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My lip is sore. I’ve been chewing on it nervously in the car. I want to scratch, but it’s a bit too obvious of a movement. Huan will see, not that he isn’t noticing everything else. He almost puts a hand on my knee, but I see him stop himself at the last second. Who knows if our driver can see. Looking out the window, I see we are almost there. Shops and markets buzz around us, but what floors me is the street art. It’s loudness, the attitude, and the brash beauty splashed on the brick. This is a Dali dreamworld of graffiti. It wants me to stay and look, but my eyes track over the people walking outside. How many are around us? How many tourists? How manycameras?
As soon as the cab pulls over, I dash inside the restaurant. Just because we got lucky last time, doesn’t mean I can relax. What if the magazine who buried the shot of Huan and me sniffs there is more to the story? Have they sent someone to watch me? It sounds crazy, but what if it isn’t?
One photo can be explained away. Two flames rumours.
The dinner rush hasn’t hit, so there are a decent number of empty tables.
Huan reserved two under fake names in the back for us—because we should sit separately. That photo of us already together taunts us. If we're caught having another dinner, more questions will be asked. Bodyguards don't join their clients for food. They keep watch.
I don't want it to be this way. I didn't organize it to be this way, but Huan has. It's like he knows I would obsess over this decision, so he's taken it out of my hands. I'm relieved.Especially since he doesn’t look upset or bothered by it, but maybe that’s because he’s used to the job. With his back against the wall, he’s got a good vantage point for the whole restaurant, and I’m close enough to protect, but far enough that our relationship can’t be misconstrued.
The server comes, spiels out the specials and takes my order without obvious judgement on her face over the fact my sunglasses have stayed on. Rinse and repeat for Huan, minus that he doesn’t have to be in a disguise.
While we wait for the food, I stare at the decor. Pictures of popular Bollywood and Pollywood actors grace the walls. My mother’s photo is there, too. When I see it, a distressing thought goes through my head. One day my face might be on the wall of this Indian restaurant.
I try to picture it.
The pit of my stomach broils.My fingernails scratch at the top of my denim-covered thighs. This can't be the reaction I should be having. It's not healthy or hidden. Forcing myself to stop fidgeting, I try to imagine this other life of mine that's going to start.
“I’m sorry.” Huan speaks without looking at me, low enough for my ears to hear. He’s good, giving no sign we’re having a conversation. “I thought coming here would make it better. I was trying to excite you about the city again.”
“I can’t—I don’t—but it’s not your fault. Or mine. Let’s blame Mohinder Uncle.”
“He popped the bubble.”
“Like so hard.”
My attention is drawn to MOON Plus, the Indian drama channel playing on the large flat screen television mounted from the ceiling. Since secretly talking is hard when servers walk by, I watch the show for a few minutes. It’s pleasant until an actress comes on who—if I squint— looks like me. Once again, anothercloth is ripped off from the future diorama of my life. Thisisgoing to be me. I’ll be a version of her, and because of it, always afraid of paparazzi, and of who I can and can’t sit with.
This really is it.
My future.
“This is what it’s going to be like.”
Huan glances over at me, forgetting our protocol. “You don’t sound okay.”
“I…” I’m gesturing loosely at the television screen. “I’m going to fail.” Because my heart isn’t in it, and the itchiness is back. How can anyone do anything well when theyfeellike this?
“You can do it, Komal. And if you fail, it’s not the end.”
“I’ll be alone,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t.
The food comes.
We have to wait to be left again, pretending we don’t know each other, and then still keep pretending by talking low and secretly. I scrunch a napkin in my lap. This is garbage.
“You won’t be alone.” His hand curls into a fist on the table. “You’ve got people. Your mother and your best friends will always support you, even if your movie tanks or if it breaks the box office. You’ve got them by your side.”
And you?
I know there is a growing fear inside me, and some part of my panic is coming from not knowing what happens with Huan when I go home. I’m about to blurt out,Are you really leaving me after London?
“Komal, can we talk?” he says.
I get more nervous. “About?”
