Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(64)

“Who cares what people think, Rina? None of them matter!”

“No, none of them matter, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to subject myself to more ridicule when I’m already so tired from fighting.”

The line went quiet.

“I’m going to Veera’s. It’ll give us some time to cool off, too.”

“I don’t need to cool off,” Prem replied. His voice was calmer now. “Not when I know exactly what I want, and you want the same thing, but you’re too stubborn to see it. Call me when you’re ready.”

With those final words, he hung up the phone.

Kareena had to stop herself from calling him right back. Instead, she sent a text message to Veera letting her know that she was heading her way.

As the car raced down the Jersey Turnpike, Kareena’s argument with Prem circled her mind. Damn it. She was going to miss him.





Chapter Twenty

Prem




Prem had never been the type to reach for his phone, but he kept checking his messages in hopes of getting something from Kareena. He’d scrolled through his notifications before his show and then again whenever he had a commercial break. His producer shot him a funny look halfway through his newest segment, but Prem didn’t care. This woman made him irrational, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He stood at his marker and waited for the signal that the playback reel was over, while the heavy weight of his cell sat snugly in his breast pocket. “As you can see, takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or broken heart syndrome, is really an extreme stress response. This is prevalent in women, especially South Asian women, who are often younger when they get broken heart syndrome than other races and ethnicities, which means that we as a community need to do better in providing the support women need to thrive.”

His producer, Varsha, began counting down, and Prem closed out his show, rattling off his script as quickly as it appeared on the teleprompter. “Tune in next week, when we discuss how communication can lead to positive health benefits. Thanks again for watching.”

The fake applause machine echoed through the studio, the camera panned out, and someone yelled “Cut!” Prem’s fake smile fell like a Jenga tower. God, his face hurt sometimes from holding it for so long.

“Great job, Prem,” Varsha said. She pulled her headphones down to rest on her collarbone, then came over to him to remove his mic. “That was definitely different.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

She ran a hand over her cropped magenta hair. “Darling, we asked you to talk about stress and how it affects the heart for today’s topic of conversation. You go into broken heart syndrome. That seems a bit more . . . personal than usual.”

Prem rolled his eyes. “Stress effects on heart health is a huge topic. I had to narrow it down somewhere.” And he’d been thinking about Rina’s health. She took on too much sometimes. Was she taking care of herself? Was she eating or sleeping? She’d sleep fine if she stayed with him.

Nope, he had to stop thinking about her. About being with her. In all sorts of ways.

“Look, I’m just saying that I really like the way the show is going,” Varsha said as she wrapped the mic wire around her fingers. He’d watched her do the same movement a hundred times. “Our viewers are liking the change in content this season, too.”

“Are you sure it’s not just a residual following from that insane video of me and Rina?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Varsha replied. “I’ve known you for three years, and something’s different. In a good way.”

“I hope you’re right,” Prem said. He adjusted his collar and ran a hand over the crease where the microphone had been clipped. “Maybe my old investor will also see a difference and reconsider pulling out. I need him if I’m getting the space I need for the center.”

Varsha shrugged even as she motioned to someone about the lights. “I mean, I can always send him the video files for the last few episodes. We still have his contact information for when he asked to see back episodes a few months ago.”

Prem vaguely recalled Varsha handling everything behind the scenes. It was good for Jersey City, for the South Asians who lived there, and for the TV show, she’d said. He wasn’t so sure if it would help the network that much, but he’d been appreciative of her. Appreciative of all the help that she’d given.

“I hate to ask you to help again when you’ve already done so much,” he said.

“Not a problem at all. You’re doing something good. And you’ve done a lot with this show. That’s why I’ve been here for so long.”

“Thanks, Varsha,” he said. “That means a lot.”

“You got it,” she replied. “See you next week!”

He waved, and just as he turned to go back to his dressing room to grab his bag, Yash, one of the camerapersons, called his name from across the studio over the sound of rolling light boxes and retracting cables.

“Prem, you have visitors. They said they’re family. The Randhawas? Want me to have them come up to your dressing room?”

Prem stilled. What in the world were Gori’s parents doing in New York? How did they know he’d be recording?

Before the thought finished forming in his head, he knew the answer. His mother. God, how long had it been?