Page 99 of Better Catch Up, Krishna Kumar

When we get to Baga Beach Resort, it’s evident there’s a wedding going on. The place is in a state of pure chaos.

Rudra rides through the main gate. The security guards let us in immediately because of our grand Indian attire—the easiest hack to crashing a wedding. There’s a short drive leading up to the entrance of the resort, the road forking to curve around a gorgeous blue fountain that sparkles in the sunset light. The road is lined with palm trees, and the garden is covered in patches of colorful flowers. The streetlights speckling the sides of the road start buzzing to life, indicating that dusk is setting in.

As we’re looking for a space to park, I spot the familiar blue of Rudra’s BMW. My heart lurches in my chest.

“Hey, that’s your car!”

“Where?”

“We just passed it.” I shake my head. “Priti’s already here.”

I can’t even imagine how she must be doing right now. Did she get a chance to speak with Mansi? Or did she bow out and is sitting somewhere alone, helpless, and shattered?

We find a space after a few minutes of scouring. Getting off the bike is a lot easier than getting on, and I don’t need Rudra’s help this time, but my mind’s not on him anyway. My stomach sinks, and a heavy weight settles in the bottom of my gut, making it difficult for me to stand upright. The heels are not helping.

The BMW is parked on the opposite side of the lot, beyond the fountain, and my eyes go to it as I wait for Rudra to put our helmets in the trunk. The glass isn’t tinted, and I can vaguely make out the familiar interior.

“Let’s go,” Rudra says, shutting the helmet compartment closed.

“Rudra,” I say, grabbing his wrist just as he’s about to start walking away. He glances down at my hand, wrapped around his, then at me, and I notice how delightfully mussed his hair looks. His thick eyebrows are raised in question, and he makes no move to take my hand. He’s limp in my hold.

Something in my mind snags on his car.

I drag my gaze away from him and back to the car. And there it is. A flash of movement. A shadow of a person.

I start speed-walking toward the car, dragging Rudra after me.

“Krishna, where are you—”

“Just follow me.”

We cross the patch of grass around the fountain and cut across the road on the other side. I bring a finger to my lips, gesturing for him to be quiet, and duck behind the car next to the BMW, a black SUV. Rudra follows suit.

This close, I can hear “Supermassive Black Hole”by Muse playing on Rudra’s speakers. I turn to Rudra, and his eyes are wide.

“I’ll count to three, and we’ll go over to the front, okay?” I whisper.

Rudra nods.

“One.” I’m still holding his hand. I drop it like a bag of hot coals. “Two.” Rudra flushes, and I have to turn away. “Three.”

We dart out from behind the SUV, approaching the BMW from either side. I’m at the front in a flash. I grab the handle of the driver door, find it unlocked, and yank the door open. Rudra has the front passenger door open in seconds.

“Gotcha!” I exclaim, eyeing our culprit.

Priti.

31

If You’re a Heartbroken Goth Lesbian, Muse Is Tailor-Made for You

Goa, Monday

Priti lets out a shriek so loud Rudra and I have to clamp our hands over our ears.

“Jeez, Priti!” I cry.

“Guys, what the actual fuck?” Priti places a hand over her heart and turns off the music she’s been blasting. She’s wearing her all-black lehenga choli, the sameFUCK YOUfit she wore to one of our relatives’ weddings.