(9) I am Not Flustered

My grandparents are not here yet, thank God. Their flight got delayed, which means I get to play games all day, enjoy Aunty’s excellent food (it’s not spicy today for some reason), and theorize about how I might fix the painting pinned up in the garage. It’s really the best day.

Jaron texts me once. He gives me some cringe line about how he wishes I was at church. He’s a dorky loser for that. No, he’s a cringey, dorky, loser. I let him know.

At around midnight, I go downstairs for a snack. I see my dad sitting cross-legged on the couch, his computer in front of him. I turn on the lights. “Can you even see?” I ask.

He blinks and doesn’t turn his head from the screen. “Mm.”

I look through the cabinets, and there’s nothing interesting there. The fridge is full of fruits, which I am not in the mood for.

I flop on the couch next to Dad instead. “What are you working on?”

“Uh… client rep. Important. We’re bidding for contracts next week.”

“Oh. Contracts from who?”

“Microsoft.”

“Shit. Big deal then,” I say.

He gives me a pained smile. “Uh huh.”

I look over his shoulder at whatever he’s working on. It’s a long, dense document. “That looks like it sucks to read,” I say. “Though I’m probably gonna have to do it one day. When I take over.” That was always the path that was laid out for me. My dad had a tech consulting company that was always gonna pass to me. I’d probably just major in business somewhere, then start working for him. I was kind of lucky in that sense, to have that safety net if I couldn't figure out what I wanted to do. And currently, I hadn’t figured it out, so.

“Yep,” Dad says.

“Fingers crossed for that contract.”

“Maybe later.”

I don’t think he’s listening to me anymore. “I’m cooking meth in my room,” I say.

“That’s nice.”

I smile. Yeah, he’s busy. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Mm.”

Back in my room, I see I have a missed call—shit. Jaron called me, ten minutes ago when I was downstairs. I hover over my phone. Do I call him back? Why did he call me, anyway? He’d never done that before. Was it to remind me that he was coming over tomorrow?

I hadn’t forgotten.

I decide not to think and press the one button to call him back. He answers instantly. Like a fucking dork. “Hello?” he says.

That’s when my face warms up for no reason. “Why’d you call me?”

“Just felt like it.”

“Oh.” Neither of us say anything for a long, awkward moment. “See you tomorrow,” I say eventually. “Or—today, I guess. In a few hours.”

He laughs, his laughter surprisingly warm. Genuine, I think, and not just filling the awkward silence between us. “See you. I hope you sleep well.”

With my free hand, I fiddle with my sweater. “You’re a dork.”

“You’ve been dying to say that to my face,” he deduces.

“I’ll say it to your face when you’re here.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Dork,” I say.

He laughs again, his voice crackling over the phone. “What are you doing?”

“Are you gonna ask for nudes if I say I was just about to shower? ’Cause I was about to shower.”

He laughs again, sounding like he’s muffling himself in a sweater. Or his pillow. “No! Mm, unless you wanna send them. I won’t ask, but I’m not complaining either.”

“Perv.”

“I’m trying to flirt,” he tells me.

“You’re very bad at it.”

He laughs again. “You know most people would be turned off by how mean you are.”

“Something must be wrong with you then,” I say. And he falls silent for a long moment.

My chest feels like the bones fell out of them. Was I too mean? How do I stop? Is he also turned off by me? Had he only been tolerating me, and now this was the breaking point? Why did I even care? “I—I mean—”

“You’re so cute,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m not. S-Stop it.” I hesitate. “You like it when I’m mean to you?” I ask. “Is that a kink?”

“No, but I like it when you’re flustered.”

I blush, even though that’s the wrong thing to blush for. “I’m not flustered.”

“Okay,” he says smugly.

Jerk. How does he even know? He can’t see me. “Hmph.”

After a moment, he switches to FaceTime. I accept. He smiles at me, running his hands through his hair in the way that boys do when they’re trying to look unbothered, but so clearly are bothered. “You’re not in the shower,” he says.

“Creep. Is that why you switched to FaceTime?”

“Yeah,” he admits.

Is that a joke or not? I have no idea. I can tell he’s looking directly at me and not himself on the FaceTime, the way that his eyes are angled. “Turn the light on,” he says, “It’s fuzzy."

I turn on the lamp next to my bed. I don’t know how to do this dating thing, and I definitely don’t know how to do it with a guy. We aren’y really even dating. Not really. We just kissed once, and now he was coming over.

“I can’t wait to see you,” he says softly.

I should probably say something nice to him back. “Your hair looks nice.”

He starts laughing again, burying his face in his pillow. I can properly see him muffling himself this time.

My face burns. “W-What? What did I say?”

“I think you like my hair more than me,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m leaving you if you ever shave it.”

He goes still. And so do I. Cause we weren’t even together, so how could I leave him?

But then he just smiles. “Goodnight,” he coos.

“Um… night.”

And then he doesn’t hang up for another long, awkward pause, so I hang up for him. My palms are all sweaty. Gross. I wipe them on my pants and groan, falling on my bed and smothering my face in my pillow.

There is no chance I’ll fall asleep for a little bit, so I take a shower, scroll on my phone, and meander in bed staring at the ceiling. I only drift to sleep after taking a melatonin gummy.

———

I wake up because of my phone ringing very, very loudly. I scramble to snatch it from my nightstand. Jaron?

No, my stepmom. It’s just Aunty. Why is she calling me from downstairs? “Um, hello?” I mumble.

“Hi Indra,” she says softly, “Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you’re okay with me coming into your room…your grandparents are going to land soon.”

“Oh…kay?” My own mom would not hesitate to bage into my room, but I guess that’s one thing my stepmom does better.

“Your father just fell asleep. He’s in no state to drive. Would you come with me to pick them up?”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to see my grandparents for even an extra 10 minutes if I didn’t have to. But I figured Aunty didn’t want to see them either, so she was asking for some company in the misery of it, and that I could understand.

I check the time. 11am. Dad must’ve been working very hard for that pitch if he just fell asleep.

I clear my throat and try to rub the sleep from my eyes. “Yeah. Fine. Gimme five.”

“Thank you Indra.”

I hang up, curse my own empathetic heart, brush my teeth and wash my face. “Okay, ready.” I hurry down the stairs, double check my pocket for my phone and slide my feet into my shoes.

Aunty frowns and tries to brush my hair. “Did you brush your hair?”

I pull away. What is with adults and commenting on my damn hair? “This is really the best it’ll get,” I tell her.

She smiles and slips into the car, but her hand is shaking so badly that she can’t fit the key. Because she’s worried about my grandparents. Her in-laws.

“Uh, maybe I should,” I say.

She gives me the keys instantly and we switch. After we get on the highway, she pokes around the screen, connecting her phone to the Bluetooth. “Do you mind?” she asks.

Well technically the driver got to pick, but I don’t remind her. I think that rule only applies when you’re driving with your friends, not family. And I don’t mind. “Sure.”

It’s an old Hindi movie song that starts playing. “I used to love listening to these growing up,” she says. “On from 10 am to 12 every Sunday.”

“Nice.”

“You don’t care.”

“I care,” I say defensively.

She only smiles and leans back against the seat. Her hands are still shaking though. I remember a time when my mom would look like that when my dad’s parents were in town. My grandparents are classy in their violence. There’s never hitting involved. Instead, they know exactly what to say to make you feel like a worthless piece of garbage, yet they come out looking like the good guys.

I’m pretty sure my Mom and Dad would still be together if it weren’t for my grandparents. I clear my throat. “We can hate ‘em together.”

“I don’t hate them,” she says.

“You don’t have to admit it out loud,” I assure her, “But know I feel the same. I haven’t spoken a word to them since the divorce, even if they were right in front of me.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s immature.”

“It’s definitely immature. But I’m not above it. I’ll be extra unpleasant with my glaring when they get here.”

She smiles again and pats my hand on the shifter. She doesn’t tell me to knock it off, so I assume she approves. “Thanks Indra.”

“Mhmm.” I tap my nails on the wheel. “Oh and my friend is coming over today. I know it’s inconvenient, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.” I also really wanted to see him, so.

She nods. “No worries. You’re meant to have fun during break. Can he handle a little spice?”

“Probably not.” Even I couldn’t handle spice, so I doubted Jaron would be any better.

“I’ll adjust accordingly.”

It’s my turn to say ‘thank you,’ and I try to think of neither Jaron, nor my grandparents and focus on the road.

And though I think I can handle myself just fine, the closer we get to the airport, the more nervous I get.

———

I wait in the car, arms crossed, for my grandparents to come. Aunty left to go fetch them and help them with their luggage. I should probably have also gone since I’m a dude and I’m not a child, which means I should be helping guests with luggage, but I don’t really want to. I much prefer to prolong seeing them for as long as I can, even if it’s just for a few minutes. The adults (the fully grown adults, I mean) can deal with the mess.

When they get here, they open the trunk and the chatter of the airport—plus Telugu I can’t understand—swarms the car. Everyone settles into the car, jostling and sighing, sweeping in the cold air from outside. My grandfather sits next to me, and my grandmother and Aunty sit in the back.

He tries to ruffle my hair, smiling. “How are you, Indra?”

I smack his hand away, hard, and ignore him. When I told Aunty I haven’t spoken a word to my grandparents since the divorce, I meant it. Not a word. Not even when they addressed me directly, standing inches from my face. I don’t intend to start talking to them now.

I wouldn’t have even come to pick them up if I didn’t feel a sliver of sympathy for Aunty.

I am the type to hold grudges.

After I smack his hand away, he puts his hand back in his lap. I start the car and focus on taking us out of the crowded airport parking lot, and Aunty and my grandparents begin talking—the usual pleasantries and boring small talk.

Aunty’s phone automatically connects to the Bluetooth, and the old Hindi movie songs start playing. I turn up the volume for her in the back.

My grandfather scoffs, though I don’t think in a bad way. I still glare. He doesn’t notice. “Why Hindi?” he asks. “Let’s play Telugu songs.” He fiddles with his phone and the car’s Bluetooth without asking anyone and begins playing his own songs.

And that was the second irritating thing he’d done today.

I stay quiet for the rest of the drive home. When we get back, I don’t help with their bags again. Partly because I don’t want to, partly because I’m tired from driving a 4-hour round trip, and partly because Jaron texts me.

It’s 3 already, and he’s here.

I try to smooth out my clothes, which are old but comfortable for a long drive. I’d planned on finding something better to wear before Jaron got here, but obviously it’s too late. I open the front door and look around for him.