Sweet Criminal of Mine

Shruti’s legs devilishly dangled from the stone ledge. She swung them in small circles like coffee stirrers blending in some half and half. Her eyes followed the stoned walkways to a set of regal stone stairs that existed only at prominent government buildings and Ivy League campuses. She made eye contact with the statue of Alma Mater, her hands upraised as if to ask her, “And what will you bring to enrich us all?”

Two degrees and seven years later, she didn’t have an answer.

“Shruti!”

“Hey, Miles.” His lanky figure towered over hers despite her perch, his hug nearly dropping her from the ledge. Shruti jumped off before she could fall, suddenly embarrassed that she only reached the beginning of his chest. She felt shorter than she remembered.

“I missed you.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually make it.”

“I’m offended! When have I ever flaked?”

“On about almost every phone call the last year!”

“Phone calls are different than meet-ups.”

 “Shall we?” Shruti was already walking on auto-pilot to her favorite pastry shop and Miles obediently followed, excited to be on someone else’s turf.

Shruti Davis and Miles Li. Together, they used to joke, they made a full Asian. Her first name and his last name signaled “otherness,” and his first name and her last name were cloaked in privilege, or as Miles used to say, “white in disguise.” Shruti’s mom and Miles’ dad both international college students that found a way to stay in the States. Their white parents falling deeply in love with someone their grandparents didn’t approve of. Both understood what it was like to be half accepted and half unbelonging.

Yet, their upbringing yielded very different outlooks. After experiencing her race coming before her qualifications, Shruti did everything to be mainstream and successful. She wore pencil skirts to her law office and refused to wear henna. She never mentioned bilingualism on her applications and straightened her hair.

But Miles? He joined affinity groups and packed bento boxes for lunch. Munched on seaweed snacks in staff meetings and took advanced Korean classes in college. His confidence frightened Shruti, but emboldened her, too. She was always envious of the easy way he carried himself, as if the world should mold to him than the other way around.

“Wow. You’re an Ivy Leaguer now.”

“Have been for a while now.”

“You’re forgetting your state roots.”

“As if Berkeley wasn’t top-ranked.”

“And soon you’ll be making that big New York salary getting people off for white-collar crimes.”

“How’s that big fancy tech company of yours? Still convincing people vaccines cause autism?”

“Hey—those algorithms only generate what they’re fed.” Shruti rolled her eyes and shoved him aside, walking faster ahead of him.

Shruti turned and shouted, “Have fun testifying in court!” Miles looked down and winced, but Shruti assumed the gust of wind was to blame.

“I missed you, Shruti Pebbles.” Miles caught up and loosely hung his arm on her shoulder.

“Fuck off, Miles.”

“Nice shorts.” It was a tepid day in New York, but as a girl from Orange County, Shruti protested a climate too cold by exclusively wearing shorts when the weather inched above 60. Shruti instinctively looked down to see what was on her.

“Wow, didn’t even realize I was wearing these.”

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Shruti wore a fitted halter neck crop top now dyed orange and pink and teal. Her jean shorts were ripped stained either making them impossible to resell or markedly more expensive—time would tell. Miles’ hands hovered the small of Shruti’s back. It tickled, but she wouldn’t admit it. She left Miles believe that her small giggles were a symptom of her infatuation.

They were coming back from Paint!, an event where undergrads squirted paint out of dining hall ketchup and hot sauce bottles.

“That was such a rip off Holi.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?”

“Continue feeling frustrated but refuse to do anything about it because most people are unwilling to participate once you attach a culture to it that isn’t mainstream.”

“Wow, all in one breath.” Miles tugged at her belt loop and they continued walking, Miles a graceful lead and Shruti simply following cadence.

Their naivete still engulfed them, drowning in an ocean of idealism not yet shattered by the reality that all couples either break up or one half perishes. They defiantly spread saliva on public sidewalks and joined hands as if in a daily parade of affection.

There were dozens of other students smeared in paint ahead, behind, and to the sides. Shruti watched them lazily branch off into boba shops and fast-food joints, wondering which impulse they’d give into first. Shruti was about to surrender to a Thai restaurant before she saw a few chess boards waiting for a few bored passerby.

Shruti stepped out of Miles’ embrace and landed on a stone bench, waiting for an opponent.

“I told you I grew up going to chess tournaments, right?” Miles asked.

“I vaguely remember. I’m just not sure you live up to the title.”

“Well, I’ll give you the advantage. Play white. You can start first.”

For every ninety seconds that Shruti used, Miles used eight. He barely glanced at the chess board with every move which infuriated Shruti, making her resort to tactics of distraction. Shruti leaned forward on her palms, widening her eyes and looking into his. Miles mimicked her, resting his elbow on the table and cupping his own chin.

“Having fun, Shruti Pebbles?”

“Mildly.” As soon as she moved her knight, he took it without breaking eye contact.

“Still?”

“Slightly less.” Miles laughed and waited for her to play.

She moved a measly pawn and asked, “So what’s your master plan?”

“To win.”

     “Not for this game. For life.”

“I’d like to change some things. Maybe disrupt the social order.”

“Very leftist of you.”

“Just trying to fit in with California.”

“No, seriously. What do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure exactly. But I do want to defy people’s expectations.”

“Again, vague.”

“Again, your bishop.” Her stolen pieces were starting to form a mob on the side of the table, outnumbering the two black pawns and a rook.

        “Tell me, Miles. Sure, you’re studying computer science, but there’s no way you just want to code for a big company all your life.”

        “I think tech is fascinating. I’m just not sure I find it fascinating enough to want to succumb to the corporate structure. Maybe if I can use tech to show people there’s a lot they’re missing.”

        “You love risks, don’t you?”

        “Checkmate, babe," Miles said, twirling her king piece between his fingers.

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        “You’re favorite pastry shop, I’m assuming?”

        “I used to eat my weight in rainbow cakes every weekend morning while sifting through my case book.”

        Everything was packed together, much like everything in New York. Luxury was marked by space, whether it be vaulted ceilings in SoHo or restaurants with enough space for waiters to do traditional wine pours.

        The old couple ordered and found a table tucked away by the door, a gush of air bringing goosebumps to their skin every time a customer walked through the door.

        “Don’t take all my pastries!”

        “Hey! I’m the guest.” But Miles reluctantly surrendered his hand away from Shruti’s plate stacked with a tower of various cookies.

        Of course, Shruti had thought about them finding their way back to one another as all people reminisce about young love. She hoped one day they’d relocate to the same city and run into each other in a bar and suddenly they’d fall into the same easy rhythm that only previously existed because of the simplicity of life at eighteen.

        “You never did tell me why you were in town.” For once, Miles did not snicker, smirk, or smile. He looked away and chewed meticulously, until he could no longer procrastinate answering the question. He reached for a napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth, finally putting his hands palm down on the table in front of him.

Shruti thought, this is the moment. The monumental affair when Miles would tell her he was engaged or dying or madly in love with her. She let herself hope that she’d receive the buried fruit of a declaration of love.

Miles leaned forward, so far that she could see the crease between his eyebrows, the thickness of his glasses’ lens, and the little dimple on his cheek. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to lean forward and hover closer, so distracted that she barely heard Miles when he whispered—

“Shruti, I need a lawyer.”

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      Shruti was packing her things one last time, as were most of her friends, each in a different house painted a bright shade of the rainbow. She and Miles were armed with rolls of packing tape, busying themselves with the boxes in front of them instead of the many other decisions that lay ahead. Twenty-seven minutes of silence transpired where only the crackles of unwound tape interrupted the air. Shruti felt like if she acknowledged that she was moving, she would acknowledge the cluster of decisions, goodbyes, and heartbreaks that came with graduating.

“I’ll hold you back,” Miles said.

Shruti didn’t immediately register that her boyfriend had spoken. It took her three more boxes of tape to realize that he was talking about her, about them. “What does that mean? We went to the same school. You’ve got a job with a 401k lined up.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“My parents even like you and they don’t like anybody.”

“I won’t hold you back like that.”

“Like what?”

“The superficial version of me, I agree, is compatible with you.”

“Stop speaking like a fucking horoscope. You don’t think I see you for who you are?”

“I think I hide a lot from you.”

“How do you think I’m supposed to interpret that?”

“I’m an idealist. You live here, in the world. You agree to its structure and that you have a place in it. Me? I’ll never have a place.”

“That’s some bullshit, Miles. You’re working at one of the biggest tech companies in the world!”

“And then what?”

“I’m not sure! We’ll figure it out, you and me. Maybe I’m the idealist!”

“Shruti, trust me. We won’t work. You’ll see.” Shruti responded through the clatter of the packing tape on the floor and Miles kept boxing up the last of her things.

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        Shruti fell back on her chair and pulled her arms inwards, crossing them across her chest. She felt angry, a sense that she was being used. The only reason Miles was in town was to network, to climb up a ladder that he would pretend he didn’t care about.

        “Lawyer? Why a lawyer?”

        “I’m in some deep shit.”

        “What do you mean? What did you do?” She whispered forcefully, hoping the words would land with the same punch as a shout.

        “Some illegal activity,” Miles returned casually.

        “Miles, not so loud!”

        “Don’t worry. Crowded places are safest to chat. No one is really listening. Stop talking.”

        Miles was right. The entire pastry shop sounded like a YouTube video of coffeeshop ambient noise. Merchants talking to customers drowned out by small spoon percussion on mugs. Bathroom door slamming and shuffles of people leaving and newcomers hovering over tables. Those alone wore noise-cancelling headphones and others were too preoccupied by their partner’s chit chat to pay any attention to them.

        “Fine. But tell me what happened.”

        “I can’t really. You’d be an accomplice. And I need you to be my lawyer.”

        “Give me a hint.”

        “I leaked some information.”

        “How much?”

        “Enough that I violated some contracts. Hopefully enough to stir up something. People deserved some truth.”

        “All right, so you’re Edward Snowden?”

        “But much less political.”

        “Miles, this is a big deal.”

        “I know. But if it’s fine. I wanted this.”

        Shruti finally understood. He was right. She overlooked what this man had been trying to tell her for years. He was always going to make a choice that put his lofty ideals first and everyone else second. He had never graduated from those early-formed convictions about the world that most young adults shed with their first few paychecks.

“Miles. You have to go.”

“Where?”

“Run. Where do rich people gallivant off to to avoid taxes?”

“And let people forget me? No way. I’m going to make everyone watch this trial and face what’s been hidden.” It was one final act of martyrdom. If he wasn’t going to escape the country, then at least propel his college girlfriend’s career while he sunk some formidable foe.

        “Fine, but you still have to go. You haven’t hired me yet.”

        “Touche. Thanks for coffee and the pastries. Looks like your firm pays you decently.”

        “Don’t hug me. It’ll look suspicious.”

        Miles instead squeezed her hand under the table and said, “See you soon.”

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        Shruti went to her Greenwich Village apartment and sank into her pearly white bed without a shower. She slept fitfully, a 7:30 alarm rousing her slowly. A Sunday morning was her favorite time of day, and she refused to ever miss it. She cinched a robe around her waist and wandered off to the Juliet’s balcony, relishing in the quiet that only ever struck New York City on Sunday mornings.

        Sirens blared in the distance and Shruti counted in her head, anticipating when they would shrink back away into the atmosphere. But they kept encroaching until Shruti saw a squad of cars surround an apartment building across the street. Shruti debated heading inside, but human nature urged her to gawk.

        Six minutes later and her college sweetheart was manhandled out of the building. Shruti gripped the railing, worried she would fall over and tumble seven stories down. She closed her mouth and reached for some sunglasses on her dresser, knowing that the press wouldn’t be far away. Her instinct to protect Miles left her with a warning not to be recognized, but not one to look away.

Miles looked up and imperceptibly winked in her direction. So agile that Shruti would swear it was an aberration if she didn’t know him better. She blinked hard, convinced that if she shut her eyes long enough, she would still be in bed. She opened her eyes to the same stare, though he had no idea if she was watching. With a half-smile, he mouthed “I feel alive.” Shruti smiled and shook her head, walking away from the window. She clicked on her espresso machine and waited for the phone call from a holding cell.