Page 124 of Glass Jawed
Ishi—who I’m now absolutely certain is Aarohi’s cousin—comes prancing toward us with a half-melted cone of ice cream and the casual chaos of a hurricane in a sundress.
“Oh hey again,Lucifer,” she greets me flatly.
“Ishi!Ishi, help.” Aarohi is borderline pleading now. “They think his car is the wedding party car!”
Ishi lets out a laugh-snort combo that could probably be weaponized. “Oh, they do. That’sadorable.”
Suddenly, the panic makes sense. The suitcases. The fruit baskets. The blinding optimism in Raj Uncle’s eyes.
This isn’t just a road trip—this is awedding exodus.
Awedding.
Wait. Whose wedding?
Ishi clocks my confusion instantly, because apparently she’s psychic. She waves the cone like a wand. “Bride here, hi. Is this your car?”
“Ishi!” Aarohi screeches.
“It’s a rental,” I blurt at the same time.
“Stop shouting!” Raj Uncleshoutsfrom somewhere behind the fruit. There are now, by my estimation, ten more people in the yard—none of whom seem even remotely alarmed that a strange white man is being roped into a convoy like he’s part of the wedding logistics team.
I extend a tentative hand to Ishi like I’m trying to befriend a rabid raccoon. “Hi. Uh—congratulations on your wedding.”
She squints at me like I’m made of lies and baggage. “Thank you,Lucifer. Didn’t know you were apoliteguy.”
Behind her, Aarohi makes a strangled sound. “Fuck this!” she snaps—and bolts into the house.
I blink.
“So... uh. Ishi, right?”
She raises a brow. “Ishika. Not Ishi for you.”
“Right. Noted.” I nod solemnly.
She licks her cone, still glaring. “Looks like you’re in the wedding now.”
Before I can formulate a protest, Kiki Aunty reappears like clockwork, this time armed with yet another glimmering fruit basket. She thrusts it at me with all the gentle subtlety of a human trebuchet.
“Oh Lucianbeta! Go get the other baskets from inside. Ishi, help him!”
I widen my eyes. “More baskets?”
“At leastthreemore,” Ishika says, smirking as she leads me inside like a prison warden.
Inside the living room, I see a mountain of wedding paraphernalia. Baskets. Ribbons. A suspicious number of boxes. I’m immediately sweating.
“My wedding’s in ten days,” she explains, plucking a basket off a stool. “Both mine and Vikram’s families are going to this giant farmhouse three hours away. Lots of mosquitoes. I’m guessing you’re taking a few aunties in that SUV of yours.”
“I... am,” I reply, smiling.
“Good.” She grins wickedly. “Hope you like Indian music and unsolicited marriage advice.”
And just like that, I realize something terrifying.
I might be in Aarohi’s family wedding convoy.
