♥ ♥ ♥
"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME TODAY'S YOUR BIRTHDAY?" He crosses his arms and tilts his head ever so slowly, movements so calm and fluid that I immediately react oppositely.
"It's— not," I lie, darting straight into flight or fight mode. Deny, deny, deny. Which fails miserably because Aryan regards me like he wants nothing more than to laugh.
Asshole.
I glare, ears ringing as my mind rushes to concoct another plan of action that does not involve Aryan Shankar smiling at me like I'm his favourite Netflix special while telling me foolish things like Happy Birthday.
My body moves before my brain. Feet sailing across the bathroom tile, I retreat a sharp step back, only to knock right into the very small onlooking child who possesses, I soon learn, a very whiny voice.
"Hey!" Shreya complains in the whiniest pitch known to man. I visibly wince.
I feel his eyes on me, even as I dart around, back to him, and hastily, clumsily steady her by her small shoulders. This annoys her even more because she darts out of my hold with a deadly glower.
I try to offer some mumbled one-worded apology but I'm distracted by the muted, knowing amusement of his gaze on my back. Skin prickling, I halfway conclude my apology, then I'm straightening and fleeing out the door like a fired canon.
Generally speaking, when a boy smiles at you and makes your heart flutter like a wild, caged bird in your chest on your birthday, you're not supposed to respond violently.
But then again, nobody's perfect.
My new plan of action: Violence. Murder. Vengeance.
Already glaring, I storm out the bathroom on hot heels.
Behind me, there comes a shuffle as Aryan, sensing brewing animosity, makes to slow me.
I'm faster though, breaking into the hallway and seeing nothing but red.
Not the pink handprints on the walls, no. I see red.
Red like the blood of my traitorous, backstabbing best friend who I would hate to have to kill in front of his girlfriend.
Doesn't mean I still won't do it.
"You," it's a fierce snarl ripping from my lips at Dima's back as I stomp across the hardwood.
Alarmed, he spins towards me and Kajal, tucked close to his side, follows suit. Both of them hold matching pink-stained sponges in hand.
I don't hesitate, promptly nearing a squinting Dima and knocking his sponge right out of his hand.
It falls onto the hardwood floor with a wet plop.
Dima blinks in surprise between me and the fallen sponge, squints some more at me, then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a pink index finger as if he needs twenty-twenty vision to catch the simmering glare I'm giving him.
I know Dima well enough to know he's assessing the situation but I don't allow the damned traitor time to finish. Before he can speak, I'm jabbing an accusing finger at him and exclaiming, "Dima!"
As if my blood pressure isn't already high enough with having to plot my best friend's murder in the span of a few moments, Aryan's irritating presence behind me makes itself known, footsteps stalling and his even-tempered, almost entertained voice, reminding me, "Volume."
I bristle but don't even bother spinning to glare at him, knowing full well he'd enjoy that too much.
Instead, I settle for glaring at Dima, laying a decisive kick to his fallen sponge and whisper-yelling, "I'm going to murder you, Dimitri Nazarenko."
My vehement kick earns me yet another stupid, know-it-all piece of spectating commentary from Aryan. "Bad form, Zahed."
My ears heat.
This time, I can't resist.
I spin around and flip him off.
Naturally, he grins, then drops a palm over Shreya's face as she stands nosily at his hip. Safely covering her eyes, he returns my middle finger with one of his own. I scowl.
Over my shoulder, Dima splices in to politely ask, "Why, if I may ask, am I being murdered?"
Seeming to be having the time of his life, Aryan drops his hand to laugh quietly while Shreya stares about in confusion. I toss him a parting glare of withering proportions that doesn't put a single dent in his entertained expression. He's still grinning when I turn on Dima once again.
Beside Dima, Kajal clutches her sponge and glances between Dima and me. Conversely, Dima, in true Dima fashion, is unbothered by my theatrics, a single brow raised.
And in true Mira fashion, I start snapping, tone incredulous, "You told him! The number one thing you weren't supposed to do!"
Dima's eyes, the same colour as the toffees his grandmother religiously keeps in her purse, calmly peer at me behind the lens of his glasses and I wish he had another sponge in his hand just so I could slap it to the ground again.
I point an accusing finger right between his untroubled gaze. "Why would you do that?"
"Volume," comes the reminder like clockwork. It's quickly followed by a highly interested, arrogant, "Also, I'm number one? That's nice to know."
My teeth grit. Kajal should hold onto her sponge because these walls are going to turn red any damn second now if her cousin keeps talking. I may be hesitant about killing Dima but it's a little known fact that I've always been out for Shankar's blood.
Understanding quickly dawns across Dima's face, his brown eyes slipping between me and Aryan. I'm already glowering at him but then his brows crease and he frowns. "I did not," he denies, pausing to blink. "I didn't tell him"
It's my turn to pause, draw back, blink, then open my mouth to accuse him of being a big fat stinking liar, which isn't a very Dima-appropriate description if I stop to think about it.
But I'm blindsided at the moment, feeling very much like someone has shone a light into the messiest corners of my closet and all I want to do is slam the door shut with as much force as possible.
My birthday is an annual occasion that is limited to three people and three people only. Four, if we're counting Abe from Abe's Creamery where Dima and I visit every October twenty-eight and where Abe slyly puts extra pistachios on my single scoop of non-dairy vanilla.
Besides Dima and Abe's, my mom and Petra and some form of late-night takeout and cupcakes from Whole Foods, my birthday is essentially a closed celebration.
However, I'm stopped from slinging any more accusations at Dima by Kajal. Her frame sharply pushes in front of her boyfriend, her chest puffed as she tips her head to meet my eye, sponge clutched tightly in hand like she's about to swear an oath with it. Gallantly, she clears her boyfriend's name, declaring, "It wasn't Dima. It was me. I told him."
This does nothing to quell things because now, I'm throwing another wide-eyed glare of disbelief Dima's way, aimed easily over the top of Kajal's head, her brave barrier of protection only successfully guarding him up to his chest. "You told her?"
At this, Dima fixes me with a blank look and I know exactly what he's going to say before he even says it. "Of course, I did. She's my girlfriend. I tell her everything."
I find myself wanting to throw my head back and groan.
Conversely, at Dima's declaration, Kajal beams and turns her head over her shoulder, hearts in her eyes as she seeks Dima's similarly enamoured stare. I cross my arms over my chest.
Before they can descend into an even deeper circle of lovey-dovey hell, the type of hell where, instead of fire, it rains candy conversation hearts that say things like Be Mine 4Ever, where Ed Sheeran's Perfect plays on a loop until your ears bleed and the devil dances around and whacks you in the face with a bouquet of red roses, I wrinkle my nose and step back to fix them both with a scathingly judgemental look. "You two are disgustingly in love, you know that?"
Despite my repulsed tone, they both sprout giant stupid smiles at my comment, blooming like happy little flower buds.
I roll my eyes, now finding it very hard to unleash my total wrath upon the two of them. It feels a little too much like sacrilege to do anything to get between people who look at each other like that.
Still, arms crossed, I inform them, deadpan, "That's not a compliment. You should really get that checked out."
Aryan, who is the undeniable cause of all this chaos, lets out a softly entertained laugh behind me. And when I bristle at the floating sound of it, Kajal, smiling like the dandiest sunflower in the field, reaches out to pat me lightly on the arm, asking lightly, "Are you scared it's contagious?"
If looks could kill, Kajal Shankar would be reduced to nothing but a black mark seared into her grandmother's wooden floor.
She lowers her hand from my crossed arm with a small, impish smile.
I seriously consider whacking her sponge out of her hand but Dima, noting danger, raps his knuckles against hers curled around the sponge and there it goes, wordlessly passed to safety from Kajal's hands to Dima's where he stows it behind his back out of my reach, the two of them moving like a well-oiled machine.
Stupid lovebirds.
Speaking of stupid, Aryan opens his mouth and asks once again, "So, why didn't you tell me today's your birthday, Zahed?"
Kajal nods and cocks her head. "Yeah. Why didn't you tell him?"
I glower at her. She smiles, reminding me that she's definitely, without a doubt, related to Aryan fucking Shankar and thus capable of returning the nastiest of glares with a smile. "Why did you tell him?"
Kajal shrugs, innocently batting her lashes. "I thought he already knew."
Over her shoulder, Dima's mouth opens and he begins, "I thought I told you he didn't thou—,"
She elbows him in the ribs.
Dima promptly shuts up.
My eyes narrow down at her.
She regards me with a sugar-sweet smile that is most certainly not suspicious at all.
"Listen here, Shorty," I find myself warning. "You may be small but I will not hesitate to throw you—,"
Kajal cuts me off, head tilted in mock confusion, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mira."
My lips part.
"You little—,"
She's gaslighting me.
On my birthday.
And she's smiling about it.
She's evil. She's actually evil. I will never, ever underestimate Kajal Shankar's capability for pure evil again.
Dima rubs his side and glances warily between me and his very evil girlfriend.
Before I can challenge Kajal Shankar to a duel in broad daylight, Shreya's little voice rings through, demanding loudly and impatiently, "So, is it your birthday or not?"
No one gets a chance to answer because a quick pair of footsteps beat up the stairs and everyone immediately tenses and turns towards the sound, expecting the wrath of an elderly grandmother.
It's only Neha, her heavy wedding ring glinting as she waves her hands in the air and announces, "Okay, I was eavesdropping but, in my defence, you guys were like really loud. But oh, shit—," She cuts off to stare wide-eyed at the walls. "What did you do to the walls?" Then, she shakes her head and looks right at me. "Never mind that. It's your birthday?"
I visibly shrink back from the bride-to-be's expectant stare. This is not how today was supposed to go. I'm going to crawl into a hole. A deep one.
For all his earlier taunts, however, there's a shuffle and then Aryan cuts in front of me and there's a note of something like soft warning falling into his tone as he says simply to his older cousin, "Neha."
Something in my chest lightens just a little as I glance at the sure set of his shoulders.
He stares at her, communicating quietly but he doesn't have to because Shreya promptly hops to his defence like he'd pushed to mine. She's seemingly caught on because she slinks around him, lifts a finger to her lips, looking at Neha in warning and whispers, "Shh. You can't tell anyone. It's a secret."
She lowers her finger and turns to wink at me, looking very proud to be in on the secret.
Aryan cracks a smile and drops a hand to ruffle her wet hair.
Neha's contemplates all of this, head tilted, before finally saying, "I see." A grin cracks across her face. "My lips are sealed." She mock zips her mouth. "I was never even here. Though," she adds, crossing her arms, "you should be grateful it was me and not Nani because, after she beat you all for whatever the hell is going on with these walls right now, she won't rest until she sent someone to get a cake from Costco and made us all sing along to Happy Birthday in like three languages with her. And I love her and all, but her singing voice isn't that great."
I try my best not to look too horrified by that possibility. I fail because one glance over his shoulder has Aryan snorting at what must be an expression straight from a horror movie plastered across my face.
Kajal cuts in, tone hopeful, "Yes, we're so grateful for your presence here." I watch her press her palms together in a silent prayer, pink sponge held between them. "We'll be even more grateful if you, I don't know, maybe help us clean this up?"
Neha only barks a laugh. "No thank you." Kajal deflates. Dima pats her shoulder. "Like I said, I was never here. That includes not being a witness to whatever crime you're committing right now."
Kajal grows agitated, pointing an accusing finger at Shreya. "This is not my doing."
Feeling defensive of the toddler, and mildly petty about everything else, I cut in, "I would say throwing four-year-olds under the bus is low for you, Kajal, but I guess you're short enough that nothing is below you."
Aryan has to bite his lip to hold the laugh back. Dima buries his head in his hands.
Meanwhile, Neha climbs the last stair, strolls up to Kajal and rests her elbow on top of her shorter cousin's head. My comment didn't seem to bother Kajal that much, but her eyes narrow as her cousin uses her as a hand rest. Neha winks at me. "I like you." She points a diamond-adorned finger at Aryan. "You better bring her to my wedding."
My lips part but she's already leaning off Kajal and scooping Shreya up. "Let's go find your mommy. I have to go apologise to her."
After watching them fight unapologetically like cats and dogs downstairs during lunch, my brows bunch at this but Neha seems dead serious as she walks down the hall carrying the small girl in her arms.
Kajal murmurs to Dima as they go, "Are you sure you want kids?"
Dima lays a glance at the pink walls, retrieves his fallen sponge and begins to scrub. His tone comes out softly adoring, "Maybe we can have this conversation later, Twinkle Toes."
As Kajal falls into pattern with him, I catch Aryan's eye, my attention briefly falling to the pair of sunglasses peeping out of his shirt pocket. A birthday gift from Naz that she'd all but blackmailed me into accepting. The very first one, alongside Daya's lapis lazuli jewellery box that sits timidly in my room at home, ever exchanged between us, yet another thing making an already complicated day feel more complicated than usual.
And then there's a complicated boy, quirking his lips at me, drawing all my attention. An amused smile paints his voice. "Happy birthday, Zahed."
My head rings with warning bells, screaming that this is not how it's supposed to go. There aren't supposed to be sisters with presents, or smiling boys, or any of this. This isn't how it's supposed to be. And yet, he smiles like that and something in my chest unlocks and whispers other things.
"You two, less flirting, more scrubbing," Dima interrupts, speaking over his shoulder. I recognise it as a saving grace from my best friend who I am suddenly grateful to have not murdered moments ago.
Never have I been more eager to shake my head and pick up a wet sponge.
Twenty-one is proving to be a pain in the ass.
♥ ♥ ♥
ONE HOUR OF SCRUBBING LATER, we successfully fled the scene of the crime without a single print left behind.
We all tried not to look too guilty as Aryan's grandmother sent us off with kisses on the cheeks and way too much food to-go. Apparently, it's all for Herrera whose historic appetite is renowned in the Shankar household. Also, she told Dima she was proud of him for not fainting which in turn made him flush with pride and for Kajal to warn both Aryan and her grandmother to stop placing bets on her boyfriend.
And I pretended not to hear Aryan murmur to her as we walked out the door, Kajal and Dima steps ahead out of earshot, "Bet you he faints at Neha's wedding."
"Deal," his grandmother had said.
We hadn't had any more birthday-related conversations during the rest of the clean-up and now we drive down the highway in a relatively comfortable silence that might make me relax if only I could stop sneaking glances at him in the rearview mirror. I keep expecting him to reignite the conversation but he doesn't which only makes me wary. And unexpectedly guilty.
I didn't expect to feel bad about not telling him about today and yet here I am, nervously thrumming with explanations that I don't even know how to properly give to him. So, I stay quiet.
Still, my suspicions hit the roof when I glance out the window and I notice we're not driving back to Calabasas as expected. The coast flies past my window, high tide and angry waves rocking under a pale blue sky.
I nearly shoot out of my seat, blinking in alarm. "Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer me, drumming his fingers on the wheel as if he hadn't heard, and my stomach curls with irritation mingled alongside regret. Is this the silent treatment? Is he suddenly mad because I didn't tell him? Maybe I should have— I don't know.
I start to speak, "Aryan, I—,"
I trail off, both because I don't know what to say next and also because he's stopped the car. I blink.
He parks in a little strip carved off from where the road chases by. It's a small parking lot nestled right above the surging shore below.
And I get only seconds to process this before he turns off the engine, unbuckles his seatbelt and exits the car.
My mouth tears open but his door shuts in my face and I'm left with no choice but to wrench myself out of my seat, floundering out of the car with a slam of the door as he walks around front, his gait nonchalant. He even swings my keys around his index as if he knows that the sound of them musically clicking together as the ocean roars beneath us would have me gnashing my teeth at him.
The breeze off the evening coast rushes at me at once, salty and fierce, whipping through my hair as I stomp down onto the asphalt, demanding, "What the hell are you doing?"
He slips his hands into his pockets and faces me, a twinkle in his eye. "I'm taking a walk."
I rear back, sure I misheard. "What?"
A shrug of his shoulders. "I'm taking a walk on the beach, Zahed."
"Why on earth would you do that?" My eyes narrow as the sea breeze stirs his hair, salt air raking her fingers through strands of black.
"Because I want to."
I cross my arms. "Well, I don't want to."
His lips twitch. He restrains a grin, instead, he rustles through his pocket and retrieves my keys once again. They chime through the air as he tosses them to me without missing a beat. "Fine. You can stay and wait in the car."
I balk, palms shooting up to catch the ring of keys, struggling not to miss and have him make some inevitable sports commentary on my inability to play catch.
Keys caught, I have half the mind to fling them back at his head as he returns his hand to his pocket and begins to turn, meaning to descend down the sandy path onto the beach.
Snarling, I protest after him, "I'm not sitting and waiting in the fucking car."
I watch him iron over a smile as he turns back to me. "Okay," he says and holds out a hand. "Toss those back over here and come take a walk with me on the beach then."
"I don't want to take a walk with you—,"
He levels a stare at me, cutting me off clean, "Sure."
"Fuck you," I snap.
"Not here," is his cool reply. "I don't like sand in places sand shouldn't be. But I will take a walk with you." A nod towards where my feet are planted on the ground. "Give me your shoes, Zahed."
"What?" My eyes shoot down as I take a step back, heels grinding against the asphalt. "No. Why?"
"Because you're coming with me and the moment you try to walk with those in sand, you'll topple over and I'll be too busy laughing my ass off to help you up," he explains easily.
A scowl slides across my face but I take his bait anyway, sliding off my heels and remarking dryly, "What a fucking gentleman."
My bare feet on the ground, I straighten to find his sudden increase in height irks me but his grin irks me even more as he shoots back, "Me? Always."
And then he snatches the heels from my hands like a thief in the night. I roll my eyes as he strings them along by the straps and lets them click together midair at his side.
I cross my arms. "I'm keeping the keys."
"You planning to feed me to the sharks and make a quick getaway?" He raises a brow.
A slow tilt of my chin. "Maybe."
"Hm," he hums in reply. Then, "After you."
♥ ♥ ♥
FUN FACT ABOUT SANTA MONICA BEACHES: There used to be a lot of sharks here. Like a lot. I could've easily fed Aryan Shankar to any one of them. But then a bunch of sleazy billionaires started dumping shit in the ocean and piping some more shit into the atmosphere and now we have climate change and thus, less sharks swimming in the sea who can eat Aryan Shankar. Honestly, fuck Jeff Bezos.
The shore is an empty sandy strip, the sea clinging to her like a stubborn lover, back and forth, back and forth, a mad rush. But the sky is calm. The sun is there, low in the sky, setting a canvas of silvery blue speckled with clouds over our heads, soon to bleed into a vibrant sunset that would make this walk feel alarmingly romantic if it weren't for the fact that I've been glaring sideways at Aryan's head with every step we traced away from the car.
He pretends he doesn't notice but I see him smiling to the side, lips curled at the sea like they're having an inside joke. He doesn't say anything for a while, humming a tune under his breath that has me doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out the song but then giving up when he grows quiet again. Basically, I'm painfully attuned to everything he does, so when he pulls in a soft breath, I dig my toes into the sand, fully expecting him to say something.
But he doesn't, only walking on and leaving me a step behind to catch up.
Now, I'm getting annoyed.
Okay, I was always annoyed.
But now it's worse because it's coupled with the bitter awareness of what he's doing. This jackass is being nice and giving me space. Honestly, fuck him. Fuck him to hell and back.
My throat tightens with my next step. He's giving me space to talk but I don't know what to say. I debate stopping in my tracks and demanding to be taken home so that I can dutifully scrub this day away like it's nothing more than Shreya's pink handprints. I don't doubt that he'd comply which makes it even worse.
And, drumroll, there it is again. Guilt.
I abandon my glare in favour of glancing at Naz's sunglasses peeking out from his shirt pocket. Some part of me had wanted to snap them in two the minute I'd gotten home.
His sleeves are rolled up. I know this because I'd watched him do it and glowered at every vein running up and down his forearms. He walks with his hands in his pockets, almost like he's putting them somewhere where he can't reach for me and shake me by my insolent shoulders, or at least that's what I would do. But no, there's not a stitch of impatience on his face, no frustration, no hurry, only leisurely steps and calm breathing and a sunset.
My heart beats hard in my ears, drowning out the sound of the sea. I inhale and stop at his side.
In a rush, I say, "I'm sorry." The tide beats against the shore. A seagull takes off flight a few feet behind us. My lips twitch into a frown. An awkward beat passes. I have the weird urge to drag my feet in the sand like a child who can't stand still. "For not telling you about today."
I was right to assume he was waiting for me to talk because he doesn't miss a beat when I finally do, stopping and turning to me to incline his head. The setting sun is a yellow halo behind his head, setting him aflame, as he regards me solemnly and replies, "Don't be."
My brows pinch together.
"I'm sure you have your reasons for not wanting people to know, Mira," he says and there's a sudden violent clamour in my ears. My reasons. They're stupid and childish and yet I can't let go. There's no harsh taunt in his voice either, only something softening behind his eyes. "Besides, I don't need to know your birthday to know I care about you. Though, I'd like to have known—,"
At that point, I no longer hear him because there's a different violent crash in my ears this time, so very loud that I wonder if he heard it, echoing over the rumble of the sea.
I care about you.
I feel it like a shudder through me and I can't explain why it nearly knocks me off my feet in a tidal wave of surprise.
"Zahed," he says and I snap back to reality as he continues speaking. I immediately feel silly for getting lost in a small string of words but thankfully, he doesn't notice. He only looks at me carefully before saying, "Now, you're definitely going to hate this and probably will try to kill me even though none of this is technically my fault."
The sun is setting over his shoulder, lighting a match across the sky as it burns in dizzying oranges and pinks. I have no idea what he's talking about and I might be a little bit drunk off his precious statement because confusion mars my face as I say, "What are you talking about?"
"I'm okay with you shooting the messenger," is his response. Then, he grins which only deepens my wariness. "Made it easier for you too if you wanted to kill me right now. I don't see any sharks but all you'd have to do is let the tide take me and done. You're a free woman and you have your getaway car at the ready."
Aryan continues on, mystifying me even more, "But I have to ask you to settle your vendetta with me. You hear that, Zahed? Leave Kenna and Kajal out of it. And Dija is too nice to incur your wrath, Zahed. Apparently, she baked a cake." My mouth opens instantly, eyes widening, but he goes on, "They've got their whole lives ahead of them. You didn't hear Kajal talking about babies earlier? Think about Dima's future babies, Mira. And Kenna, I know she can be annoying but she's the only one who can put up with Herrera's moody bullshit so you gotta have some mercy—,"
"Shankar," I slice his tirade in two, bristling at his shit-eating grin. It's concerning how quickly he can go from making my chest do stupid things to making my hands itch to strangle him. "Shut the fuck up. What the hell are you talking about?"
His eyes turn serious as he offers me a crooked smile. "I wasn't supposed to tell you but I also don't want to walk you into something you don't want to be a part of. You don't have to go if you want. You've got the keys, you can drive away and hide somewhere where Kenna won't find you till tomorrow."
I'm glaring hard enough to turn the sand beneath our feet into glass now. He expects it and doesn't so much as flinch as I snap, "You're fucking lying. Tell me you're joking."
The sky is quickly turning inky when he shakes his head and calmly replies, "Nope. Kenna is definitely throwing you a surprise party as we speak."
I slap a palm to my forehead, eyes slamming shut. "I'm going to kill you."
"I am innocent," he reminds me.
"No," I reply, eyes still closed. "Fuck you."
I hear a smile in his voice. "You're going to go, aren't you?"
My eyes fly open and I snatch my heels out of his hands and start storming away in the direction we came from. "Fuck you."
"It could be worse," Aryan says conversationally as he falls easily into step beside me. I consider clobbering him with my heels. "You could be like Raf on his birthday and cry like a baby."
♥ ♥ ♥
and we're back !
i missed writing this book so much 🥺😩 pls this is my first piece of writing after like 3 months of writing drought forgive me if it's all over the place i will recover by next chapter i stg i just needed to get over this block <33