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I CAN NEVER BE PEACEFULLY WOKEN up in this damn house.
The rampant knocking on my door lets me know that it isn't Herrera. He never knocks.
It yanks me rudely from sleep, pushing my hair out of my eyes as I sit up amidst my sheets to blink groggy eyes at my door.
The sun is pale in the sky and the water laps lazily at the sand outside the large window to the right of my bed. It's a rather peaceful sight to wake up to. Such a shame I have a cousin called Kajal whose fist does not rest upon my door.
"Good morning, Kajal. Please consider giving my door a break," I call sleepily.
Kajal knocks. Rather loudly. But she knocks, only because she'd barged into my room at our grandmother's house one weekend years ago when I'd been left alone only to be greeted by a very naked, very smug blonde in my bed. I think the experience haunts us both because every time she catches me eyeing any blonde, she looks a little green. Personally, it haunts me because I'd been in the middle of something, interrupted by my antsy cousin and her little frame and her incessant shouting. Needless to say, my friend was promptly run off by Kajal who really had been channelling her mother, my aunt, that day.
I'm surprised she hadn't beaten me with a slipper while she was at it, honestly.
"Are you decent?" She asks, hand on the doorknob I imagine.
Someone snorts from behind her. "Morally?" I hear Kenna's voice. "He's Aryan Shankar so, no."
Great, I get two early morning visitors, I think to myself as the door is pushed open.
Kajal, when I stand next to her, reaches just about at my bicep. She's wearing her hair in twin French braids and it makes her look young, rather unthreatening. Her gold, strappy sandals stomp across my bedroom floor and barely make a sound against the carpet yet I know better than to dismiss that temper of hers. She's clutching a phone in her hand.
Kenna slinks in behind her, idling in the doorway.
The amused grin on Kenna's lips is my first sign.
My second sign is the fact that Kajal all but chucks the phone in her hands at my chest.
My reflexes kick in, arms lifting to catch it before I'd been landed a blow so early in the morning. A blow from little Kajal would most definitely hurt more than anything Herrera could manage.
"Read it," she snaps, hands falling to her hips. I know if I tell her she's starting to look like her mother with that pose, she'll fling something else at me so I keep my mouth shut smartly, eyes falling to the phone in hand.
Kenna's smirking at me as I scan the photograph and the caption.
There's a brush of feet near my doorway but I can't bring myself to look away just yet, blinking over and over at the ridiculousness glaring up at me.
"Here you go," I hear Charlie say.
"This is what I call morning entertainment," Kenna beats in reply. I look up then. All three of them are standing there, hiding smirks, nursing cups— I sniff—, as they watch the drama unfold. Herrera leans back on the wall of the hallway outside.
I turn to Kajal. "You made everyone chai but me?"
"Learn to do it yourself," she snaps. "What is it? Are your hands broken, Aryan?"
Kajal never raises her voice, never snaps, is never remotely rude to anyone. Except for me.
Which is why Charlie and Herrera have a field day whenever she stops by, usually bringing something that my grandmother sent from home with her, something sweet that Raf scarfs down.
Those two clowns are hiding grins out in the corridor, swallowing masala chai like the traitors they were.
That's how our relationship is though. In the long list of cousins, Kajal and I are the closest in age, hence we grew up as each other's closest conspirators, successfully judging the older ones and tricking the younger ones together. Whenever we visited each other or went on family vacations together, the memories were filled with utter mischief. She was the reason I wasn't that much of an asshole and I was the reason she knew to speak up for herself when she has to— because she's been practising on me for the past twenty-one years.
We're each other's partners in crime for life. She's my best friend, above all.
She's glaring at me right now.
"It's not what it looks like," I say.
"Aryan, Aryan, Aryan," she groans.
"Kaju, Kaju, Kaju," I reply, ignoring my audience as I meet my cousin's eyes. "It's not."
"Your mother has called me eighteen times this morning," she says to me, throwing her hands up in the air exasperatedly. "Even Nani's messaged me on WhatsApp. I didn't even know she knew how to use WhatsApp."
"Nan—," I cut myself off, shaking my head and blinking. I sit up further, eyes falling to the phone again. "Don't tell me your mother sent it to the family group chat, Kajal."
"Of course she did!" Kajal exclaims. "She's my mother! She lives for this type of gossip, Aryan."
"I—,"
"Don't worry about it too much though," Kajal adds with a roll of her eyes. I know she's thinking something along the lines of patriarchy and I'm proven right when she says, "Nani said that she's watched all of Mira's dad's movies and she thinks Mira is very pretty. You know, her grandson can do no wrong. He's a good boy. Always."
"Good boy, Shankar," Herrera salutes from the hall, lifting his cup in a hearty toast. Charlie and Kenna raise theirs as well, echoing his sentiment with renewed vigour.
I don't even bother flipping Herrera off because my attention is caught on Kajal and her clearly frustrated state. It takes a lot to piss off my cousin. And she's not herself when she's upset, not really.
Kajal is herself when she's smiling, or when there's some type of art material staining her skin, clay under her nails or charcoal on her fingertips, when she's doing something nice for the sake of being nice— like making my rowdy friends chai in the morning before she comes to yell at me.
When we were younger and something upset her, I always knew the best thing to console her was pushing a box of crayons in her hands and restraining myself from breaking too many of them while she coloured. I only ever let myself snap three of them, just because I think she had fun picking up the broken crayons and threatening to throw them at me in retribution. She never did throw them at me though.
But Kajal and I are older now and there aren't any crayons. So I'm serious when I lower my gaze and spring to my feet, saying, "It's not what it looks like, Kaju."
She relaxes somewhat, eyes flitting from my face to the wall. "Dima said the same thing, yeah," she reasons. "He said that you're not exactly her type."
Kenna chokes on a laugh in the doorway. "I don't know, Kajal," she jokes with my cousin despite having just met her this morning, I'm assuming, "Maybe it's a one-time thing?" She winks.
"Goodbye, McKenna," I say flatly, treading towards the door. I gently push her by the shoulder out the door— she's grinning all the way through— and slam it in her face.
"Tesla?" I hear Kenna through the door.
"Sí," Rafael replies. "Tesla."
"Maybe Tesla will be our always, Herrera."
I blow out a breath when the sound of their departing footfalls passes through the door and then I turn back to Kajal. She wears a confused expression on her face.
I shake my head. "Don't listen to Kenna," I tell her. "She thinks she's funny. She's really not."
Kajal frowns. "I like Kenna."
"Not you too," I groan.
"She's nice. And so is Mira," Kajal says.
Speak of the Devil.
I know it was a game and I'd only died virtually, but I'm pretty sure I can still feel the knife she stabbed me with.
Nice? Zahed?
The only time I see her smile is when she's either murdering me or threatening to murder me.
Kajal doesn't know about all the murdering though. Neither does Dimitri Nazarenko. Mira and I have done a good job of keeping our little war between us when we're around the two of them.
All they know about is what the tabloids are saying this morning. And the tabloids don't know about all the general dislike brewing under the surface.
All they saw was us through a relatively tinted window of a Range Rover.
Kajal shakes her head. "She's nice," she says again and I hold back my laugh out of general respect for my cousin. And because she'd only just calmed down and heavens know it isn't too late for Kajal to abandon the peaceful route she'd taken in life and throw something at me after all. Zahed wouldn't even think twice before throwing something at me. The irony isn't lost on me as Kajal defends Mira, stating firmly, "She's nice. And Dima and I are serious. And she's his best friend. So, don't screw around with her, Aryan."
She's screwing around with me, I want to defend. She literally stuck a knife in my neck yesterday. Well— virtually stuck a knife in my neck, but the principle is still there. Zahed had enjoyed it.
But I keep my mouth shut because Kajal has her hands on her hips, eyeing me like a schoolteacher who's scolding a misbehaving toddler.
"You have my word," I inform her, pressing a palm to my chest for confirmation.
Kajal softens, hands falling from her hips. My cousin is not herself when she's upset. It's not her. But the small smile and nod she gives me afterwards is all Kajal, soft as sunlight.
"Thank you."
I shake my head.
When she's turning for the door, I stop her, grinning and lifting a brow. "You and Nazarenko, huh? Serious?"
She flushes. "Mind your own business, Aryan."
I do no such thing. "When you decide to introduce him to Nani, I'd like to be there," I say, smirking. "I'd pay good money just to see her call him gora to his face."
Kajal laughs at that, the scene flashing behind her eyes. I know she's nervous about it though.
Dima Nazarenko is the first boyfriend she's ever been serious enough about to even consider all of this. So much so, she's here at 10am to yell at me not to fuck it up for her with Mira.
I always considered our family to be relatively forthcoming. We get with the times. Nani watches Tasty videos on her iPad. Kajal's mum runs the Whatsapp Mafia. My father says he's on the Keto diet, though he isn't really fooling anyone with the missing paratha come morning. But of course, I know that I've grown up with more of a loose hand as opposed to Kajal simply because— well, I'm male.
"Honestly," she says, swallowing all her nerves. "That would kind of be funny."
I smile as she smiles and then she's out the door, leaving me alone.
I stare down at the phone again.
The car's tint is dark but not dark enough to hide us outside Mira's gate. I know exactly when the picture was snapped too. Which is why the caption is ridiculous. There were a dozen people outside the car, there was no way in hell. There was no way in hell, to begin with.
Yet, the picture of Zahed ducking for her keys and me sitting behind the wheel stares up at me anyway, it's caption in bold, glaring white script stating a pack of lies.
Promiscuous Girl: Emira Zahed, daughter of Hollywood legend Daniel Fakhoury, gets BOLD in car with unknown boyfriend. You lookin' for a girl that'll treat you right? Found her.
I click the phone off, watching our tinted outlines disappear onto the black screen and then I'm shoving it into the pocket of my sweatpants.
Entering the kitchen, I'm greeted by my friends. Kajal stands out in her dusty purple day dress while the others wear pyjamas or, in Charlie's case, a printed Fendi robe and matching slippers. Yet, she looks comfortable at Kenna's side.
Herrera, as usual, is scowling into his mug atop a stool behind the kitchen island. I pat him on the shoulder as I approach, stalling just a step behind him. His scowl intensifies.
On cue with my arrival, Kenna detaches from the counter she'd been leaning against at Kajal's side and reveals another mug. She slides it across the island towards me and I toss Kajal an appreciative look. "Did you know that you're my favourite cousin?"
I lift the cup to my lips, inhaling the scent of spices and warm milk. Kajal's eyes filter to me then, just as I take a sip.
"I better be," she says right when I spit back out my mouthful of chai, gagging.
I look sharply at Kenna, almost dropping the mug onto the island.
She's laughing, head thrown back, shoulders rumbling. Even Raf wears a little smile and Charlie grins beside the fridge.
"You put salt in my chai?" I ask Kenna disbelievingly, the godawful taste lingering on my lips.
Kenna's breathless. Her cheeks are bright and flushed and she's bent over, clutching her stomach. Yet, she manages a quick shake of her head, jabbing her chin over to an innocent-looking Kajal beside her. "It was Kajal's idea."
Betrayal is what I feel as I twist my stare over to Kajal.
My cousin merely shrugs and says, "Be a good boy, Aryan. Call your mother. I'm tired of being the family messenger owl." Kajal looks meaningfully over at my discarded mug as well. "And learn to make your own damn chai."
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hi guys
there has been a lot of conversations going on within the wp community (mostly on twitter) in regards to writing bipoc characters and i just want to address it a little since my books do include a fair amount of characters outside my own ethnicity/culture.
for those do you who don't know, i'm half-arab, half-white, which means that characters like raina, matthew and mira are the ones i am most equipped to write about culturally. as for aryan, who is a main character and South Asian while i am not, i was hesitant to include his POV in LLFH particularly for this reason.
LLFH touches just a little on the background cultures of both Mira and Aryan, as seen in this chapter. and one thing i would never want to do intentionally is represent aryan's culture in a way that is disrespectful or makes you, the readers, uncomfortable. so, please confront me if anything i write offends you. please know that it isn't my intention. i'm simply trying to have you guys watch mira and aryan fall in love from both sides.
hence, i will continue to write from aryan's pov and carry the story as I've planned, doing my research and consulting some of those closest to me who are South Asian as I've been doing already, but this is an invitation to let you guys know that i am 100% open to criticism in regards to how i portray aryan. please don't be afraid to reach out and tell me if i fucked something up and it's bothering you. this also extends to any of the bh characters. thank you for reading if you got this far.
xx thea