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ARYAN AND I ARE DOING IT AGAIN.
No one else is aware of it.
It's like our own little game.
He flashes me a dark look and I debate kicking him under the table. I start saying something to Dima— poor Dima, my best friend who doesn't know that there's blood boiling under the surface of this little brunch—, and Aryan cuts in, with that careless tilt of mouth of his, leaving me to scoff under my breath. And then there's Kajal, perhaps the dreamiest human being I'd ever encountered. It was a wonder he was related to her, with her pretty dark eyes and colourful rayon dresses, and it was no surprise she'd hooked Dima in.
Today her dress was the colour of saffron, ruffled sleeves and polka dots, a braid, fraying apart prettily around her cheeks, strung over a shoulder. Kajal Shankar is sparkling like sunshine. I watch Dima every time she laughs and I can only describe the look that flutters across his face as love.
And she's laughing now. At something he is saying. Aryan grins, his elbows braced casually on the restaurant's oak table, cocking his head as he speaks with that lilting accent of his, stretching syllables and adding notes to everything for no apparent reason.
"Next thing I know, my mate is streaking across the campus with a White Claw, of all things, clutched in his hand, screaming about some woman named Rosita," Aryan finishes with a grin.
I roll my eyes and make sure he sees it. The scowl is barely there, underneath all his grins and bright eyes— this is a trait he shares with his cousin— but I see it nonetheless. And I smile, nothing but thrilled to have ticked him off.
Kajal, oblivious as is Dima, clamps a hand over her lips to restrain her giggles, but they slip past still, tingling and light and wrapping my best friend faster and faster within her web.
She drops her hand and questions Aryan, "I've never heard this one. Was it Raf?"
"It's always Herrera," came Aryan's sighed reply.
I imagine I should know who he was talking about. Even Dima has a spark of understanding behind his eye and I like to assume that he's just as oblivious as me towards the ongoing affairs of the UCLA student body. That was before he'd fallen in love with the starry-eyed art student who made clay beads that he wore on a string around his wrist.
I'd prodded him in the chest one day and asked what they meant. I didn't have much of an eye for the arts and that was no secret but apparently, the meaning of Kajal's beads was a secret because Dima had only chuckled and said, An inside joke.
And I know I shouldn't be jealous, shouldn't be upset, shouldn't feel any of the feelings that I felt. I should be happy that my best friend had fallen in love. But every time she laughs and he smiles at the sound, I feel a little bit more lonely.
Aryan leans back in his seat, arm sling over the back of his chair. The way he sits is so arrogant, so utterly sure of himself and his standing in the world. He fixes a dark-eyed stare on me and I turn my skin to steel under it.
"And what about you, Zahed?" It's almost a drawl. At least he pronounces my surname properly, doesn't stumble over it, no stuttering, no I'm sorry, sweetie, but forgive me if I get this wrong. Two simple syllables that caused so much trouble yet I'd witnessed people graze seamlessly over Dima's Nazarenko.
I stare at him. "What about me?"
A crooked grin. "Have you ever been streaking?"
Dima snorts beside him. Kajal swats a napkin his way that he easily brushes off, tanned forearm sending the thing spiralling to the floor.
He's in the process of picking it up when I reply. "Only in your dreams, Shankar."
He pauses, fingers brushing for the napkin on the floor. He smiles fully, all dimples and full, twisted lips, glittering eyes and lifted brows. "Sounds quite like a nightmare to me, Zahed."
Before I can make him eat the napkin that he just picked up from the floor, the sound of the restaurant's bell chimes, making everyone's eyes flutter to the doorway. Except for mine. I fix a glare on Aryan. It's a vicious enough one that I capture his attention from the newcomers.
He lifts a brow at me.
I return his pretty smile. Then, I flip him off.
He clutches a hand to his chest with a mock-pained look on his face, dropping his hand and rolling his eyes.
Both of us iron over our snarling expressions by the time Kajal and Dima turn back to the table.
Well, I only half-manage to iron over my snarl, leaving me with a messy resting bitch face that Dima shoots me a puzzled look over.
At least we haven't lost all our codes, I think to myself.
I don't bother returning a look with him, instead sipping my lemon water and peering at Aryan with a cautious, narrow-eyed stare over the rim of my glass.
He pretends he doesn't notice. I very well know he fucking notices.
Dima sinks into a quiet conversation with Kajal, fingers sliding across the tabletop to where she sat opposite him, to graze her own fingertips. I glance away.
This is the usual seating arrangement we adopted, Kajal and I beside each other, Dima and Aryan on the other side. I wish it would change because it leaves me always sitting opposite Aryan. And the urge to kick him under the table intensified with each passing brunch. I suppose it was a lot better than having to sit next to him though.
His jaw tightens under my stare. I can almost taste his next words. Can I help you, Zahed?
I don't think he's called me by my name for the entirety of our knowing each other. But that's fine by me because I don't even want to hear how my name falls from his lips. He's lived in the States for a few years now but he's got the remnants of an irritatingly English lilt and sometimes I have no idea what he's saying, purely London slang. All I know is he's always talking.
This time, he doesn't get to talk, the sound of the restaurant's bell again chiming past our ears again, shutting him up good and proper.
That thing has rung about fifty times since we've sat down for brunch. But I'm not surprised. We're on Melrose. It's Saturday. And if there's one thing that Californians worship, it's brunch.
Aryan's eyes light up with recognition and he flashes a winning smile to the group of boys strolling in through the doorway. I glance over my shoulder at them. A sea of sweaty, red-faced college boys tumbles through the doorway, beckoning in a blast of outdoor heat as they did.
Summer in California had granted them all tans, the skin of one of the boys' nose peeling. Years of my plastic surgeon mother telling me that sunscreen was important rises to the back of my head but I decide I don't care to mention it to the boy because he was now trading grins with Aryan Shankar as he and his pack amble over to our table.
Great, I think blandly, they're friends. This fucker has friends. If he has so many friends, why the hell was he always here?
I glare at him again, just for this. Aryan, who hasn't quite yet mastered the art of reading my mind, furrows his brows at me as if to say What now?
I merely sigh, bored, and sip my water again as the burly group of men stopped just near our table. The first boy, the one who smiled, stands at the edge of the table and plops a hand on Aryan's shoulder.
"Ry, bro," greets the young man.
At that, my brows lift. I look over at Dima, hoping to share a bemused expression at Ry, bro but he and Kajal, so absorbed in their own little bubble, had gone back to chatting in soft tones with one another after offering polite smiles to the newcomers.
Here is the downside to watching your best friend fall in love: he no longer has eyes for you when you mocked the people around you with nothing but silent, closeted stares.
I really had to start faking an illness just to get out of these things. Or maybe I'd just stare at Aryan long enough and get sick all on my own.
"Parker, man!" Park-uh. Aryan beams and clasps the boy's hand on his shoulder in a hearty grip, twisting in his seat, all long limbs and slender, corded muscle as he rises to his feet. They do one of those intricate boy handshakes that make no sense to me. I once asked Dima if they made sense to him and he said that they weren't supposed to make sense.
Aryan's hair is wild and dark. He's always running his hands through it, sending dark strands sticking up at random angles. Somehow, he makes it work. This also annoys me since I've been religiously straightening my hair to make it semi-tame since I was twelve years old. And here was Aryan Shankar, pulling off the whole I just slid out of bed hair easily.
Besides Parker, Aryan is tall. They clasp hands and I watch him tower over the boy, I watch as a single swatch of brown skin is revealed as he shifts, his shirt rising just a little bit, flashing skin only for me.
I look away, annoyed.
Parker is good-looking, even by Los Angeles standards, where everyone is good-looking. Dirty blonde hair beside Aryan's black of night. A strong jaw and proud tilt of nose. He's buff, arms muscled, exposed proudly by his sleeveless basketball shirt.
But when Aryan grins that grin, the one that makes girls on campus and off-campus as well, drop it all for him— and by it all, I mean their clothes—, Parker is next to nothing beside him.
I scowl into my drink.
Aryan is much more than good-looking, you see. He's beautiful. So beautiful that when he plays soccer for fun on campus, with no shirt on, all the girls would walk the long way to their classes if only to catch a glimpse. He has one of the nicest smiles I've ever seen. It's such a shame every time he smiles at me, I consider breaking his jaw.
I'm jostled from my violent thoughts by a pair of blue eyes skimming my way.
"Who's your friend?"
It takes me a moment to realise Parker means me.
I don't recognise Parker from campus. Then again, I don't pay much attention. I drive the long drive every day from my family home in Calabasas to UCLA. Sororities terrify me. I'm not nearly blonde enough for them. Frat houses are only good for booze and boys who knew not to call after the fact and even that I had little interest in. There was booze at home and most boys at UCLA gave me an instant migraine. I didn't need the college experience. I had Dima. It was always just me and Dima.
But now Dima has Kajal.
That leaves me with Aryan.
Speak of the devil. He huffs a laugh and glances between Parker and I. "Who? Zahed?"
"We're not friends," I cut in.
Parker doesn't note my sharp tone, but Aryan does. I watch him roll his eyes.
"Zahed, huh?" Parker's face lights up. "Why does that sound familiar?"
Dima looks my way then, finally reentering the world of single people.
"I don't know," I say blankly. "Did you get a rhinoplasty recently?"
Parker blinks. Aryan laughs.
"Mira here lives in Calabasas, you've probably seen her—,"
"Do you ever shut up, Shankar?"
Everyone blinks.
Aryan, though— Aryan grins.
Today is the day I'm going to break his jaw, I decide.
Parker cuts past our staring contest, snapping his fingers my way. "Aha! Your dad's Daniel Fakhoury."
Dima shoots me a wary glance. Again, I don't bother to return it. I merely blink at my father's name and say to Parker, "Never heard of him."
"The actor—," he pushes on.
Dima clears his throat loudly, silencing Parker.
I sink in on myself in relief.
Aryan breaks the awkward silence. He shakes Parker's hand and beams. "Nice to see you, mate. I'll leave you to it."
I immediately hate that I have to be grateful for anything Aryan Shankar does but as Parker ambles away with one last curious glance at me, I am grateful anyway.
He doesn't look at me as he sinks back into his seat, all 6'4 of him.
When the waiter comes over with the bill, I pay, if only to charge Daniel Fakhoury for the trouble of this lunch. Dima, knowing my thought process, doesn't object but Aryan and Kajal are opening their mouths as soon as the card is in my hand.
I swipe it before they can get a word in.
Outside, on the street, cars zip by and influencers trot about, decked out in clothing they can barely afford. The sun glares down at us, unforgiving. I pull a pair of sunglasses on and turn to face the doe-eyed couple.
They were having one of those couple conversations again. Aryan was stretching an arm above his head behind them, shirt once again rising and flashing skin. Gaze hidden by sunglasses, I don't look away as quickly.
"Mira," Dima speaks first, glancing at the keys in my hand. "We have a favour to ask."
I blink between them. Kajal is giving me a sheepish smile.
Dima's Jordan's tap twice on the pavement before he talks to me. His thin-framed glasses are halfway down the bridge of his nose, brown eyes apprehensive.
"I'm not going to bite," I say to him.
"It's not me I'm scared for, Mira," comes Dima's smart reply. And his eyes cut to Aryan.
I blink again.
Kajal clutches Dima's arm. She's much shorter than him, head grazing his bicep. She gives me a pleading look. How am I supposed to say no to Kajal Shankar when she literally looks like a fucking angel? "Please, Mira," she says, as if we've been friends forever, "can you give Aryan a lift?"
At the sound of his name, Aryan looks our way.
I sputter, eyes crossing to Dima because I couldn't quite bring myself to snap at Kajal— she was too nice. "Didn't he come with you? Why can't you do it?"
Dima taps his shoe again.
I narrow my eyes at him.
"You asshole," I snap as realisation dawns, feeling very, very single indeed. I lower my voice. "Really, Dimitri Nazarenko? Really? Right now? Can't you fuck your girlfriend some other time and spare me the trouble?"
Red colours Kajal's cheeks.
Dima sighs, having expected my unfiltered rhetoric. "No."
I glare.
Aryan coughs. It's the first time I witness him look mildly uncomfortable.
I don't care.
I'm not driving him anywhere. I don't want to have to spend any more time with Aryan Shankar than absolutely necessary and I most certainly don't want to be alone with him.
I cross my arms and glare at Dima. "What would your babka say to this, Dima?"
"Mira," Dima sighs. "Can you please leave my grandmother out of this?"
Kajal, still bright red, looked hopefully at me again. "Please."
Dima nods along with her. "Besides, babushka loves Kajal."
♥ ♥ ♥
Ten minutes later and I'm actively avoiding eye contact with Aryan Shankar as I twist the steering wheel of my car.
Eleven minutes in and he punctures the silence because there was nothing more enjoyable to him than the sound of his own voice.
"Nice car, Zahed."
The day is hot and the leather seats had been scalding below my bare legs as I'd slid into the car. I had a pillow in the backseat for the express purpose of this occurrence but I refuse to use it while he was in my car. Yet the hot seat and sweat-slippery skin annoy me enough that I give a harsh jerk of the steering wheel at his words, imagining him flying out the door.
He merely grips the overhead handle tightly.
"Where I'm from, it's mainly drug dealers who drive these sort of cars," he comments, leaning back.
"Funny," I muse, debating driving us into a wall so I don't have to hear him speak anymore.
"Do you even know where you're taking me?"
I bristle. "Rule number one of driving with me, Shankar," I snap, "men aren't allowed to talk in my damn car."
He sighs and leans back.
Silence stretches on.
I detach my hand from the wheel as the blue sky whizzes by above us and reach for the radio just as he does. I pull my hand away with a scowl. Aryan, however, bold piece of shit, proceeds to turn on my radio.
After he switches past three stations, I snap, "What the hell are you doing, Shankar?"
He's slow to answer, still twisting the knob.
It takes me cutting my eyes from the road to glare at him for him to reply, "I was under the impression that I wasn't allowed to speak." His tone is dry.
I glower once more before looking back at the road. "You're also not allowed to play with the radio."
"Am I even allowed to breathe, Zahed?"
"Preferably not."
Aryan shifts in the seat. "What's your deal?"
"My deal?" I bite out.
"What is it? Retired party girl? Reformed mean girl? Basic bitch with an attitude problem?" He asks in a casual drawl but his disdain for me lingers in his tone. It's good to know I get on his nerves too.
Because I almost hit the brakes just to watch him fly through the windscreen for that.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Shankar?" I snap over the Taylor Swift song he'd left playing on the radio.
"Charlie says you're not that bad," he continues on, unaware of how close I am to manslaughter.
"Charlie?" I inquire sharply, really cursing Dima in the back of my head.
"Ross," says Aryan. "Charles? Didn't you two go to school together?"
"Oh." Charles Ross, whose father was Hollywood royalty but not quite as infamous as mine. "Yeah." Then, I blink. "Why the hell are you talking about me with your friends, Shankar?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Zahed," comes Aryan's reply.
I roll my eyes, glaring past my sunglasses at the road ahead of me. Traffic is lighter today and I'm thankful because that means less time with Aryan Shankar.
"You live with him, right?" I ask, distantly remembering that Ross lived on the beach in Santa Monica. I counted the minutes from there to here, biding my time with this clown.
"Yeah, but that's not where I'm going," Aryan replies. He then proceeds to pull open his phone and blink down at the screen a couple times before prattling off an address.
The rest of the drive is quiet. Aryan switches between his phone and the window, dark eyes squinting like the entire world was interesting to him. He twiddles with the radio a few more times and I debate swatting his hand away, instead settling for blowing an impatient breath out that sent dark strands of hair that slipped from my ponytail flying out of my face.
I slow to a stop when we arrive at our destination and Aryan quickly unbuckles his seat belt.
I blink. Then, I blink again at the building I've stopped at.
Aryan is halfway out the door.
I pull my shades off my face with a rather violent movement, pushing it up onto my head as I stare incredulously at him.
I glance over my shoulder at the Greek letters on the building before staring back at him.
"A sorority?" I intone sharply.
"Kappa Kappa Alpha," he replies.
I curl my hands tightly around the wheel. "You made me drop you off for a fucking booty call?"
Aryan grins and tucks his phone into his pocket.
"Get the fuck out of my car."
"Goodbye, Zahed."
"Get out, Shankar, before I decide to run you over."
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hi guys
i don't usually do long ass author's notes but i can already feel myself losing it bc of nano and i feel like long ass author's notes will give me a piece of mind
anyway, welcome to llfh, i had a lot of fun writing this very cliche, very wattpad type chapter which is soooo different from the vibe i have in my other books and i hope you enjoyed reading
again, apologies for any errors etc but i did say it was gonna be messy af
don't be shy and feel free to leave your thoughts etc in the comments xx