Page 78 of The Bodyguard Proposal

However, I can’t think about that because I’m already flushed. And it doesn’t help that we’ve become sardines in a tin. As people get off, way more people come on the train. This is not the time to have a proper conversation about how we want to proceed, especially considering my trip won’t last forever. The call with Mohinder Uncle was frigid water in my face. With this growing dread I can’t stop thinking,This is going to end soon, and then I will have a New York stylist, interviews, Broadway connections, Hollywood connections?—

My stomach pitches, and I feel close to toppling over. That would be a sight—or maybe not. I love how everyone is too polite to comment on train irregularities unless someone is visibly in trouble.

My fingers cling to Huan harder as the tube jostles back and forth. Best thing to do now is to small talk. Because nothing kills worry more than mundane observations about the weather, or, in my case, the train itself.

“Look at the advertisements,” I say. “So many bad ones.”

His mouth drops beside my ear. “How so?”

“Look at the happy woman doing the splits. The captionWax On, Wax Offmakes no obvious sense.”

“It needs to make obvious sense?”

“Because you’ve got three seconds,” I tell him, “before people lose interest.”

“Hmm,” Huan says in my ear, a sound that triggers goosebumps down my spine. This might not have been my best idea. I’m a fool.

I glance over to our side. “That one is not terrible.”

It’s a hair thinning poster using before and after pictures and a lot of yellow font.

“It reads like a scam, Komal.”

I pause for the overhead announcement to start and finish. “Maybe, but the topic is so personal that if you’re worried about hair thinning, having a success story gives you hope enough to pay attention.”

At the next stop, there is room enough to grab a railing, except Huan doesn’t let go of my waist. We stay like this. He’s pressing my possessively against him. My body likes that. A lot. It pulses in tune with my racing heart.

Huan tests the curve of my hip… to get a better grip? I don’t know, and I’m fairly sure I don’t care.

“If you had to make one of these, how would you do it?” he asks.

“Questions,” I say rather faintly because I am in danger of combustion. “I would use a good question. Like… look at that one. ‘Feeling more tired than usual?’ works for iron tablets because the connection is clear. If you don’t want to be tired, take the pills.” I gesture to another poster above us. “But ‘Do you have trouble following your dreams?’ to advertise Travelvacations.com doesn’t work. That question gives me?—”

“Existential crisis,” he finishes.

“Exactly.”

“I agree,” says a pregnant lady in a thick caramel sweater. She’s sitting right across from us, and her eyes go wide when I look over at her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to listen,” she stammers. “Apologies!”

The train stops, and she rushes to the door. Right before it opens, she looks over her shoulder. “You’re good at your job. Advertising, I mean.”

Before I can tell her I don’t work in advertising, she exits the train in a whirlwind of embarrassment.

And then, shortly after, our stop arrives.

My disappointment spikes when Huan lets me go, and that’s when I know.

I’m in trouble. This trip is going off the rails in a very un-boring way, but it's not going to be without its consequences. I don't know whether to abandon ship, or to leap into the fray of this madness.

What’s going to happen next?

Are Huan and I going to keep pretending this morning didn’t happen or are we finally going to talk about it?

TWENTY-TWO

The server at Prêt-à-Portea at The Berkeley is taken aback when I tell him we need seating for two. Mohinder Uncle didn’t think Huan would join me because he’s my security detail, but there’s no way I’m eating by myself as he stands a few feet away. I know my mother dines alone sometimes, and I’ve done takeout when it’s just me at home, but experiencing the Collins Room—a place as elegant as the most perfect lavender macaron—without Huan feels…

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