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“So, you’ve got nothing?”
“There must be an ATM here…” My hand closes around a bunch of mints in my bag, but I’m not going to offend him by pulling them out. I tuck my fingers into other crevices—knowing full well I’m fishing empty—until Huan enters. He peels multiple bills from his wallet and hands them over for “both of us.” The tour guide immediately mellows because it’s a hefty tip. He bounces over to the next person.
I’m left frowning.
“I’ll pay you back,” I tell Huan, wallowing in the terrible timing of it all, considering how emphatically I'd just told Huan that I wasn't hapless.
Turns out, in this one instance, I was.
Dammit.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I would help anyone as self-conscious as you look.”
“What a fat heart you have.”
“To be clear, I wasn’t rescuing or interfering,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Like I said, I would do it for anyone in need.”
“No need to over-explain the situation. People will hear.”
“But it’s important for me to reiterate that I haven’t broken our agreement. For the record.”
“I’ll inform my lawyers immediately.”
“Reassuring, Ms. Chahal.”
“Stop calling me that, Mr. Li.”
What is happening? We’re trading aggressive, bantering jibes, but with a cord of playfulness vibrating between us. It's distasteful. I should retreat behind my public shell of politeness, at the very least. That's a space I know well.
“Tell your lawyers not to worry,” he says, “because I won’t treat you special, important, or different… unless you want me to? A little?”
His brow arches the tiniest amount, and somehow that does it. Iteggsme on.
I cup my mouth like a speaker phone. “Actually, if anyone lacks cash for the walking tour, this generous man has copious urges to share with those in need!”
Some heads turn.
And to my delight, two people immediately approach Huan. I’m smirking. A smirk I’ve never displayed, because I’ve always been conscious of every muscle move. Cameras watch the famous Shreya Chahal—and me, in case my mother will show up.
But this smirk right now…
It’s serving flamboyant evilness. And I can’t seem to stop it. Merciless energy comes out of my pores without any overwrought second thoughts. Is this freedom or a defunct part of my personality I should suppress?
At the same time, a woman pats me on the shoulder. Her brown hair is unremarkable in that it resembles the pelt colour of any small animal who frequently camouflages around muddy trees. Really, the most striking thing is the frequency of her freckles. They wallpaper her face. If her eyes were anything but the sharp blue of a cloudless day, they would get lost. A hesitant smile reveals a very charming front-tooth gap.
Her face is vaguely familiar, and I realize she was hidden among the Italian family, which it may seem are not her family?
“I thought your joke about the Gherkin was funny,” she says.
“Not graphically offensive?”
“Maybe I’ve got a dirty mind.” Her palm sticks out. “I’m Rachel. Nice to meet you.”
Shaking her hand, I say, “Komal. Nice to meet you, too.”
We smile at each other in a tentative way when you are being friendly, but don’t know the person well enough to have an oiled conversation.
She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “This might be weird?—”
