“So learn,” he says, as if she just told him she wants an iced coffee. “Ask people questions. Research. And maybe your work doesn’t have to be in the form of a book. Have you considered submitting articles to different publications? That might be more feasible for you right now, to do shorter pieces that are more spread out instead of something more time-consuming.”
“I did write some rough drafts of articles during college,” she tells him. “Maybe I could go back through those.”
Neil nods. “Sounds good.”
“Not that any of that matters right now,” she says. “Nobody took my book seriously.”
“Hey, my niece did! And I’m halfway through it myself . . .”
Her legs start to shake. “You are?”
“I am. And I think it’s wonderful, to say the least.”
Wonderful?! Neil Desai called something she did wonderful?
Before she can respond, Neil asks, “What about your family? I’m sure they think the world of your work.”
“I’m not sure. I know my parents threw a party, but really, they’ve always considered it an innocuous side thing. A safe hobby. I worked on the essays throughout college and then submitted the collection to a bunch of small presses that didn’t require an agent. An editor accepted it, and within a year, I had a book. Even though I saw it as a onetime project, it was exciting for me, but to my family—to everyone—if something isn’t financially stable or in some scientific field, it isn’t worth any time. Nobody gets the point.
“Except my grandmother, my mom’s mom,” she adds. “I grew up with her telling me stories about the Indian goddesses, and she always encouraged me to write about them. But she’s in India and doesn’t like coming here, losing her independence. So, that’s that. . . .”
She trails off, unsure of why she divulges all these details so willingly.
“You know, everyone thinks it’s so fun and easy to write articles. People still ask me when I’m going to get a real job,” Neil says.
“I know, right? Nobody thinks you’re actually working when you’re writing.”
Neil thoughtfully stares at the blackboard menu and asks the girl behind the cash register how she’s doing. She grins, a soft blush forming on her cheeks. He and Simran decide to share three cookies, a bottle of cereal milk—the kind that has the sweet, post-cereal taste to it—and a few truffles, which Neil insists she take home. He pays before she even has the chance to offer her wallet.
“So, you sure know the menu well,” she says.
She sticks two straws in the bottle and then removes hers. It makes it look like two high school kids sharing a milk shake. She wrings her hands together, not knowing what else to do with them.
“I know. I know.” Neil chuckles and splits a compost cookie into two uneven sections and hands Simran the larger piece. “I’ve been here way too many times. It’s ridiculous how much money I spend on food. And by ridiculous, I mean terrible.”
She smiles and looks down. Neil Desai is the type of guy to grab dessert on a whim. He’s probably the type to do many things on a whim—make out in an alleyway, splurge on a wallet, book a vacation. Kunal has everything planned days, sometimes years, in advance.
Neil sighs and pats his flat stomach. “I’m such a glutton. Or, I’m so gluttonous. Which do you prefer?”
Simran strokes her chin and pretends to contemplate an answer. “Gluttonous. I always prefer a nice adjective over a noun.”
“Same here.” Neil breaks out into a large grin.
“You know,” he says, “I don’t think I ever actually finished a book in high school. Like those required readings. Never did them.”
“What?” she asks, half suspicious, half surprised. “Yeah right. Mr. Princeton couldn’t get through Catcher in the Rye?”
“Maybe I read that one.” Neil smirks, as though he’s actually a high school dropout. “But seriously, I was kind of a slacker when it came to school. I applied to Princeton early decision and turned in the application on the deadline day. You know how Indian parents compete with their kids’ academic achievements? Well, my dad tried to teach me that ‘B stands for bad’ in middle school after some auntie told him her son was going to take college math—or something ridiculous like that—because everything else was too easy for him.”
“There’s nothing more annoying than an Indian auntie who won’t stop bragging about her kids.” She straightens her posture and raises one eyebrow at him. “Are you one of those smart people who acts like he doesn’t do anything, when he secretly studies for ten hours a day? I can’t stand those.”
“No, no,” Neil says, his smile becoming wider. “That’s honestly why I knew I couldn’t go to med school. I could never handle all that studying.”
She pictures the way Kunal looks in the library, wearing a sweat shirt and jeans, curled over his books with a thermos of green tea as his only company. She heard that medical school serves as a type of academic shock for people because after years of being at the top of their class in college, they join an entire group of students who were also overachievers and suddenly feel average. That never happened with Kunal. He’s the king of the type A workaholics. He’s the one who everyone follows around the anatomy lab before the practical. He’s the one who doesn’t need to abuse Adderall, like so many of his classmates, because of his sheer discipline.
“Yeah, I don’t know how they do it,” she agrees. “My fiancé’s actually finishing his first year . . . at NYU Med.”
At the word “fiancé,” Neil’s eyes dart to her now-adorned ring finger, and he almost seems to lose composure for a swift second before getting it back.
She moves her left hand to her lap. “Yeah, I really don’t know how he does it. He’s the most hardworking person I know.”
“I bet.” Neil whistles, running his fingers through his slightly parted hair. With the ends slightly curled out to the sides, it moves too much for him to use a lot of product. “So, tell me more. How long have you guys been together? How did he propose?”
She takes a deep breath, and her sentences emerge in nonsensical fragments. “It happened a few months ago. He hid the ring in my high school locker and told me there was a surprise in there when we went back for our five-year reunion. . . . We’ve been together since high school . . . for seven years.”
Neil’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “Seven years?! Holy shit. So when’s the wedding?”
She laughs at this standard reaction to her relationship length. “Next summer, so we have over a year to plan. Honestly, neither of us is really in a rush since we’ve both got a long way to go with our educations. But planning just started, so that means everyone is getting involved.”