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“What I want”—his voice is unbearably stern—“is for nothing bad to happen to you.”
My buzz deflates.Job, duty, responsibility.
How perilously close to being hopeful I was there.
“Imagine if you forgot your body guarding protocols,” I snap. “If I ever made you bad at your job, you would hate me.”
“Never, Ms. Chahal.”
“If you don’t hate me, it means you like me,” I warn him, trying not to feel like a woman fishing for compliments, even though I really am that person right now.
He gives me a terse nod of acceptance. “I care.”
Before I can celebrate this lukewarm admission, Huan follows up with something better.
“And when I care, I make bad decisions.”
This is new information. My brain tries to parse it while Huan keeps going.
“But feelings, whatever they may be, won’t ever rule my choices. I need you to know that.” He steps back and forces distance. Without saying the specific words, he is telling mewewill never be. Not even for one dance. There will be no thrustage or grinding tonight. We don't belong together. Not on this trip, and definitely not back home. It's a reality I've become complacent in remembering.
“We should—” he starts.
“Go,” I finish lamely.
As I turn from Huan, our Camden representative calls out. It’s time to hit the next bar, whichgoes like the last bar, except I’m recovering from an acridity of disappointment that I'm finding hard to shake off. When did I start caring so much? What happened to facilitating other encounters that could lead to random hostel bathrooms? Where is the enticing dangle of group sex?!
My mouth won't smile on its own.
I need Pollywood Komal to show up. She turns on with some effort, like an iron-rusted handle groaning to life, but as soon as she does, it's easy. I'm mingling at the bar and chatting up new friends. I laugh, touch them on the shoulder, ask about their lives and keep nursing the same drink, making sure not to say anything too outrageous.
On route to the next bar, Huan attempts to speak to me. He looks agitated, but I keep a respectable distance, thankful the place is close and that it’s louder.
More time goes on with me chatting, and it’s when I have another beer that I admit to myself I’m also annoyed. Badly annoyed at myself.
If my friends were here, they would riot about not letting a man bring us down. And they would be so right. What amI doing?Komal Chahal is Worthy of Peak Sexual Interest!I scream into the tunnels of my overwrought mind. Not everything is about Huan. Why am I secretly sulking as if I am incapable of getting a dance outside of him?!
Marching deep into the crowd, I bump into the Camden crawl representative.
“This is a great night,” I yell into his ear. “And you’re hilarious.”
“Actually… you’re gorgeous, and I love the shirt you’ve got on. I’ve been watching you all night.”
The compliment whacks me. I notice he is handsome, of medium height and—as noted before—hilarious. Though right now, this man whose name I do not know, seems a bit shy. As if he can charm a whole crowd, but having this conversation with me specifically is causing him some nerves.
He bumps his hand against mine. “Want to dance?”
Interest balms the hurt of rejection. Maybe I’m toxic in how I need this attention, but that’s a psych eval for another day. Tonight, I take his hand, and we snag a spot on the dance floor and sway. It feels nice. Our hands graze shoulders as we twine closer. Again, very nice. He’s got pleasant breath and when I do a dip to the beat of the music, he appears delighted.
Maybe I should let him hold my waist, considering how his hand hovers.
Should I? I think so hard my mind feels like it’s cloning. This is annoying because once again, I know I’m not giving myself over to the experience. I try to shut my eyes, then open them. Think of white noise. Hum in my mind. And?—
Shit.
Do you know what yanks me back into my body? How I feel every inch of me again? What thrills me completely?
A pair of obsidian eyes.
