Page 46 of Cross the Line
I’m already logged into my Netflix account – I watched an episode of a favourite sitcom while on FaceTime with Chantal earlier. So, when I press the power button and the screen comes to life, my profile and an array of rom-coms the algorithm thinks I’d like are revealed. I won’t be going for any of those tonight, though.
‘Are you still into horror?’ I ask, sneaking a glance at him.
His frown isn’t as severe as it was before, but he furrows his brow at my question. ‘You remember that?’
I scoff, paging down to the next row of suggestions. ‘You mean do I remember getting the crap scared out of me every time you and Oakley had one of your horror movie marathons? Uh, yeah, I remember.’
That drags a laugh out of him. It’s scratchy, almost like he’s forgotten how to make the sound. ‘I still like it, but I won’t make you watch my favourite slasher flick.’
I bite back a smile. At least he seems willing to stick around. If the only thing I accomplish is getting his mind off what happened today, helping him remember that there’s more to life than racing and the politics that go along with it, then I’ll consider it a roaring success. He’s usually the one doling out the sunshine, bringing lightness to the lives of the people in his orbit. And he deserves the same. It’s his turn to be taken care of.
‘Fine with me.’ I drop to the bed again, making sure to stick close to one side so there’s ample space in case he wants to join me. ‘What do you want to watch?’
Straightening slowly, he searches me as I wait for his answer. ‘I have something in mind,’ he finally says. ‘But you have to promise never to tell anyone. Especially not Chava. He’ll never let me live it down.’
I rub my hands together like a supervillain and grin. ‘Ooh, something even Chava doesn’t know? Do tell.’
Exhaling another laugh, he shakes his head and glances away, like he can’t look me in the eye as he admits it. ‘When I have a truly bad day . . . I put on a Bollywood movie.’
I blink at him, waiting for the twist. When he doesn’t go on, I scrunch my brow. ‘Okay? You’re acting as if I don’t know that you wanted to be a playback singer when you were eleven.’
His attention snaps back to me. Wide-eyed, he points a threatening finger. ‘You better take that to the grave.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ I swear, trying not to laugh. ‘But seriously, I’m not shocked that’s your bad day go-to. Who doesn’t want over-the-top drama and dance breaks when they’re not feeling great?’
‘It’s a little more . . . specific than that.’ He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a rush, then confesses, ‘I usually put onKal Ho Naa Ho.’
I’m no connoisseur of Indian cinema, but I watcheda lotof Bollywood when I was a kid, thanks to Neha Aunty. I’m pretty sure she’s loaned every one of the DVDs in her collection to my mom in the decades they’ve been neighbours. And one movie has always stuck out more than others, because it’s the one that had me crying for hours after it ended.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say slowly, trying to battle my disbelief. ‘Kal Ho Naa Hois yourcomfortmovie? Are you serious?’
Dev weakly throws a hand up, once again avoiding my gaze. ‘I mean . . . yeah. It’s about being proud of who you are – your background, where you come from – and living life to the fullest, even though you could die at any moment. If that doesn’t explain my life . . .’ He trails off and shrugs.
Okay, I see it. Though I never expected an answer like that. ‘I get it. But that movie made me sob the one and only time I watched it, so I’m nixing it for tonight. Give me another option.’
Pressing his lips to one side, he scans the room, then brings his focus back to me, a small spark of hope alight in his eyes. ‘Devdas?’
I nearly choke. ‘You’re out of your damn mind.’
‘Dil Se?’
‘It’s like youwantto be sad!’
He laughs again, but this time it’s the warm sound I’m used to.
‘Fine, fine,’ he concedes. ‘How aboutOm Shanti Om?’
‘Oh, I see.’ I nod sagely, putting together the puzzle pieces of his cinematic choices. ‘The theme here isn’t depression – it’s Shah Rukh Khan.’
And there it is, the grin that makes my heart skip a silly little beat, even though it knows better. ‘You caught me. Can’t go wrong with King Khan.’
‘I can get behindOm Shanti Om.’ I pick up the remote again and type the title into the search box. When I’m hovering over the image depicting a popular scene from the movie, I push my luck and pat the empty side of the king-size bed, a direct invitation. ‘Come over here. I don’t want you craning your neck to see the screen. Mark will kill me if you pull a muscle.’
The comment is casual, but we both know this is pushing the limits of our friendship, even with an ocean of space and a mountain of pillows between us. Sure that he’d say no and drag the chair over instead, I swallow back my surprise when he pushes himself up and walks over to the bed. He climbs carefully onto the mattress, one knee, then the other, and grabs one of the many pillows, setting it between us and dropping an elbow to it like it’s an armrest as he props himself up against the headboard.
Over the past few days, I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve hugged or high-fived or sat shoulder to shoulder in meetings, so I shouldn’t be sweating at the idea of him lounging nearly two feet away from me. But this feels intimate. We’re alone, and we’re literally in bed together, even if we’re nowhere close to touching. The room is dimly lit by the table lamp, and the soft hum of the AC is the only sound, so the ambience isn’t helping the cause either.
Once he’s settled in, I let out a breath and burrow down on my side of the bed. I’m going to pretend like this is nothing but normal, even if it’s far from it.
