When Dimple Met Rishi

by Sandhya Menon

  Rishi leaned in, eyes wide. “Okay, but what happened to the dad? Does he ever come back?”

  Dimple snorted and reached for the last bite of her salmon slider. Rishi had pretty much inhaled his French onion soup while she read. “I can’t believe you’ve never read A Wrinkle in Time. It’s a classic.”

  “I guess I was too busy reading comics. But seriously, does he ever come back?”

  Dimple pushed the copy of her book forward. “Tell you what. You read that, and I’ll read your comics.” She paused, frowning. “Oh, wait. We can’t take these out of the store, can we?”

  The tips of Rishi’s ears went pink. He dropped his gaze to where his thumb was tracing patterns in the woodwork of the table. “Ah, not usually. But these are, um, my books. I ordered them and had the waiter put them here for us. So we can.”

  Dimple’s heart fluttered. Rishi had made a real effort for their non-date. He’d scoped out a place he knew she’d love—and she did; if she could live here under one of the tables forever, she’d be perfectly content to do just that. He’d bought books that meant something to her and to him. She knew she should discourage him. She also knew she didn’t want to. If this was how Rishi Patel showed his interest in her, if this was him wooing her, she wanted more. More, more, more.

  Dimple took a sip of her virgin cosmo and set it down, forced herself to meet his eye. “Rishi . . .”

  He looked up, every muscle taut. “Yeah?”

  “I, um, just wanted to say . . .” God, why couldn’t the legal drinking age be eighteen in the US? European teens didn’t know how good they had it. Then again, you had to be twenty-five to drink in Mumbai, so maybe they didn’t have it that bad. Why the heck was she thinking of drinking laws now? Dimple forced herself to refocus. “I . . .” She swallowed. “I’m making headway on the coding. I got past that snag we were talking about yesterday.” Ugh, coward.

  His face fell, and her heart followed. “Oh yeah.” He forced a smile like watery chai. “Good.”

  Willie the waiter came over then, that eager, toothy smile still plastered on his face. “Hi! How was everything, guys?”

  “Great.” Dimple smiled at him. “We’re ready for the check.”

  “Okeydokey!” He slipped the leather check holder from his pocket, and Rishi reached for it.

  “We can split it,” Dimple said immediately.

  But he just shook his head, put in a few bills, and said to the waiter, “Keep the change.”

  “Are you ready to go?” He was smiling, but it was that same watery chai smile. He’d lost his luster. He’d lost his luster because of her.

  Dimple’s chest felt tight. She should say something to put this right. To tell him how much she appreciated what he’d done. For once she should just lay out her feelings. She opened her mouth—and then closed it again. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  • • •

  They walked outside, the air heavy and pulsing with all the things left unsaid.

  This is your chance, Dimple. Say something. Tell him you’re having fun, at least. But she found she couldn’t overcome the silence.

  At the Beemer, Rishi opened her door, like before, and Dimple slid in. Rishi hopped in his side. The air felt different from the first time they’d gotten in . . . emptier, stiffer. Colder.

  Rishi glanced at her. “I thought we might go watch a movie or something, but if you want to go back to the dorms, that’s totally fine.”

  Dimple began to say that the movies sounded fine, but the thought of this continuing silence, this hurt/awkward mixture of pauses and emptiness, was too much. She took a breath. And another. “Actually,” she said, “if you’re up for it, there’s somewhere else I’d like to go. It’s about fifteen minutes away. Bernal Heights?”

  Rishi raised his eyebrows. She saw the hope there, and it made her happy. “What’s in Bernal Heights?”

  “Oh, you’ll see, my friend,” she said lightly, even though her heart was hammering in her chest.

  He smiled and started the car, pulling into the street. “Okay.”

  Dimple’s mouth was dry. She’d never, ever done something like this before. To give herself something to do, she glanced sideways at Rishi and said, “You forgot the book.” She set A Wrinkle in Time in the center console. “You’re not going to look it up on the Internet and read the CliffsNotes, are you?”

  He laughed. “No, I’m really looking forward to reading this. I have a theory: Charles Wallace is a killer robot.”

  Dimple stared at him. “A . . . killer robot.”

  “What? You said it’s sci-fi, right?”

  Dimple groaned. “Hai Ram, not every sci-fi has to have a killer robot in it, Rishi Patel. Just read it.”

  “I don’t see the point if there aren’t any killer robots, but okay,” Rishi said, and Dimple thought, I love the way your eyes twinkle when you’re messing around.

  About fifteen minutes later, Rishi pulled over. “This is it, Bernal Heights.” Across the street, an old homeless man was yelling at thin air in a flat Boston accent. Rishi wondered what his story was; how someone from Boston ended up there, a fifty-something-year-old street person. His story would probably make an interesting comic. Everything’s not a story, Rishi, Pappa would say. Your head is in the clouds again.

  Rishi got out of the car and held Dimple’s door open. Her face shone, pink-and-gold-tinged in the setting sun. She looked . . . excited. Rishi tried not to get his hopes up.

  He’d obviously read this whole thing wrong. He’d thought the kiss meant that Dimple was conflicted; that maybe he could win her over even though she’d said this was a non-date. That obviously hadn’t worked to his advantage. She’d been aloof on and off through dinner, and he was fairly sure she saw his gifts as over the line. Ugh. Rishi still felt the echo of the sting of rejection, even though she hadn’t said anything outright. Well, he wasn’t going to give her the chance. From now on he’d be friendly and nothing more. That was his new motto: Friend. Amigo. Dost.

  “It’s this way, I think . . . ,” Dimple said, walking forward, looking down at her phone.

  Rishi looked around. They were walking along a winding path on one of the many hills in San Francisco, bordered on one side by green grass and on the other by squat houses, a road, and parked cars. Karl the Fog swirled, ever present. “So now are you going to tell me where are we? What’s here?”

  Dimple smiled at him and put her phone away. Pushing a curl off her forehead, she said, “Just keep walking.”

  CHAPTER 34

  That was easier said than done. Bernal Heights definitely lived up to its name—Rishi’s thighs were burning from scaling the thing. It felt like they should have special equipment. But Dimple apparently wanted them to climb this giant hill, so Rishi did, with minimal grunting.

  By the time they got to the top the sun was dipping lower, smearing the sky with color, and Rishi was trying his best not to look like he was dying. Which, you know, was hard to do when he was bent over, wheezing, with sweat dripping into his eyes. Crap. He was sweating. Did he smell? Rishi was dipping his head in what he hoped was a surreptitious way to sniff at his armpit when Dimple grabbed his arm and said, “Look!”

  He straightened up. “Ho-ly crap.” They had a 360-degree view of San Francisco’s seven-by-seven-mile beauty.

  It looked like chaos at first—buildings and homes and roadways and other unknown structures all jostling for this tiny parcel of forty-nine square miles. But if you looked closely, like Rishi was doing, it all began to coalesce into this design. Wavy lines of white houses and a bridge (he thought it was the Bay Bridge, but he wasn’t familiar enough with San Francisco to say for sure), rectangular strips of buildings interspersed with strips of green-black trees, the Pacific in the distance, encroaching on it all. And the sky like an overturned bowl of rose gold above them.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Dimple stepped forward, toward the edge of the hill. Rishi’s instinct was to tell her to please step back before she fell off, but he
didn’t. She looked . . . peaceful there, the sunset making her black hair glow with red, like she was holding lava inside her instead of blood. Rishi smiled to himself. The fire she had, that passion? Yeah, he could definitely see her being born with lava in her veins.

  She glanced over, and he averted his eyes, so he was looking out at the sunset too. “It’s definitely something else,” he said, answering her question just a few seconds too late. “How did you find out about this place?”

  “Celia.” Dimple walked closer to him, and Rishi felt his heart speed up merely at the proximity of her. Idiot. He forced himself to count to three before he looked over. She paused, uncertainty passing over her face. And then, in the next moment, she’d extended her hand out. It sat there between them, fog swirling in the spaces between her fingers.

  Rishi was pretty sure his mouth had fallen open, so he concentrated on forcing it closed. Was she . . . reaching for his hand? He placed it in hers, no questions asked. And waited, because it seemed like she had something to say. Rishi could tell the words were practically squirming, trying to get out.

  “Um . . .” Dimple blew out a breath, and with her free hand, tucked a curl behind her ear. The breeze just blew it out again, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Rishi, I’m sorry if I seemed ambivalent at the restaurant before. What you did, that gift . . .” She shook her head. Her eyes burned into his. “It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone’s done for me. I really liked it. I really like . . . you.” Dimple dropped her gaze again. Her hand was shaking slightly in his, and Rishi covered it with his other hand. Looking back up at him, she said, “I have a hard time with all the feelings stuff sometimes. But I think—I think I want this to be a real date. If you do, I mean.” Her eyes widened slightly. “I mean, I’m not even sure if you’re on the same page. I said I really like you, and you didn’t really respond, and now you’re just kind of looking at me—”

  Rishi couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. But when he saw her face fall, he dropped her hands and cradled her face instead. She was so close he could smell that coconut jasmine shampoo. He felt the warmth of her rushing over him, through him. Her eyes were huge behind her glasses, luminous even. “Dimple Shah . . . I really like you, too.” He pressed his lips lightly against hers as he kept talking. He felt her shiver again, and he smiled against her mouth. “And I would be honored if this turned into a real date.”

  Her lips parted against his. And then he was lost in her.

  Oh my God. Or as Rishi would say, Oh my gods. They were kissing. Again. Finally. Dimple sighed in perfect bliss, and Rishi’s arms wrapped around her waist in response, pulling her body snugly against his.

  He wanted her. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him. It was unbelievable. Dimple had never thought her life would include a boy like Rishi. Was it kismet, like he’d said? Then she felt his tongue against hers, and all coherent thought flew out of her head.

  Eventually they broke apart so they could breathe, but Rishi kept his arms circled loosely around her waist. His lips were swollen and red in the fading light. He smiled and rubbed her nose gently with his. “It’s too bad we can’t keep doing that indefinitely. Oxygen is so overrated.”

  Dimple’s arms were resting against his chest, but she moved them down to his waist too, so her arms were crossed behind his back. “So is eating.”

  “And going to stupid web-development classes.”

  “Hey.” She smacked him, and accidentally whacked the top of his butt. There was something ridged and hard like a notebook in his back pocket. “Those classes are my ticket to Jenny Lindt, let’s not forget.”

  “Oh yeah. Her. What’s so great about her again?” Rishi pulled away from her, but kept one hand clasped loosely around hers, which made Dimple happier than she wanted to admit. He pulled her down to the ground, and they lay facing each other, heads propped up on their elbows, lower legs tangled with each other’s.

  Dimple clasped her free hand to her heart. “Are you serious? Jenny Lindt is a pundit. A beacon. A herald of the coming age of Women in Tech.”

  Rishi smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. That was quickly becoming her Favorite Thing. Besides kissing him, obviously. “She’s your Leo Tilden, huh?” He lay down all the way and stretched out his arm under her head.

  Dimple glanced at him, her heart hammering. Rishi’s eyes were hopeful, but respectful. He didn’t expect it. After a pause, Dimple lay down and put her head on his chest. Rishi sighed, a deep, humming thing that echoed in his chest and her ears.

  Dimple smiled up at the sky. “Yeah. She’s my Leo Tilden.” They listened to the wind in the eucalyptus trees awhile. Somewhere below them, a dog barked. “Speaking of Leo, was that a notebook I felt in your pocket before? My hand brushed against it.”

  “Observant. Yes, it is. I always have to have a sketch pad with me. I left the big one at the dorm, but I had to bring this one.”

  “So . . . can I see it?”

  Rishi laughed. “Yes, but on one condition.”

  She frowned. “Okay . . .”

  “You have to let me sketch you.”

  Dimple sat up and looked at him. “What the what?”

  Rishi grinned and rolled over onto his side again, propping his head up on one hand. She could barely see him now; the light was fading fast. “Let me sketch you, and you can look at my book.”

  Dimple gestured to the sky. “It’s dark. How are you going to sketch?”

  “Well . . .” Rishi pulled out his phone. “Someone gave me the great idea to install a flashlight app.”

  Dimple groaned. “I’m not the most photogenic person.” Her cheeks heated as she said the words. She didn’t exactly want to call attention to that fact right now, on their first date.

  Rishi put his fingers under her chin until she met his eye. “You. Are. Beautiful. Lajawab. My only worry is that I might not be able to do you justice.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Dimple rolled her eyes, even though the butterflies in her stomach began to flutter up a tiny tornado. Lajawab. Translated literally it meant without answer. “Okay, fine. But only because I get to see your sketchbook after.” Self-consciously, she adjusted Celia’s gauzy dress over her thighs. “How do you want me?”

  Rishi jerked his head up to look at her, and she blushed, realizing the double entendre of her words. Thankfully, he looked just as flustered as she felt. Rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that held his pencil, he said, “Ah, just . . . maybe just lie down like you were. You can prop yourself up on your elbows if you want. Whatever’s most comfortable.”

  Dimple lay down again, supremely aware of every movement she was making. The damp grass had cooled even more with nightfall, and it tickled under the backs of her knees. She turned over on her side so she was facing Rishi, one hand supporting the side of her head as she watched him smooth out the small sketch pad. In the blue-white light of the flashlight app, his hands shook just the slightest bit as he picked up his pencil.

  Rishi looked at her, his gaze sweeping from her eyes to her lips to her collarbone to her chest, her waist, the curve of her hips. Dimple felt warm in spite of the cool breeze; the gauze of Celia’s dress seemed to cling tighter to every part of her body.

  Rishi made the first strokes, his hand dwarfing the stub of charcoal pencil that had obviously been sharpened many, many times. The more he drew, the more his expression became intent, focused, consumed. He wasn’t sitting there next to her anymore, she knew. He looked up every so often, but he didn’t really see her as Dimple. The thought was strangely disquieting, like she didn’t really know him. Rishi the artist and Rishi Patel, whom she was on a date with—were they the same person?

  When he turned the page, Rishi looked up and smiled, his face relaxed again. Dimple felt a tremor of relief to see him back. This, she thought. This is what he meant when he said he couldn’t do it as a half measure. He lives his art. If he did it full-time, there might not be time for anything or anyone else.

 
“Still comfortable?” Rishi asked her, his voice gentle. “You can move if you need to—it won’t bother me.”

  Dimple adjusted her body a little and tried to peek. “Can I see what you have yet?”

  Rishi laughed and shielded his notebook with his hand. “Not yet. Soon, I promise. I want to do a small series of things. Okay, now you can just talk to me.”

  “Talk?” She frowned slightly and pushed up her glasses. Rishi began to sketch again. “Talk about what?”

  “Anything at all.” Rishi looked up at her, briefly, and then back down at his page again.

  “Hmm, okay.” Dimple played with a blade of grass. She knew what she wanted to say, but it caught in the back of her throat like a fish bone. “You, um . . .” She cleared her throat. In her peripheral vision, Rishi looked up at her and then back down again. “I don’t want to get married anytime soon. Maybe not ever. This date doesn’t change that.”

  She did look at him then, and his hand paused. He looked up at her. “I know. You said that already. I didn’t think this date changed anything.” He smiled and looked back down, resuming his sketching.

  Dimple should let it go. Right now. Just. Let. It. Go. “So then what’s the point?” She heard herself ask instead. “I mean, wasn’t that why you talked to me that first day? That’s why you decided to come, right? Because you thought I knew about this whole thing our parents had arranged.”