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‘Uh, sure,’ I say uneasily. ‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘Both, please.’
If we were back home, my mother would have a whole spread out right now. Guests coming over for tea means much more than just chai; it’s fried jalebis, spring rolls, samosas or an array of dishes to have with the chai. The need to make my guest comfortable is second nature to me. I attempt to quiet that part of myself, but my mother’s voice ringing in my head – don’t be badtameez – wins. ‘I have some cake rusks too, and I think my flatmate has some experimental dessert she was trying to make in the fridge. A chocolate mousse type thing?’
‘Cake rusk?’ A note of nostalgia enters his voice – so quiet that I’m forced to glance at him over my shoulder. That brief glimpse of warmth is quickly replaced with a blank, pleasant smile. He didn’t want me seeing that. ‘I haven’t had that in a while. Sure, yeah. I would love one.’
I pour the chai into two cups and take out a cake rusk for me and another for Zayan. I turn back to face him, quieting the nervous beating of my heart with a deep breath, and slide the chai and cake rusk towards him. Silence fills the room, uncomfortable and painfully loud.
I swallow a bite, savouring the subtly sweet flavour for a second, before plunging into the conversation head first. ‘So, what was it you wanted? If it’s to apologize again –’
‘I’m not here to apologize,’ he interrupts, his eyes finally looking up to meet mine. ‘I’m not sorry. Well, I’m not entirely sorry.’
‘You’re not?’ I reply with derision.
He uses his cake rusk to gesture, still cool and collected. ‘To be fair, you weren’t supposed to hear that conversation.’
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, if that’s what you’re trying to imply. I was there for a meeting. With you.’
‘And I didn’t want to be at that meeting,’ he replies honestly. ‘I’m not sorry for venting about my situation on a private phone call, but I am sorry for insulting The Tragedies, and your cause. Truly, what you guys are doing is important, and I shouldn’t have tried to debase that just because I’m unhappy with how my life is going. It was petty, and wrong, and probably a little bit envious of me.’
I notice he doesn’t mention what he said about hating being on stage, and I don’t say anything about it either. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sound rational as I try to explain how much his distaste for it bugs me.
I’m also not sure I trust him with my feelings.
Instead, I search for sincerity in what he has said, and in the way he holds my stare, unafraid of what I might find reflected in his irises. I can’t tell if he’s only showing me what he thinks I want to see, or if it’s genuine – I mean, he’s an actor, after all. But I nod anyway, because the quicker I agree, the sooner he’ll leave my flat and I can clear up everything that’s happening online.
‘So, if you’ve not come to apologize then why are you here?’ I ask, more curious than I care to admit. ‘Is it because of the photo?’
The words leave my mouth with little thought, and only when I remember how intimate those pictures looked does my body flush. My eyes drop to his hands, curved round his cup – long fingers, large palms, soft-looking brown skin.
I tear my gaze away, praying he didn’t catch me making heart-eyes at his hands. But he’s smirking, like he knows exactly what I was thinking.
‘Have you forgotten how to speak?’ I ask quickly.
‘No, I’m just a little stunned by the memory of that photo,’ he says, making everything sound like it’s been drenched in molten chocolate. My insides start to warm involuntarily, because – come on – my celebrity crush is sitting in my kitchen, looking at me like there are secrets only we know. How can I not lose it just a smidge?
‘I’m also just thinking over how I’m supposed to say this,’ Zayan continues, pulling at my attention once more.
‘Say what?’
His fingertip circles the brim of his cup, eyes locking with my own, a breath making his chest expand as he gets the words out in one go. ‘I think we could help one another – by going on a date.’
I digest what he’s said quickly, and there’s no filter in my mind to prevent me laughing. It bursts out of me loudly. Zayan waits for my hysterics to subside with an amused look on his face, taking periodic sips of his tea.
‘Funny,’ I say. ‘Really, tell me, why are you here?’
He drains the last of his chai before responding. ‘You have a nice laugh,’ he replies unexpectedly, and a wave of pleasure washes over me. If he keeps complimenting me, I’m going to melt into a puddle. ‘And I already told you why I’m here. I think I should take you out on a date.’ The horror must be exceedingly plain on my face, because he becomes disgruntled. ‘To clarify, it will be our first fake date, to begin our fake relationship.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ I ask, when I realize he’s being serious. ‘You’re not drunk or high or something, are you?’
‘No, I’m completely sober. I don’t drink anyway. You should probably know that if we’re going to be together,’ he replies, with not one ounce of shame. As if he hasn’t just stepped into my flat, drunk my chai and made an outrageous request.
My jaw drops at his confidence. ‘We’re not together.’
‘Not yet,’ he amends, all businesslike. ‘We have some stuff to go over first. Firstly, what are you comfortable with?’
‘As in …?’
