Page 126 of Glass Jawed
“Never mind,” she mutters and disappears into the kitchen.
“Aww,dekhoRaj,” Kiki Aunty coos, nudging her husband. “He’s looking at her so sweetly.” (Look Raj.)
Shit.
I didn’t even realize I was full-on ogling their daughter. At least my expression registered assweetand notobsessed. I need to get a grip. Reign it in.
Because at this rate, Aarohi isn’t just going to kill me—she’ll bury me in the backyard with the wedding leftovers.
??????
It’s close to 9 p.m. by the time we arrive.
The farmhouse isn’t what I expected—it’s bigger. More like a miniature kingdom carved into the outskirts of Delhi. Two sprawling mansions stand on either side of a lush, landscaped courtyard, their exteriors glowing under ambient fairy lights. Between them, workers are setting up a massive tent, stringinglights into the trees and lining the grass with wooden poles and draped fabrics.
Apparently, one mansion is for the bride’s side—our side, I guess. The other for the groom’s. And this place? It could host a small nation.
The drive here was long and awkward. Aarohi didn’t speak a single word to me. She spent the entire three hours chatting with her Tina Bua and Romi Uncle in the back seat. Their teenage son was glued to his phone, headphones in, oblivious to the very visible tension ricocheting off my skin. Andme? I just drove. Quietly. Breathing slowly. Concentrating on driving on thewrongfucking side of the road.
Now, we’re here.
The convoy of cars rolls in, headlights cutting through the dusk as trunks pop open and bags are unloaded. The groom’s side is arriving too—dressed smartly, laughing loudly, waving to familiar faces as they’re welcomed with sweets and marigold garlands.
I keep myself busy. Carrying bags. Hoisting boxes. Nodding along as Ishika explains the week ahead—mehendi, haldi, cocktail, sangeet, wedding, reception. A full-blownPunjabiwedding.
She’s polite, maybe even kind, but her eyes never fully soften when they meet mine. Fair enough.
I’m reaching into the trunk for another duffel bag when I hear it.
Asqueal.
I freeze.
Aarohi.
I recognize the pitch—excited, high, impossibly joyful. My heart kicks once, stupidly hopeful, until I hear the thunder of feet pounding across stone. I turn my head.
She’s running.
Full sprint.
But not towardme.
No. Why would she?
She’s hurtling straight athim.
Advik.
The same guy whose hand was in her hair that night. The one I sawkissingher. The one who got to touch her while I stood there like an idiot with my heart crumbling.
Ishika goes for the man next to him, throwing her arms around his neck. Must be the groom—Vikram.
And Aarohi?
She practically leaps into Advik’s arms.
His face lights up. He catches her easily, spinning her once before settling her against him, and she’s already talking a mile a minute—laughing, giddy, her hand lingering on his chest like she’s done it a hundred times before.
