Each morning, she awoke exhausted and vaguely embarrassed, making coffee in a fog and dressing like someone color-blind. She stumbled through eight-hour days at the office, busying herself with copy edits and other rote tasks that didn’t require much focus. Because all of her focus was on the one place she never thought she’d be allowed to go: Adam Harper’s bed. All because he’d given her just enough hope to hang herself with.
It wasn’t fair, him being jealous. He’d had years to be jealous. She’d never seen him go after any other guy she spoke to or smiled at. She was just good ol’ Saroj, no? Half little sister, half study buddy. All off-limits. And now he was acting like she belonged to him.
Just when she was determined to belong only to herself.
Stop it, Anushka told her via text. You’ve held out this long. Don’t settle just cuz he’s confused now.
Screw it, advised Becca. And I mean that literally. Jump on that thing and hit it like a fist.
They were both sides of Saroj’s conscience, the angel and devil on her shoulder. As for Adam…he was nothing short of the gorgeous monkey on her back. She tried to shake him off at every turn. But even her parents were becoming part of the conspiracy to keep him on her mind.
“And how is Adam?” her mother asked in Gujarati, in the middle of one of their weekly phone calls. “Has he met a nice girl? He should meet a nice girl. He’ll make someone a very good husband.”
For most of college, Ma had disliked Adam on principle—certain that, due to his overwhelming white maleness, he was after her virtue. She would’ve been equally horrified if she’d known one of her own countrymen had divested Saroj of that virtue—such as it was—but Adam was definitely Public Enemy Number One. White, working class, an orphan making his own way. Not having an extended family—which was no fault of his own—was practically a mortal sin in desi circles. Like maybe it was contagious, and all of Saroj’s relatives would drop dead, too, if she hung out with him. Now, after the fact, Adam was suddenly someone Saroj’s mother thought of with infinite fondness. Was he eating? Was he getting enough sleep? Has he met a nice girl?
“Adam’s fine, Ma,” she snapped, almost wishing they’d get back to the obligatory listing of her various failings and why she wasn’t running the Gazette while applying to law school and learning how to make roti. “He’s not seeing anybody right now, and he’s too young to get married. We’re both too young to get married.”
Her mother made a noise of disapproval—and disagreement. “You are almost thirty. That’s not young. Hari is engaged. Did I tell you? They are having a big wedding in Ahmedabad next year.”
She gritted her teeth. On what planet was twenty-four all that close to thirty? But the topic was infinitely better than Adam’s social life. Saroj put up with the discussion of horses for the procession, the three-day festivities, and how it could have been her with the twenty gold-threaded wedding saris. Yes. Twenty gold-threaded wedding saris and never-ending fantasies of another guy every time Harry touched her. “That’s not my life, Ma,” she said, finally.
“Then what is your life, hmm? Clubs? Bars? So many boys?”
“If my life was all clubs and boys, I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent,” she pointed out.
But, on another level, the question was completely valid. What is your life? She had no idea. Applying for new jobs? Moving to a different city? Putting as much physical distance between her and Adam as they had emotional proximity? She wasn’t remotely ready to answer it for herself, much less Ma. So, she hung up the phone as quickly as possible, grabbed her purse, and headed out into the city.
***
Adam spent more time thinking than was healthy. There was a constant throb behind his eyes, and he fell into bed twice as exhausted as usual—a feat in and of itself, since he was tired pretty much all the time. The day-to-day wasn’t supposed to be this hard, was it? After college, he’d deliberately put off diving back into the grind again. After so many years of going and going and going, of taking care of himself and everybody around him, he’d wanted it to pause for a while. He didn’t have illusions about becoming a rock god, and he wasn’t a lifer in the restaurant business either. The two things were temporary, just him padding his bank account and figuring out his shit until he started the grad school search. But Saroj…he didn’t want her to be temporary, and somehow she was foremost on his mind these days. Above everything else.
Every time the bell rang over the door at McAllister’s, Adam expected her to walk in. When his cell buzzed with a text message, he was disappointed because it wasn’t from her. If he tried to call her, it went straight to voice mail, and he hung up without saying a word. He’d even gone to her place a couple of times, but she’d refused to buzz him up. I don’t want a copy of the Watchtower. Go away. She was avoiding him. That much was obvious. But he couldn’t avoid her at all. He thought about her and JR—who insisted nothing was going on between them—and he thought about how she’d looked at him with that absolute devastation in her eyes. He thought about how she tasted when he kissed her, like beer and something sweet and hopeful.
He thought until he ran out of ibuprofen. And aspirin. And peppermint oil.
The tension headaches made practices a bitch and a half.
So did JR and the guys, for that matter.
“I fucking hate covers!” Graham tossed down the set list for their next gig, scowling at Adam like it was his idea to put some Soundgarden on the page. “Why do we have four of them on the list?”
Sure, Johnny Ray had a ton of the creative control, but Graham ruled the Squad like a dictator from behind his drum kit. Not that it stopped JR from getting in his face. Armageddon probably wouldn’t stop Johnny Ray Morris from getting in someone’s face. “The audience loves covers,” he pointed out. “We gotta give ‘em a little of what they want while they get what we want.”
Two pairs of eyes turned Adam’s way again, since Jamie was no help when it came to settling things. He never seemed to open his mouth except to sing like the second coming of Cobain and always took the side of whoever was yelling the loudest as a quick path to peace. Even now, he was bent over his phone, texting his girlfriend instead of paying attention. That left Adam to actually solve the conflicts.
So he did. “Dude, let’s knock it down to three covers and ‘Justify.’ Since everyone thinks that’s a cover anyway.”
Sometimes, it seemed like he was supposed to solve all the conflicts.
When it came to Saroj, he didn’t know where to start.
He wasn’t awful at relationship stuff. All the ex-girlfriend reviews were pretty positive, as far as he could tell. Hell, he was Facebook friends with everybody he’d ever dated. Even Betsy, who’d asked him to the first eighth-grade dance. Courtney still sent him messages every couple of weeks, even though they’d been split up for a while now. He wasn’t a loser. Everybody seemed to still like him. He couldn’t be as big of a shithead as Saroj was making him out to be, right?
Don’t overthink this. Adam could still hear her saying it. That didn’t make him stop. Not even the bass in his hands could make him stop.
Because, all of a sudden, he was picturing her in his hands instead.
Chapter Eight
The Gazette’s offices took up the bottom floor of a three-story brownstone on the west side of town. Adam had been here maybe once or twice before in the past couple of years with one of the guys, or Anushka and Becca, on their way to some gig or a movie. Standing at the reception desk alone was an entirely new sensation.
It gave him time to take in the peeling paint on the walls, the threadbare carpet, and the awards statues collecting dust in a display case. The most recent plaque was dated five years ago. When print journalism was still breathing. The newspaper’s secretary, easily on the other side of eighty, looked to be nearing her last gasp, too. She waved him through to the newsroom with a liver-spotted hand, apparently taking his word for it that he wasn’t a serial killer.
He wasn’t quite as lucky wit
h the second set of barriers. The maze of cubicles spread out across a midsized room, and the guy in the first one—fortysomething, with thinning hair and a mechanical pencil shoved behind one ear—sized him up with a look that was almost like glee. “Can I help you?”
He tried to stand up straighter, suddenly conscious of his faded T-shirt and his ripped jeans. “Uh, I’m here to see Saroj. Is she around?”
Gatekeeper Guy—the nameplate hanging over his cube wall said “Gary Howard”—just laughed. His glee got even more gleeful as he tipped back in his chair and looked a few rows down. “Hey! Sarge! Your husband’s here to see you.”
Her voice floated from behind one of the high, narrow walls. “Shut up, asshole!”
Adam winced. Twice. The nickname, Sarge, had dogged Saroj all over campus; she’d never told him it followed her to work. And, now, so had he. “Husband”? Just how much did her coworkers know about them? How much grief did they give her about him? Was this a constant thing? Husband. Like that was even a possibility?
“God, Gary. Don’t you ever stop?” She wheeled out from her cubicle, and the minute she realized her asshole coworker wasn’t joking was obvious. She went from looking mildly annoyed to completely embarrassed. Her shoulders scrunched up to her ears; her cheeks flushed red. Just like that day in the coed bathroom. Except she was an even bigger mystery to Adam now than she’d been then.
Saroj’s hands tightened around the armrests of her chair. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
This was familiar. This he could do. “You showed up where I work. I figured turnabout is fair play,” he said, shrugging.
“You work in a restaurant. It’s public. I work in…” She glanced around the cubicles—all full of people pretending they weren’t eavesdropping. “Bedlam.”
She lingered on the word. Her accent went thick. All his lizard brain heard was “bed.” And his dick perked right up. Adam swallowed hard. He crossed over to her desk and pulled her out of her chair before his brain and his body could get any other R-rated ideas. “Well, you’re entitled to lunch at this asylum, and we need to talk,” he said briskly. “So you’re coming with me…Sarge.”
She scowled. Elbowed him. “You know what you are? Major Pain.”
For a second it was almost like old times. Before everything got awkward.
Saroj grabbed her jacket and her purse and followed him out of the office. No arguments. At least not in front of people. At least not sober. You had to know her to open her up. Or give her shots. Him? He was pretty much an open book. If he had any still waters, they weren’t deep. Except when it came to her. Because now it was like he’d been hiding things he didn’t even know existed.
Once they were out on the sidewalk, the humor fled her face. Her features turned downright hostile, those dark eyebrows winging together, her soft mouth pursing like he was a lemon she was forced to suck on. “So, talk. I’m listening.”
“You really wanna do this here?” He glanced around at the parking meters and city-council-approved trees. The cars that lined the street. There were people—not a New York City crush, by any means, but still enough that it wasn’t exactly an intimate location.
She stood firm, crossing her arms over the chest of her buttoned black blazer. “It’s here or nowhere, Adam. I don’t want to give you my lunch hour.” For a second the hostility wavered. And so did her voice. “I…I can’t.”
“There seem to be a lot of things you can’t do,” he pointed out. “You can’t give me an hour. You can’t stick around to talk. You can’t tell me how you actually feel about anything. And I don’t mean over darts and drinks. I mean seriously. Why didn’t you knock me upside the head with how bad I was hurting you all this time?”
Had she really thought he wouldn’t give a damn? That he’d shrug it off? That it wasn’t worth getting into?
She made an exasperated noise. Shook her head. “Adam, you were always with somebody. Erin, Melissa, a couple of Jennifers, Courtney. I think this is the first time you’ve been single for more than five minutes in years. And you friend-zoned me before they even had a word for it. By senior year, I could’ve shown up at your place in nothing but Saran Wrap and it wouldn’t have made a dent.”
Saroj in Saran wrap. It should’ve been a really creepy image. Instead, it was the latest in a gallery of mental pictures Adam couldn’t delete. He tried to blink back the thought of peeling layers of the stuff off her while seeing what was underneath waiting…all of that skin…all of those curves. Jesus. Had God always hated him, or was this a new development? “Believe me, I would’ve noticed that.”
She laughed bitterly, and the arms she’d crossed defensively slid down, wrapping around her middle. “No. I don’t think so. Because if there’s one thing that’s plainly obvious to everyone that knows me, it’s how gone I’ve been for you. For a couple of years there, I practically had a shrine in my apartment.” The self-loathing in her tone was powerful enough to make him take a step back…and then step forward to comfort her. But she stopped him with a hard look. “It shouldn’t take a two-by-four when it’s that obvious. Why didn’t you catch on? Why didn’t you do something about my crush? Why didn’t you ever consider it? Simple. You’re not attracted to me.”
“That’s not true,” he instantly protested. “I think the other night proved I’m plenty attracted.” And his dick was raring to prove it again right now.
But she wasn’t buying. “Name one time before Johnny kissed me that you thought about doing the same.”
Silence stretched between them. Saroj stared at him, and he could see the seconds ticking by on her face. She was so pretty. And so unhappy. Like sophomore year, when she was dating that guy Sanjeev and something went down right after Diwali. She’d never said what, but he’d seen her coming back from Sanjeev’s dorm wearing one of her fancy Indian outfits, looking all sparkly and bright. Except her expression. Not sparkly. Just disappointed.
No, Adam hadn’t thought about kissing her then. Just hugging her. And beating up Sanjeev. In fact, he’d run into him a couple of days later and almost done it.
Hey, man. How are things with you and Saroj? You’re still together, right?
Fuck off, Harper. She doesn’t need a gora like you poking around. Mind your own business.
She was his business. Then and now. That was something, right? Wanting to protect her? To comfort her? To hold onto her? Before Adam could open his mouth to say that, she shook her head again. His time was up.
“Whatever this is, Adam? It’s temporary insanity,” she said, hitching her purse up on her shoulder. “And it’s best for my sanity if you leave me out of it. Because if I had told you how I felt about you, what good would it have done? You didn’t notice me. Sophomore year, I finally cut off all my hair and waxed my eyebrows, and She’s All That was She’s All Nothing. Sanjeev noticed, Jake noticed, Harry fucking Patel noticed, but you…? I didn’t exist for you as a possibility until last week.”
He was so behind. Still. So out of his depth. Still. He grabbed onto the nearest tether. “Wait, who the hell was Jake? I don’t remember a Jake.”
“Jake Park was a guy in my third-year journalism seminar,” she said, impatient and a little huffy. “We went out for three weeks. He tried to take me to church. Do a little Christian outreach. It didn’t go well.”
“You dated a white guy?” How had he missed that? How had he missed so much?
“He was Korean. But white, black, purple…what does it matter?” Saroj frowned at him. “And you’re missing my point. Again. Do you know why none of your girlfriends minded us being friends? Because I wasn’t a threat. Ever. I didn’t even rate.”
The memory flashed to the surface on cue.
Hey, Courtney, I’m taking some of Saroj’s stuff to storage for her. Is that okay?
Why wouldn’t it be okay? She’s practically your sister. If she looked like a Bollywood actress or something, I’d be worried. Go store with my blessing, baby.
Adam flinched, hoping he didn’t look
as guilty as he suddenly felt.
No, Saroj didn’t look like a Bollywood actress. But she didn’t need a haircut and hot wax to make her pretty. She’d always been pretty. Soft and curvy and curly. The kind of person you wanted to tuck under your chin and hold. He’d done that more times than he could count. And she was right: he’d never realized just how good it could feel. He’d never considered that she might belong there, in his arms. Because she was so, so far outside his league. “Come on. Give me a shot at this,” he found himself begging. “Don’t just shut it down.”
Her eyes were dark, snapping flint and steel. “What kind of shot? You want to go out on a date, Adam? When we’ve known each other for years? What’s that going to tell you that you don’t know already? That you can pick up a check?”
Ouch. “Why don’t you let me find out? I’d like to think we can still surprise each other.” Adam reached out. But she pulled her hand away.
“No,” she said. “I’ve had enough surprises. I’m ready to go back to predictable. And safe.”
“I’m not safe?” If she’d shoved him away before, this was like being punched. “You don’t feel safe with me?”
“No. Not anymore.” Now she touched him. The backs of her fingers on his cheek. Soft. Barely there. Maybe it was her way of defining what kind of “safe” she meant. Emotionally safe, not physically. Because, God knew, he never wanted to…he couldn’t even conceive of…
“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I really am. But I don’t think we should see each other for a while.”
“What? That’s…” He tried to come up with the words. With the argument that could make her stay. But he came up empty.
And she knew that. She’d always known he would. “It’s smart. Smarter than I’ve been in days.” Her voice was as soft as her touch. And so much worse.
Dil or No Dil Page 8
