When Dimple Met Rishi (Dimple and Rishi, #1)

by Sandhya Menon

“Hello, future wife,” he said, his voice bubbling with glee. “I can’t wait to get started on the rest of our lives!” Dimple stared at him for the longest minute. The only word her brain was capable of producing, in various tonal permutations, was: What? What? Dimple didn’t know what to think. Serial killer? Loony bin escapee? Strangely congenial mugger? Nothing made sense. So she did the only thing she could think to do in the moment—she flung her iced coffee at him and ran the other way.

Lmao I’m dead. This is great.

And then she smiled a smile so dazzling, Rishi tripped over his own feet.

Your spirits are already friends. That was it, he thought. Even though this was the first day he’d spent any kind of extended time with Dimple, he felt like he already knew her. Like they were continuing a conversation they’d left off.

Rishi was a naturally good friend, she could tell, the kind of guy who thought your every fight was his as well.

There was something about people who were that secure; they made you feel better about yourself, like they accepted you for everything you were, imperfections and all.

looking him up and down in appreciation while also not letting him see just how appreciative she was. He was wearing a tight fitting kurta with his jeans, and every time he swung the gada, she could see his biceps flex through the flimsy material.

I feel like I need to speak out, because if no one speaks out, if no one says, This is me, this is what I believe in, and this is why I’m different, and this is why that’s okay, then what’s the point? What’s the point of living in this beautiful, great melting pot where everyone can dare to be anything they want to be?”

Distance was the promise of safety. Without distance, Rishi knew the inexorable love for his art, for creation, would suck him in and never let go.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, and her heart sank, dripping in a sad, cold puddle to her feet. “I’m sorry you stopped.” She turned, hope quickening her pulse. “What—” And then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, one hand moving up to cup her cheek, thumb just under her jaw while his fingers tangled in her hair. Rishi kissed her with purpose, with meaning, like he believed this was exactly where they were supposed to be in this moment. He kissed her till she believed it too.

Immediately, before she could stop it, that famous Emily Brontë quote popped into her head: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

She shrugged. “I guess, um . . . I guess we can try to make it work or something.” But she was smiling so big she couldn’t finish her sentence as nonchalantly as she’d started it. Rishi grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to him, lifting her up by the waist while she shrieked indignantly. He set her down again and cupped her cold face in his hands, aware that Ashish was now watching them, most likely with a judgy expression on his face. “So we’re doing it? We’re making a serious go of this thing?” “As long as ‘this thing’ doesn’t involve shaadi for the next decade,” Dimple said, pushing a finger into his chest. He laughed and kissed her softly, breathing in jasmine and coconut. “Dimple Shah,” he said, his mouth still against hers, “if I get to do this with any regularity, I’ll gladly put marriage on the back burner for the next century.”

Celia said, her voice tiny, “They’re not going to fight are they?” just as Evan said, “It’s not my fault the bitch couldn’t follow through.” And then Ashish punched him.