kisses

°19°

(⁠╭⁠☞⁠•́⁠⍛⁠•̀⁠)⁠╭⁠☞ 🖤
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SHEHNAAZ

AS QUIETLY AS I CAN, I creep into the house, slowly closing the door behind me so I don't slam it. The apartment is silent, like no one is here, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Where the hell have you been all day?"
Yelping, I turn to find my father standing at the mouth of the hallway, right next to their prized possession-the giant Andy Warhol painting hanging on the wall.

I try to smile at him. "What do you mean? I went to the art gallery."

"That was hours ago." He squints at me, as if he's trying to see inside my head.

"You were at the gallery all this time?"

I slowly shake my head, but don't say anything.
"Come with me." He turns and heads down the hall. I have no choice to follow him, entering the sitting room where my mother waits, dressed impeccably in a sleek black dress, clutching a wineglass in her hand. Her
smile is brittle when her gaze meets mine, remaining quiet.

She has never been my ally. I don't know why I always think she might be.

It's a lost cause.

"How did you get home, young lady?" This is from my father, who has turned to face me, a glower on his face. He's a handsome man. Slightly balding, gray at the temples. Hazel eyes that are always filled with concern
when they land on me. I wonder if he worries about me constantly.

Sometimes it feels like that's all he ever does.
I think about lying, but in the end, he would most likely get it out of me anyway. Is omitting a few facts also a lie? Maybe not. "I rode home in the car."

He lifts his brows. "Whose car? Because it wasn't mine. The driver called me in a panic a couple of hours ago, Shehnaaz. Saying you never contacted him for pickup. When he went to the gallery, he realized you were already gone."

"He went into the gallery?" Guilt swamps me. I'm sure it's written all over my face.

"He drove all over Tribeca, trying to find you, and just happened to see you exit a restaurant with someone."

I'm light-headed at his words, and I fall onto the couch behind me. "Who?"

Daddy steps toward me, thrusting his phone out so it's in my face. On the screen is a photo of me and Sidharth leaving Two Hands together. I'm smiling.

I don't think I've ever seen myself look so happy before.

"Who is that?" Daddy demands.

"Sidharth Shukla." My voice is surprisingly calm.

He frowns, shoving his phone back into his pants pocket. "Wait-Reggie's son?"

"Yes," Mother pipes up, "the youngest one.

"I go to school with him," I add. "He's in my class."

"Hmm." He glances over at Mother. "Might be a better prospect for her than the boy tonight."

She nods in agreement.

My mouth drops open.

What are they talking about? Is there something behind tonight's dinner with the Von Wellers beyond my father wanting to talk to them about business?

"What are you talking about?" I ask when they don't say anything further.

"Sidharth and I are just-friends."

"Why was he at the gallery?" Daddy asks.

"I..."

His phone rings, and he immediately pulls it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen before he says, "I need to take this."