suddenly rang. I had assumed it would be Jacob, calling to talk to me from work, or one of the teachers at school, calling to talk about the girls, but instead it was my mother, calling to talk about you.

  “Something has happened.”

  * * *

  I know what it’s like: to have people say things about you that aren’t true. I had heard the rumors about myself. You will never know what I heard about you. According to some people, you had developed a rare form of cancer. Others said it was something more insidious, and shameful. Still others said you were on drugs, that you had done it to yourself. You were a doctor. How could you not have known? The question I ask myself is: How could I? You said you were on a diet and I believed you. I turned my head when you popped that white pill. I laughed at you when you asked if we would see each other again. I cursed you in my head when you didn’t show up to my room. I didn’t think to ask what you had been doing all that time. I didn’t want to know. It is clear to me, now, that you were ill.

  Is that why you never married? For weeks after it happened, people would ask this same thing, as if the greatest tragedy of all was that you had left no one behind. Your parents said it was pneumonia, that you had suffered complications. But your obituary was left vague; your family was tight-lipped. There were more questions than answers, questions no
one had the courage to ask.

  A picture ran next to the small article about you in my parents’ local newspaper; it was your high school yearbook photo. In it, you wore a gold earring in your left ear; your hair was buzzed short. How strange that you should be remembered that way. For weeks after hearing the news, I walked around like a ghost, as if I had left my own body in the way you had left yours. I couldn’t sleep, or eat. I never made it to your funeral, either. Your parents didn’t want anyone there. Your mother was too distraught. She called my mother one morning to apologize. She said finally she knew—she knew what it was like to have people talk about her child.

  * * *

  On the way to the airport that morning, I had asked you again. “How did you get into my hotel room?”

  You smiled.

  “I had a key.”

  “Did you steal it?”

  “No.”

  “Did I give to you?”

  “No.”

  “Then how?”

  You turned your head and laughed. “I got it from the front desk.”

  “But that’s impossible,” I said. “They wouldn’t even give me your room number.”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Tell me—how?”

  And you did.

  “I told them you were my wife.”

  I never told you this, but that summer, before you left, I had dreamt of marrying you. I remembered my mother showing me pictures of Lord Krishna when I was a child. I remembered the hordes of women that surrounded him. Only one of them had captured his heart, a young woman named Radha. According to my mother, they never married, but their love for each other remained, long after Krishna had died, immortalized in the small pictures that lined our apartment walls. Like you, my mother is long gone now, and the girls are in college, but the pictures remain, and sometimes, when I look at them, I can still see your face. ◆

  Acknowledgments

  I’m very grateful to my agent, Jenni Ferrari-Adler, for plucking me out of the slush pile and giving me a chance, for her insight, her dedication, and for making my dream come true. This book would not be what it is without the help of my brilliant editor, Caroline Bleeke, whose commitment, wisdom, and enthusiasm made the long hours worth it—whenever I was lost, she helped show me the way. To Amy Einhorn and the rest of the team at Flatiron Books, thank you for this wonderful opportunity.

  A writer is nothing without faithful readers. To the editors who gave early versions of these stories a home: thank you. Without journals like yours, writers like me would not dare to dream. To my television champions at WME, Lauren Szurgot and Flora Hackett, thank you for reading this book and encouraging me to try my hand at something new. You saw something in me before I even did, and for that I’m grateful.

  To my friends both near and far, past and present, the ones I’ve lost touch with, the ones I speak to every day, thank you for sharing your time with me, your laughter, your tears. I hope, in this book, you have found something to love.

  To my family, my sister, for being a champion and a friend, and my parents, for being there from the beginning, when I needed you the most, even when I didn’t need you at all. You are the reason I am what I am. I hope I make you proud.

  And finally, to the scared little boy who was afraid to be himself: be afraid no longer. This book is for you. Everything that follows is for both of us.

  Recommend If You See Me, Don’t Say Hi for your next book club!

  Reading Group Guide available at

  www.readinggroupgold.com

  About the Author

  NEEL PATEL is a first-generation Indian American who grew up in Champaign, Illinois. His short stories have appeared in The Southampton Review, Indiana Review, The American Literary Review, Hyphen magazine, and Nerve. He currently lives in Los Angeles, where he is at work on his debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  god of destruction

  hare rama, hare krishna

  hey, loser

  just a friend

  if you see me, don’t say hi

  the taj mahal

  the other language

  these things happen

  an arrangement

  world famous

  radha, krishna

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  IF YOU SEE ME, DON’T SAY HI. Copyright © 2018 by Neel Patel. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  The following stories have been previously published and may appear in a slightly different form in this book:

  “Just a Friend,” Hyphen (April 2017)

  “The Taj Mahal,” Indiana Review (volume 39, issue 1, summer 2017)

  “These Things Happen,” American Literary Review (fall 2015)

  “An Arrangement,” The Southampton Review (winter/spring 2016)

  www.flatironbooks.com

  Cover art by Keith Hayes

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Patel, Neel author.

  Title: If you see me, don’t say hi: stories / Neel Patel.

  Description: First edition. | New York: FLATIRON BOOKS, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018001437 | ISBN 9781250183194 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250183200 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: East Indian Americans—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.A86648 A6 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018001437

  eISBN 9781250183200

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: July 2018