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

by Sandhya Menon

“Yeah, but I didn’t come to America,” Dimple interrupted, darting a defiant glance at all the shoppers. “I was born here. This is my home. This is my culture.”

And then she was just there, right in front of him, like some sort of huge cosmic coincidence personified.

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

Dimple noticed—like they didn’t know what to do with someone who was so obviously at home with his uncoolness. Someone who had the audacity to feel like he was the cool one when he so obviously wasn’t.

“I bet that’s a more meaningful vacation than going to Bermuda and sleeping with a bartender whose name you can’t remember.” She darted a glance at Hari and almost laughed out loud at his expression. He looked like he was choking on a fish bone. The waiter came by with their orders then, and everyone’s attention turned to food.

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.

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.