to be like that?”
I scoffed, still not turning to look at him. “How am I supposed to answer that? You want me to stand here and tell you that I don’t want to be like you?”
Vivek’s voice turned cold. “If it’s true, why not say it? What’s your own? You didn’t have a problem saying it before.”
I kept quiet.
“Do you even know what I’m like?” His voice was shadowed with contempt now; he was disgusted by me. “In fact, forget that one. You came here so that—what?—I can make you feel better about yourself? Even after how you treated me, so I can tell you, Oh don’t worry, Osita, it’s okay to be like that?” His voice came closer but I kept my eyes on the wall. Vivek shoved me in the middle of my back. “Is that why you came? So I can fix it for you?”
He pushed me again and I stumbled forward, catching myself against the glass of the window. I couldn’t avoid him; there was nowhere to go, so I turned to face him. My cousin was furious. His eyes were hard and glittering, his mouth was tight. I could understand his anger—after the things I had said to him in the village, for me to come and admit that in the end I was exactly what I’d denied, it must have felt like a betrayal. I had kicked at him, only to come crawling back, asking him to see me. I thought about backpedaling, I could claim the boy at the club had been mistaken, but it was too late: both of us would know I was lying, and as much as Vivek would despise me for it, I would hate myself even more.
“You have no shame,” Vivek spat. “What do you want from me?”
I used to know the answer to that. I had just wanted to talk to someone who would understand, but now, faced with him and the fatigue bracketing his mouth, I shocked myself. I watched my hand wrap around his wrist, my fingerprints marking his skin as I surged forward and kissed him so hard that my teeth knocked against his, the way I’d wanted to ever since I’d seen him sitting on my bed at my parents’ house, since I’d woken up that night with his hair on my arm and his body so close to mine. Vivek’s pupils flared as my other hand knotted behind his head. He hit my chest with his free hand, trying to get away, but I couldn’t let him go. Our eyes were locked, two swirling panics, and he wrenched his face away. I was still holding the back of his head and his wrist.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?”
His voice was shaking. I should have let him go—I should have let him go, but I didn’t.
“I don’t know.” My breath was falling on his face, he was so close. I couldn’t look away. His eyes flickered, picking apart the fear in mine. “I don’t know,” I said again. I was starting to get very afraid of the line I’d just crossed. I slowly released his wrist and slid that hand past his ear, into his hair, cupping his head with both hands. It felt as if hot ants were skittering under my skin, all over my body. I tried not to think of how humiliated I was about to be, when he would step away, when he would look at me with a fresh disgust. I held his head so he couldn’t move, not yet—I was stronger than he was—and lowered my mouth to his again. I don’t know why; I hadn’t intended any of this, planned any of it.
I kissed him like I wanted to seduce uncertainty away, slow and gentle, filling my mouth with a plea and pouring it into his. He smelled like grass and wind and clothes that had been dried in the sun. Gradually, I felt him relax and relief overwhelmed me. His mouth softened under mine and then he was kissing me back, his hand like a dropped flower against my chest, petal-light and trembling as if there was a breeze. I stopped the kiss and released his head, dropping my hands to my sides. He could leave if he wanted, he could go.
Vivek stood with his hand still on my chest, his breathing uneven. His head was down, black curls falling onto the embroidered neckline of his caftan, against silver thread. He seemed to