Page 5 of The Bodyguard Proposal

(Yes, I'm aware I sound like an overly privileged twat. I try really hard not to be one, but it's as if my head is always underwater with expectations, and I haven't found a way to pull myself entirely out of it).

Wanting to move on from my nebulous future, I ask, “Where did you two disappear while I got ambushed by Veer Singh?”

“We tried coming, Komal,” justified Nim, “but half the party swarmed like you two were the damn royal couple.”

“I tried and got elbowed in the stomach.” Reena pauses. “Anyway, we attempted to make up for it by finding you a birthday gift.”

Since Reena already got me a vibrator—ribbed for extra stimulation,according to the package I horrifyingly unveiled in front of the mailman—and Nim bought me what she lovingly calls a “hoe dress,” I’ve got no idea what they mean.

“Why are you getting me another gift?”

“Sentimentality lubricates the rough edges of humanity,” says Reena.

“You mean you got bored, so you went on a treasure hunt using me as an excuse?”

“Nonetheless”—Reena bows her head—“Komal, we didn’t find your gift.”

“Don’t tell me…”

“Huan has disappeared somewhere.”

My hands go up, fluttering around me. “Don’t say his name so loudly! Also, I simply don’t care if he disappeared.”

Reena slides closer to me, whispering in my ear that “my pussy for sure cares.”

“That region of my body,” I whisper because heactuallymight be around here somewhere, “is ambivalent and dry.”

“There are creams for that, Komal,” Nim points out, ironically, very dryly.

I switch tactics, huddling closer to my friends. “He’s older by a few years, at least.”

“You’re right. He’s probably thirty and gone decrepit,” says Nim. A server walks by us with a tray of leftover drinks. She snags one. “But suppose the virile muscles in his shoulders, arms, chest, and legs are not padded to deceive mortal women. What then? Would you kick him out?"

Of bed, is the unfinished part of her sentence. I shake any thoughts of bed and horizontal activities out of my head. Being with Huan is a fiction my brain concocted as I was testing Reena’s … ahem, birthday gift. Outside of that, I only ever interact with him in real life when it is hisliteraljob to be there, protecting my mother and me. There is no relationship between the two of us, outside of whatever is specified in an employment contract somewhere. He probably considers me a high-value blot of a human he's got to shield when we go out in public, nothing more. Am I even a woman to him? Likely not.

When he first got hired, it quickly became clear that he had enough experience to move up in the ranks. Pretty soon, he was coordinating every outing we went on. But for some reason, in this last year, I’ve seen less of him than usual. Almost as if he avoids any shifts where he has to guard me alone in close quarters.

“Forbidden fruit is the juiciest.” Reena waggles her brows. “Who cares if he’s a bodyguard?”

“For starters, a lawyer prosecuting sexual harassment in the workplace!”

She scoffs, and thankfully I don’t have to argue the point because social media influencers come around the corner, their voices echoing. Then again, social media influencers come around the corner, so I’m notthatthankful.

The one who looks like Timothee Chalamet’s younger Indian brother in a bucket hat is making gestures to his friends. The derision in his voice is surprisingly obvious. Maybe because they’re so close to the exit, his guard is down. Famous people let their fake politeness drop when they think they’re not in danger of being overheard. After a few seconds, his words become clearer.

“—she’s got no personality of her own because everything is handed to her. Like acting, really? With that personality? Come on. She’s boring-ass Ko?—”

He startles when he realizes I’m standing there, and that I've heard his shit-talking spiel. By all signs, drama is about to start. Behind them, an older woman takes her cellphone out of her bag.

NO.

I think the word. Reena says it. Nim slips off her shoes.

The influencer’s eyes narrow at me as if this run-in is my fault.

My face burns and heat rolls down my chest. Nim and Reena move forward, and I take a second or two to realize we can’t do this. Even if he was talking shit about me on my birthday, we can’t make a scene. I grab them by the sleeves.

“It’s fine,” I say in a strained voice. If anything gets captured on film, the party becomes a punchline, and I can’t let that happen.

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