♥ ♥ ♥
MONDAY MORNING ROLLS AROUND AND I find my eyes sweeping the parking lot for a dark head and insufferable grin.
I don't even realise I'm doing it and then I'm stopping myself. Our little chat in my driveway left me more confused than anything.
He hadn't looked like himself too much, the moonlight clinging to him when he was the grinning sun. His mussed-up hair and wilted shirt, pouted lips and wild eyes didn't leave a single thing to my imagination as to what he had come from. Yet, he'd looked like something had shaken him straight from his skin.
It was the only reason I didn't throw my soft serve at the sight of his tousled self.
But the slight curl of jealousy, streaking like lightning right down the centre of me, was hard to ignore.
No, I was not jealous of whoever the girl was who had made that one strand of his hair stick up. The poor, unfortunate soul who had to put up with his arrogant ass even if for a few moments. I was jealous of the fact that he could go out onto the fucking town and throw his frustration out on anyone while I was here, soft serve in hand and still mad.
I mean, sure, stupid frat boys were always an option. But I had too much anger to waste on stupid frat boys.
I had too much anger to waste on Ivan too.
Or that's what I was telling myself every time my eyes drifted to my phone over the week.
I'd studiously ignored every message over the week, my lie for Dima lurking at the corner of my mind every waking second. I try to tell myself it won't mean anything but I know I'm lying. And though Aryan Shankar had accused me of being such an actor, I didn't have my father's talent to such a degree. It would mean something if I call Ivan up just for a quick fuck. Because I'm angry. Because I care. Because he knows it.
And he's an asshole and he'll use it against me.
Ivan's texts rang through for the entire week though. They're borderline taunting.
I wonder whose words burn more— Aryan Shankar's or his. But I know the answer.
His hand in mine had been hot. I'd never wanted to pull away from something more. Yet, he'd pulled me forward.
He'd called me an actor. He was right.
He'd called me a brat. He was right.
He'd called me by my name.
And I've never wanted someone to be wrong more.
But he was right. He was so fucking right I hate him for it.
We can't shake each other off that easily. Dima and Kajal are one step away from adopting a whole army of puppies together or some other romantic shit like that.
Sweeping my gaze around the lot, I observe that he's not there and I feel a mix of relief and— disappointment? So, yeah, I'm fucking confused.
Why the fuck would he even be there?
Because he likes to annoy me. Because he's a pain in my ass. Because he gets on my nerves just as much as I get on his.
I shake my head at myself as I climb out of my car.
Before last week, I'd been able to pass around campus relatively unbothered. Now, everyone was aware of my father and everyone was aware of the flying coffee fiasco. It was like I was ten years old again, walking into school after every magazine in the country was plastered with my father's face.
I'm older now though. I'm a lot better at ignoring stares.
But not that good.
I'm walking down the path that takes me to my first class of the day even though it's now noon when I feel it. A pair of dark eyes blinking over the side of my face.
I can't help it. I twist my head his way, locating him instantly like he was some sort of fucking beacon.
I'm losing my mind, honestly.
But there he is. I swallow hard because what the fuck.
Aryan plays soccer sometimes, I knew that. He's infamous for it because he usually ends up dripping prettily in sweat and shirtless by the end of it, much to the pleasure of every female in a ten-mile radius, and some males too. So, I don't know why my mouth is dry when I catch his eyes in this exact state.
He can't read my mind, can he?
He grins.
I'm praying he can't now.
Maybe I should have called Ivan up after all. Hell, maybe I should've wasted my time on some stupid frat boy. Because I know it's been a while when I find myself considering Shankar attractive.
I can't ignore it though. He's literally bathed in sunlight, skin brown and glistening beneath its rays. His hair is even darker somehow, the blackest of blacks, spilt ink, raven's wing, obsidian, like his eyes, and a strand falls across his dark brow, his brow he has lifted at me. Sculpted broad shoulders taper down into muscled arms, biceps tense as he leans back on his hands, palms flat against the grassy expanse of the campus, snaking veins apparent as all his weight falls on his arms. There's a forgotten soccer ball near his feet and Rafael Herrera sits beside him, cross-legged, sweat on his brow and squinting up at the sun, but I don't look at either of them.
Aryan has no shame, every inch of muscle open for all eyes to see. And when you look like that, there's no shame to be had.
He's something carved from warm, tawny stone, each chipping of stone perfectly made to form the expanse of smooth, wired muscle that was Aryan. Sweaty and shirtless, Aryan should be spent but his eyes dance over me with bright amusement and it's too late for me to realise that I'm not looking at his eyes at all and that he knows it. My gaze has dropped to the hard line just at his hipbones, at the waistline of his low-lying soccer shorts when I'm saved from my wandering thoughts by a girl stepping in front of me.
I blink. I want to say my head clears at the sight of an unfamiliar, smiling brunette in a floral print dress but it doesn't. I hold Shankar's stare over her shoulder as she starts to talk. He's still grinning. Herrera's eyes snake my way then back and he rolls them, before slumping flat onto his back on the grass as if he could not be bothered with the lives of the people around him.
"Mira, right?" The girl asks in a friendly voice.
I nod, tearing my eyes away from Aryan lest she realise the staring contest we're having over her shoulder. The last thing I need is more attention on me and him, especially when I don't even know what the fuck is going on. Aryan doesn't tear his eyes off me though. They linger on me, like a blazing torch, as I face to girl and nod. "Yeah, that's me."
"I just love your dress," she compliments, making me glance down. Aryan follows my gaze. I ignore him, with great effort. Fuck.
I frown, eyeing the fall of the ivory cotton dress, cut mid-thigh and printed with little grey flowers. It's nothing special. She's wearing something incredibly similar. It's a relatively basic bitch outfit, a style I find suits me just fine.
"Where'd you buy it? It's so cute!"
I blink, looking back up to her friendly, smiling face.
One other thing that has happened since last week's incident is that people seem to want to be my friend. I'm not sure if it's because of who Daniel Fakhoury is or if they just want the tea. It's Los Angeles, I shouldn't be surprised.
"Literally Urban Outfitters," I tell her. "There's an entire rack."
She laughs like I made a joke.
I'm bad at making friends, yes. But apparently, I'm also bad at not making friends. I want her to go away but I also know if she goes away, I'll have to deal with Aryan again.
So, I put up with her laughing for a while longer before eventually clutching my textbook tighter to my chest. Aryan is still observing. He can't possibly hear this exchange, he's too far away. Yet, he seems amused just by my expressions.
Not that good of an actor, am I?
"I've got to get to my class now," I say, realising she hadn't given me her name so that I could soften my retreat with it. "Nice meeting you." I smile.
"It was so nice meeting you too!" She cheers. I decide I only like this type of wild enthusiasm on Kenna Westbrooke. Maybe I'm biased because Kenna is usually cheering as she taunts Shankar. "We should totally hang out sometime!"
I nod along.
Maybe I should send her my father's daughters' numbers. She can be their friend and spare herself the effort. I'm not that fun.
When she skitters off, satisfied, falling in with a pack of college students, I let out a breath. Aryan is still in his place and I hold his stare across the quad. His eyes are bright, their message clear to me.
I take it back, Zahed. A quirk of lips. You're an awful actor.
I scowl across at him and he laughs, shoulders rising and falling.
Rafael says something to him then, because, he looks like he's laughing at thin air, and his attention shifts away from me as he answers his friend, giving me my chance for escape.
I turn away from Aryan and proceed to my class, book tight in my arms.
I feel the brush of his gaze touch my back as I walk away.
When I enter the classroom, the air conditioning feels extra cool against my warm skin and I fall into my usual seat in the middle. The lecturer already has his slides up on the projector and I move fast, laying out my things hurriedly, pen in hand, computer propped open.
I begin taking my notes on the structure of an atom while all I'm thinking about is the structure of Aryan Shankar.
♥ ♥ ♥
I have another class later today. I hate this particular class because by the time I dip out of the room, it's dark outside.
Part of me just wants to skip it. My head is so distracted today. But alas, there's a test.
After failing my Biology exam with flying colours, I decide it's for the best if I try.
I avoided going to the library because I might run into Aryan again. If he hasn't already left for the day.
I'm not avoiding him, per se. I'm avoiding the nest of confusion that comes along beside him.
Okay, yeah, I'm avoiding him.
And his abs.
I have lunch far away from campus because I'm avoiding him.
The drive to the cute little vegan coffee shop I'd meant to come to last week would've been short if not for L.A. traffic. By the time I'm there, I'm starving and I'm grateful for the empty shop that greets me.
It's a cute place, walls white and painted with dark green leaves, polished bamboo tables and chairs and a menu board bearing chalk-scrawled items sitting behind the register.
I claim a table set up in the corner, tucked away from the door, dropping my stuff there before walking up to the register and the tall, dark-skinned young man with a green apron strung around his hips. He's the owner. I recognise him because I've stalked the coffee shop's Instagram account. My eyes scan the pretty handwriting on the menu board before I place my order.
The man smiles and rings me up. He has a faint accent as he nods along, saying, "Good choice."
I offer a small smile, accepting my change. Honestly, he's hot but my wandering thoughts stop immediately at the ring on his finger as he hands me the bill. It's a pretty ring and I blink at the Arabic calligraphy spelling out a name on it. I manage to string the letters together before he pulls away. Samara.
Daniel Fakhoury's infidelity left its mark on me for the better in one case, I suppose. And his patient hands teaching me Arabic letters as a child also left its mark.
The owner spins away from me and calls to someone out back, "Khadija, mind the register while I step out, will you?"
Khadija looks just like him, dark-skinned and proud-faced as she appears, her head a pretty halo of tight curls and she smiles at me as she takes his place. Perhaps a sister or a cousin.
"Your order will be with you soon," she tells me and her accent is thicker than his.
I thank her and step away, back to my corner.
A while later, she brings my plate over, barely balancing the tray on shaky hands. She clearly doesn't have much experience as a waitress, despite possibly being related to the owner. She laughs nervously as she nears me and I stand, offering to help her out.
Eventually, the tray makes it to the table and we're both chuckling lightly.
"That's harder than it looks," she says, straightening and blowing out a breath that sends a curl flying off her face.
"I'm sure," I reply and fall back into my seat. How quickly can I have this sandwich and cram two chapters worth of work?
She leaves me at that.
I'm halfway through the first second chapter and finished with the first half of my sandwich when the shop's bell dings, making me look up from the words on the page and the crumbs on my plate.
I almost don't recognise him. He's not decked out in his usual attire. There are only two rings on his hand. And he's wearing a plain black hoodie, hands in its pockets. He doesn't see me, his lips pulling into a smile as he leans over the counter and says to Khadija, "I've missed you."
Khadija looks like she wants to say something as Charles Ross leans in and kisses her over the counter but the words are lost and she leans in too. I blink.
I pull in a breath and look away, very much willing to pretend I did not see as I flip my page.
I didn't know Charles had a girlfriend. I mean, we were never that close. We went to school together and we have the whole being Hollywood kids thing in common and that's it. He's Aryan's friend, not mine. But I'm pretty sure Kenna posted on her Instagram story that she lives with three, quote on quote, single ladies.
But it's none of my business. I mind my business. And that is my sandwich. My sandwich is my business.
But Charles pulls away from his friend, the clumsy, pretty waitress and something in her eyes tells him that he's fucked up. His eyes follow hers and find me. And I think he relaxes.
I blink again.
I just wanted to eat my sandwich.
Charles pats Khadija's hand once and then he's walking over to me, the rings on his fingers glinting as he flexes his knuckles. He falls into the chair opposite me.
"Charlie," I greet him first.
The nickname catches him off-guard and it's his turn to blink. I realise I must've repeated it because I've heard Aryan say it.
"Mira," he replies evenly, pressing his elbows onto my table as he leans forward.
"How may I help you?" I lift a brow.
"About what you just saw—,"
I shake my head. "I get it, bro." I shake the ice around in my matcha latte. "I didn't see a thing."
He nods like he expected this type of reaction from me. We get it. He's relaxed as he leans back.
"The boys don't know," he says.
"Yeah, I figured."
"Not a word to Aryan. I'll tell them eventually. We just need to— figure things out."
I drop my cup, narrowing my eyes. "Why would I say a word to him?"
Charlie laughs at me then. "Y'all made up, didn't you? He ditched us and a pretty waitress at the sushi restaurant on Friday."
If making up counts as just increasing my level of confusion when it comes to Shankar, then yes. I need to figure things out too, huh? Charlie and I have this in common.
I shake my head. "Who's asking? TMZ?"
Charles laughs. "TMZ can burn in hell."
"Agreed."
He sobers up and presses, "You and him, though. You'd make a good pair."
I freeze.
"I didn't ask for a matchmaker, Ross," I reply flatly, shutting my book.
He shrugs. "I'm just saying. I know you. I know him. It could work."
"I'm not interested," I scowl. "At all."
Charles wasn't there to see me ogle Shankar across the quad so he can't directly call me out on it. Instead, he merely shakes his head softly and tips an arm over the back of his chair as he regards me. "I get it if you're hesitant. Especially with all that TMZ shit last week." His eyes flicker to the pretty girl at the counter behind him. "The hills have eyes, don't they?"
I tilt my lips bitterly at that.
He gets it the same way I do. This place is ruthless. He'd never had to endure a scandal the way my family had but growing up with the looming Hollywood sign over your front door was not easy. It was easier to change your surname and fade away. It was easier to lie and kiss in the dark. The hills have eyes but our hearts don't have cages.
Charlie tips his head towards my textbook. "You're going back to campus, right?"
I check the time on my phone. "Yeah, I should get going now."
I had a half-hour left but I think he was counting on a quiet shop when he'd walked in.
"Can you pass a message to Aryan for me if you see him?" He pats his pocket. "No phone."
I don't tell him that I'm actively avoiding Aryan and his abs. "Uh, sure."
"He'll still be there with Raf, just let him know I'll be a little late."
Charlie is too nice for me to ignore his request. I bite my lip. "Yeah, I'll let him know."
♥ ♥ ♥
charlie is #1 matchmaker
i want you guys to know that i laughed for 10 minutes after I wrote the last sentence of the first half of the chapter
i might give khadija an aesthetic bc i like her but i adamantly refuse to give ivan one bc fuck him