Page 125 of Glass Jawed
“I love Indian music!” I declare with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning to not get deported.
Ishika raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. “I’m guessing it’s not just the music you...love.” She gestures toward the basket in my arms with the tip of her ice cream cone, smug as hell.
“I do love your cousin, Ishika,” I admit quietly as we walk back toward the SUV. “I don’t know what Aarohi told you but—”
“She hasn’t. But Kash had some choice words,” she says with a shrug. “So I’m guessing you fucked up?”
I nod solemnly. “Yeah. I did.”
She hums in response, not surprised in the least. “Where’s the other guy? The... otherLamebrain?”
Despite everything, I chuckle. “Liam. He’s still in Canada, holding down the fort. Someone has to manage the company while I’m on... emotional sabbatical.”
“Oh? You’re a businessman?” She eyes me as if trying to figure out what kind of businessman cries in rented SUVs and schleps fruit baskets like an unpaid intern.
“Yeah. Liam and I co-founded a pet healthtech company. I’m the CEO. He’s the COO.”
She squints, licking her cone with suspicion. “Then why isn’t he here? Likeyouare. Trying to win back Kashvi?”
I pause at the trunk, shifting the basket around so I can maybe still squeeze my own bag in later. Assuming I even remember to check out of my hotel. Assuming I survive this journey. Assuming I’m not sacrificed halfway through to appease some deity of awkward tension.
“I... I’m not here to win Aarohi back,” I finally say, weakly.
Ishika laughs directly in my face. “You’re an idiot.”
One hour later, my SUV is packed to critical capacity. I’ve lost count of the suitcases. I’m pretty sure one of the baskets is actually just filled with steel tiffins. And I still need to have space Tina Bua, Romi Uncle, their son, and Aarohi.
Shit. I’ll need to check out of the hotel, grab my bag, all while trying to stay within this massive wedding convoy.
I’m now sitting in their living room with Raj Uncle and Kiki Aunty, sipping hot chai like I’m not mentally spiraling. They’re lounging on the couch like they don’t see me dying inside—because they absolutely don’t.
Aarohi still hasn’t come downstairs.
Which makes sense. If I were her, I wouldn’t come downstairs either.
Not when the man who broke your heart is sipping chai on your family couch, watching your relatives shove suitcases into his rental.
The house is a whirlwind.
People are running around everywhere—grabbing last-minute bags, shouting for missing shoes, yelling over which snacks made it into which suitcase. A few of them pause to ask who I am, and apparently, I’ve already been assigned multiple identities.
FromLucian betatoRohi’s friendto, at least twice now,Rohi’s boyfriend.
I tried correcting them at first. It didn’t stick. So now I just smile and nod like a seasoned imposter.
“How’s your company doing?” Raj Uncle asks, casually massaging his wife’s shoulders like he’s not melting my heart with this public display of affection.
I’m momentarily stunned. This is the kind of love Aarohi grew up around—loud, unapologetic, constant. And I suddenly feel very,verysmall.
“It’s, uh... good, Uncle,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m on a leave of absence, but my team’s managing things.”
“You’re on awhat?”
The beautiful voice behind me is sharp enough to slice through drywall. I flinch and turn.
Aarohi is glaring.
“I...”
