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I THINK I PASSED THAT EXAM WITH FLYING COLOURS.
By the end of it, I think I might actually have written pendejo as an answer at least once. I'm also pretty sure I spelt my name wrong at the top of the exam slip.
But flying colours. I used a neon highlighter.
Needless to say, I'm thankful when the whole thing is over and the professor collects my slip, shooting Kenna and I a glare as he does so.
We may or may not have erupted into laughter a couple of times during the exam, earning a pointed glare from a guy at the front of the glass wearing glasses. I hope he passed.
At least Kenna hadn't sung any hymns. He really should be thankful.
By the time I'm out of the exam room, the air conditioning is replaced by warm daytime sun.
Kenna slinks after me, still a little dazed, a grin on her lips. She bumps right into me as I halt on the steps of the building, right where I'd picked a leaf out of Aryan Shankar's hair like a fool.
I don't glance down to see if the leaf is still there because my attention is caught on something else entirely.
The students drifting from the building slow their pace to stare as they pass, some of them stopping entirely. Someone takes out their phone and hits record. This is Hollywood, after all.
Lights, camera, action.
So when someone else a step behind me also opens their phone to record and my angry voice replays Fuck off, Buttercup over the audio, I'm barely surprised.
At least I know now what this is about.
"Your dad is kinda hotter in person, Mira," Kenna's voice pierces past my thoughts and I scowl deeply.
Her eyes dance between me and the Hollywood star— not my father— standing at the base of the UCLA steps as if he belongs there, not on those red carpets and movie screens. He's wearing white jeans and a loose blue shirt, top buttons undone like the true movie star he was, sunglasses tucked into the neckline. I stare and stare. I can't find my father anywhere there.
Kenna winces, "Yeah, sorry. Bad timing." A shake of her head. "Blame it on the vodka."
I don't bother replying, sliding down the steps with as much grace as I can manage. We have the same colouring, from the eyes to the light golden-hued skin to the dark hair. The same features too. When he frowns as I descend the stairs and brush entirely past him, it's my frown.
Daniel Fakhoury turns on his heel. "Emira," he says.
I keep walking. I don't stop until the cameras and the eyes and the attention slinks away.
Because I never wanted this. I am Mira Zahed, daughter of Farrah Zahed who was in love with Petra Redwin. I am Mira Zahed, best friend to Dima. I am Mira Zahed. I am Mira Zahed. I am Mira Zahed.
Or was I?
As I walk, I tug my phone from my pocket, ignoring the sounds of expensive shoes treading on the campus grounds after me. He's following me.
I don't really know who I'm going to call but I pull out my phone anyway, just to see past the blinding red anger.
I see there's a missed call from Ivan. A couple of texts.
I am Mira Zahed, best friend to Dima.
Yet I open the stupid messages anyway. He forwarded me a TMZ video. I press play. And it's me screaming at Buttercup while Shankar pulls me back, the newscast titling it as Daddy Issues: Boyfriend Holds Fakhoury's Daughter Back In Fight On UCLA Campus.
I stop the video just as I tell Melissa to pull the stick out of her ass after elbowing Aryan.
My first thought: I'm not his daughter.
My second thought: Boyfriend?
My third thought is a bit slower.
I want to blame it on my half-drunk mind but honestly, it's just that the words staring up at me from Ivan's text don't make any sense.
Cute couple.
Does he know it's me you call when you're home alone though?
And for the fiftieth time today, I want to throw my phone. Because, honestly, what the fuck?
"Emira," my father calls after me.
Ah, there it is. I found my target.
He's surprisingly fast for someone approaching fifty. I'm pretty sure Vogue did a YouTube video on his workout routine a few months ago. Oh, and he does his own stunts.
His greatest stunt, I personally think, was the disappearing act he pulled years ago.
I whirl on my heel.
I'd never wanted to be one of those messy Hollywood kids, the ones who smear the front pages and dirty their parents' names. I never wanted anything to do with him.
But here I am anyway, glaring across the parking lot again, this time though, Buttercup's nowhere in sight.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"My publicist sent me that video—," he starts. Any hint of an accent had been stolen from his voice, as if he'd taken a hammer and beaten it away into hardened American syllables, into what Hollywood says he's best at—and that isn't being my father. It's been years since I heard his real voice. So long that I'm near certain that the drifting Middle Eastern accent he'd had when I was a child was just a figment of my imagination. "She told me not to come—,"
"You should've listened to your wife, Daniel."
He winces, whether at the cold way I address him or at wife, I'm not sure.
His publicist, his wife, the mother of his twin teenage girls, pretty young girls enrolled in Swiss boarding school, untouched by scandal. I'd been invited to that wedding. And though the woman wasn't from the leagues of them years ago, I still couldn't bring myself to attend. Nor could I bring myself to follow back his other daughters on Instagram.
But it's easy, so easy, to glower across the parking lot at him, all that rage of over ten years boiling under my skin. Of course, I've seen him before now. But that rage is always there. And I don't want to let go of it. It grounds me, like an anchor, like roots, holding me down and steady onto the asphalt of the sunny UCLA parking lot.
"Mira," says my father. "I had no idea you felt like you did in the video—," He's shaking his head. "If I'd known—,"
I can't help it. I laugh. "If you'd known— what?"
How many years has it been?
Why now?
Why today?
When I'm hot, sweat tickling the back of my neck, having just failed an exam, almost brawling a green-haired manic pixie bitch earlier today, and, to top it all off, having Ivan fucking Nazarenko thinking I was with Aryan Shankar of all fucking people. I simply do not have the time nor the energy for this.
Which is why I'm laughing. It was easier than shouting, easier than fighting, easier than crying and most certainly, it was much easier than analysing all the feelings under the surface of my skin.
After all, fuck Maths, right?
"Go to fucking hell," I laugh. "Please." I shake my head, chuckling. "Spare me."
"I just want to have a conversation," he placates, holding up his palms.
I blink. A conversation?
And my anger isn't a stable root to embed into the ground, so it seems, because I feel like I might fall over from how ridiculous this is.
I think I might have fallen over, to be honest, if not for the sudden flash.
And then I'm blinking again, for a whole different reason.
Is that— is that fucking paparazzi?
Yes, it is. I can tell from the dark look that passes over Daniel's face. He's been caught. Of course, he's been caught. This is Los Angeles, the city of angels with camera phones and devil horns tucked into their back pockets. This isn't the safe reaches of my childhood home. He ruins everything.
Another flash.
I can't pinpoint where it comes from.
All I know is that I won't like whatever they caption these photos, which is why I turn away from him once again, searching for any escape route. But alas, that fucker has my keys.
I'm covering my face and walking away. Naturally, he's walking after me.
Where was this energy when he walked away?
"I want to fix things, Mira," he says. "If you'd let me—,"
Jesus fucking Christ.
I keep walking. I don't really know where I'm going. Away.
"Please, Emira," pleads the man. "I want to fix things. Let's have lunch one day. There's a good steakhouse. We can talk. Hear me out."
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The harsh pound in my chest speeds up and I'm dizzy with anger.
I drop my hand from covering my face and once again turn on my heel to face him, grey eyes meeting grey eyes. And I'm about to scream, scream a million things the same way those curses had torn from me with Buttercup, because truth be told, without Dima by my side, I have no roots holding me down and I am loose, nothing but drifting storm clouds aching to swallow something whole and tear it to shreds.
I'm about to scream when there's the sudden screeching of tires on pitch.
My Range Rover barrels into the lot, dust in its wake as it careens over to me. I worry it might knock me over but then decide I don't mind so long as it takes Daniel down with me.
Aryan Shankar sits in the driver's seat, hands tight on my precious steering wheel, the brown skin of his knuckles white with the gripping movements he'd manoeuvred to get into the lot at that speed. He pulls down the window of the passenger side.
His dark eyes dance over me before he says a quick, "Get in, Zahed."
I would usually object to all things Aryan Shankar. I would usually murder him with my bare hands just for driving my car. I would usually rather eat dust than get into a vehicle with him again. I would usually run away from him, and the one strand of hair still sticking up from when I'd pulled a single yellow leaf from his hair.
But I find myself flinging open the passenger door at the speed of light, feeling the flashing increase because they'd just gotten top tier content now, hadn't they?
I put one foot onto the vehicle before throwing a look over my shoulder at the forlorn man. "I'm vegan, not that you'd know that," I say. "So, fuck your steakhouse."
Then, I'm in the car, door slammed shut behind me and Aryan is driving with those same wild movements and most definitely breaking about a dozen speeding rules. But in no time, the flashing lights of paparazzi are a thing of the past as we zip down the highway.
I'm silent as we once again narrowly miss a red light, head elsewhere. He seems to enjoy driving my poor baby like she's a race car. But I don't tell him to slow down and I can tell by the amount of times he's glancing over at me, he's waiting for me to make a snarky comment.
I bite finally as we crest onto Hollywood Boulevard, the air conditioning sufficiently taming the boiling of my blood, "I should kill you for driving my car, Shankar."
Okay, maybe not that tame.
He seamlessly turns the wheel. And though his movements are wild, his speeding worrying, he drives with fluidity and a precise control that makes me annoyed. He's a better driver than me. I'm never going to say that out loud.
Aryan glances at me over his shoulder. His forearms shift as he returns the wheel in position, corded muscle and veins. I tear my eyes away before he can catch me staring.
There's a small smirk on his lips as he stares out the windshield. "You're welcome."
"Shut up."
"Boyfriend, huh?"
I throw his words back at him immediately, scowling. "Don't flatter yourself, Shankar." And then, I glower out the window, crossing my arms over my chest in irritation as I roll my eyes.
He chuckles under his breath.
"I wonder," Aryan says.
I wait for the rest.
He's waiting for me to bite.
I keep glowering out the window, crossing my arms tighter around myself as I absolutely refuse to budge.
Aryan drops one hand from the wheel and lays it on the glovebox. He starts to tap a beat with his knuckles on the leather top as he drives one-handed.
I'm going to break his knuckles by the time he finally speaks. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm wondering about in this pretty little head of mine, Zahed?"
"I didn't know you were capable of having thoughts, Shankar," comes my thin reply.
He shakes his head, dark hair shifting with the movement. "Says the one who drank too much and started a fight that's all over social media now."
I sharply glare at him. Even though he's right.
"It was barely a fight," I defend.
"Oh, yeah," he agrees, leaning back, tapping the wheel now. "If it were a real fight, Buttercup wouldn't have any pretty teeth left in her mouth to smile with."
"Scowl," I say.
"Hm?"
"To scowl with," I say. "I don't think she smiles that much."
Aryan laughs, the sound rocking from him like the waves off the coast. It knocks right into me. I look out the window, reminded of how hollowed I feel, memories of a childhood, memories of splashing in Malibu waves, memories of never falling underwater because there were always hands to catch me, memories ripped from my chest and a home torn from beneath my feet.
By the time I recover, he's still laughing and it's still a bright sound. He has the type of laugh that you might find yourself trying hard to coax out of him. It's like sunlight.
And though this is the sunny state of California, with the days lasting long and the nights short and wild, we need sunlight like that, to drown out the artificial flash of paparazzi cameras. Aryan Shankar's laugh is something pure amidst all the plastic.
He tips his head toward the wheel and tilts it my way. "Buttercup, huh?"
I grin back. "It fits."
Aryan straightens and whistles. "Phew, Zahed." He shakes his head as we drift down the road. "Tell me, do you have any nice and handy nicknames for me?"
I don't miss a beat. "Asshole works just fine."
"Unsurprising."
I lean back. "I am a woman of habit," I say. "Now, keep your eyes on the road, Shankar. If you crash my car, you'll have hell to pay."
"You know," he states. He doesn't listen to me, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "You and Buttercup aren't that different."
And I'm reminded of why I hate him. I sit up straight in my seat, deeply affronted. "What? Why the fuck would you say that?"
Aryan looks at the road. "You don't smile that much either, Zahed."
He's looking at the road so he doesn't see the quick frown on my lips. It's gone in a heartbeat.
We drive in silence for a while until I sit up again.
"Kenna," I say.
I want to believe that it's the haze of all that had happened between me leaving her ok the steps of the Biology building to me getting into the car with Aryan that made me forget and not the fact that I've been slyly admiring— no, not admiring, plotting— plotting as I study Aryan's hands.
You know, how best to break them and all that.
He huffs a laugh. "No, we didn't forget Kenna, Zahed."
"Oh," I say in relief. I like Kenna Westbrooke, I'd decided. I don't like many people. But I like her.
"I sent Herrera to pick her up with her car but I think they're taking a while," he tells me. "Apparently, he has to wait while she shacks up with the girl from the game. Good for him. That fucker deserves to be humbled every now and then."
I gape. "The one with the curly hair? The boobs?"
Aryan nods. "Yes, the one with the boobs, Zahed."
"Good for her," I comment, leaning back, feeling rather impressed with Kenna's skills of seduction.
My phone dings in my pocket. I shoot a glance at Aryan before slyly pulling it out, reading the name of the sender and nothing else before shoving it back in place.
I reach back and pull the scrunchie loose, letting my hair fall around my shoulders in dark, angry waves, curled slightly at the ends from the humidity of the day.
Aryan's eyes pass over me for a quick moment as I'm sliding the red scrunchie onto my wrist.
"What?" I ask him.
"What?" He repeats.
"What was floating around in that empty skull of yours, Shankar?"
Aryan grins. His eyes drift my way and I make the mistake of meeting his gaze. Their dark depths spark with fireworks as he says, "I was just wondering if it's possible for you to ever interact with me and not roll those pretty eyes of yours, Zahed."
♥ ♥ ♥
the tension just keeps getter more and more fun to write
speaking of tension, this is a friendly reminder that if you are a child, you should leave bc!! this!! book!! will!! have!! explicit!! content!!
anyway i'm like 20,000 words into 50,000 i don't know if i'll get to 50k by the end of nov but fingers crossed