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I do not blink. My poker face stays glued on.
Huan’s eyes slowly move down to where I’m still holding him. My knuckles have gone white.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “Should we go sit?—”
“Somewhere else? Yes, please.”
I don’t want him reporting back to my mother that I was participating in an orgy, especially since I wasn’t. All her group sex nightmares would really come true. I'd get many email inquiries, and perhaps a therapy session booked, and also stacks of condoms rush-delivered to me to use for these next three weeks.
Maybe.
My mother always tries to be a perpetually cool authority figure, but I know she’s got a background soundtrack of terror playing in her head. She doesn’t want to parent incorrectly. She wants to make sure she is doing the best job. I’m her only child.The miracle baby that came into her life after many years of failed fertility treatments. The one who changed her life after she learned she can never have kids of her own.
Yes, I'm heading straight into my late twenties, but being an Indian-mother-daughter duo, we haven't navigated how I'm now an adult, and she should be taking a backseat when I make my own decisions. Honestly, a big part of that must be my fault. I let choices happen to me. For so long, I've let myself become this way.
We find a table in the common room, which is really a cafeteria with plastic wall posters reminding guests THIS ISN’T MAMA’S HOSTEL SO WASH YOUR DISHES and EVERY TIME YOU LEAVE THE KITCHEN DIRTY, A BABY SEAL DIES ON YOUR WATCH. The slogans are perfect emotional blackmail for a hostel, I think.
Considering the time of the night, there aren’t many people around, but more than I expected. A man in boxer shorts wrestles his 65L Osprey, begging the pregnant-looking backpack to close. Another traveller is FaceTiming his boyfriend without headphones. And in the corner behind us, there is a poker game of five friends—or strangers?—drinking beer together because it is five o’clock somewhere… multiple time zones away.
I grab a cup of tea without offering Huan anything, fighting against good manners because signs of weakness won’t help my cause. Who knows exactly why Huan is here, but this must be war. I can't weaken my cause.
“When I forwarded my mother the booking confirmation for this hostel”—my smile strains—“it wasn’t an invitation to send anyone.”
“She sent you an email back explaining why.”
“Excuse me?”
I’m disgruntled, but not in a dignified way. The silk cami I wore to sleep is a thin barrier against the drop in temperature.I’m folding my arms over the points of my breasts, because I don’t want the thrust of my nipples to give him any ideas about the state of my mind or more evidence of all the hostel banging I’ve not been having.
“I was on a plane for too many hours, took a train in the middle of the night and booked a multi-bed hostel which lost its charm in 0.2 seconds.” My smile strains further. “So give me the short version of why I’ve got a bodyguard here, because I’ve not yet checked my inbox.”
“Executive protection agent. And I’m here to protect you.”
I look around the cafeteria, and then back at Huan. “From what?”
Before he can answer, I raise my hand and then quickly drop it because of the aforementioned nipple issue. “No, don’t speak. I don’t want a diplomatic answer about who my mother is and how I might be in danger from her legions of fans, because I’ve heard it all before and maybe it was true back home, but guess what? No one knows me here. Literally, no one is after me.” I suck in a hurried breath. “Which means you’ve been sent here to stop me from getting into any trouble.”
Huan stands up.
I blink. Did I win?
Am I bracing for no reason? Can it be that easy?
“I’ll be back.”
He leaves the table, and I catch people glancing in Huan’s direction. No surprise. He is crisp, cool, and stupidly handsome. His face is symmetrical with a great jaw. He has wicked black eyes and thick waves of darker hair. That isn’t all, though. It’s the details that knock you down like the stubborn lock of perfect hair that falls over his forehead. I hate how something so little is ruinously charming. All of this doesn’t even mention the build of his body. Don’t get me started on that. I’m telling myself I am blind to it.
True to his word, Huan returns quickly.
He passes me a sweater.
Instantly, I hate him. Again, this is me, telling myself that. When I pull on his thick, oversized sweater, my nipples get wonderfully hidden. Perhaps they were offensive to him. I refuse to consider this a gesture of thoughtfulness. This is merely a tactic he is using against me. But why does it have to smell so great? Clean and so distinctly masculine.
Huan picks up our conversation as if it never stalled, saying, “What’s your definition of trouble… ”
“Komal. That’s my name.”Becausebodyguards use code words when coordinating with each other about the people they protect, and we’ve never had a direct conversation like this.
“I know your name, Komal.”
