Chapter Five
“The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version)”
by Taylor Swift
Lucy
“Have some more, Lucy. You look so thin,” Sushant’s grandmother insists. She puts another tandoori chicken leg on my plate and adds a big dollop of mint chutney beside it for good measure.
I smile at Dadima and murmur a polite thank-you.
Dinner at Sushant’s place means I have to mentally prep myself to survive a never-ending meal.
From fresh, fluffy rotis and lamb curry to lentils and a whole cooked tandoori chicken, the dinner table is jam-packed with Punjabi food.
There’s barely enough room on the table for the six glasses of Thums Up (India’s favorite fizzy cola, I’ve been told), one for each of us.
“So, Lucy, how’s school going?” Mrs. Khera asks fondly as she dips a piece of chicken in mint sauce.
I swallow a particularly juicy morsel of meat and nod. “It’s going well, Mrs. Khera.”
“I’ve told you before, call me Ritu Aunty.” She makes a tutting noise. “We don’t do those formal salutations under this roof.”
“Sorry, Ritu Aunty.” I smile weakly.
“This supercool French exchange student showed up to school today,” Sushant says.
His plate is already empty, save for the meat bones—so naturally Dadima leans over and tosses him another piece of tandoori chicken.
He dives right into his third helping of dinner and adds, his mouth semi-full, “His name’s Julien, and he’s hilarious. Isn’t he, Lucy?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. There’s still a dull ache in my head. I have to somehow get out of being Julien’s tour guide. Maybe I can sic Natalie on him. Or Sushant, since he loves Julien’s sense of humor so much.
“Oh, the French are really rude. And Paris is so dangerous!” Mr. Khera lowers his voice as though the neighbors will overhear. “I remember when your mother and I went to Paris for our honeymoon and we almost got mugged.”
He goes off about the honeymoon mugging incident, a story I’ve heard at least five times before, and as the whole table laughs and interjects in Punjabi every now and then, I simply nod and smile.
Sushant’s little brother, Dheeraj, catches my eye from across the table and shrugs apologetically. He gets how overwhelming these loud family dinners can be. The seven-year-old kid and I are the only introverts at this table.
Sushant was a nervous wreck the night I first met the Kheras, over a year ago. He’d never dated seriously before, much less introduced a white girl as his girlfriend to his parents. But his family warmed up to me even before dinner was on the table.
I don’t have to wonder why. Meera told me, back when we were friends, that traditional desi families often like their sons to date quiet, polite girls who don’t talk back to their elders.
“That’s why Sushant’s folks never invite me over although we’re neighbors,” she’d said that night as the credits rolled on yet another one of her favorite Shah Rukh Khan movies, this one following the arranged-marriage-to-lovers trope. “I’m too much for them.”
Even then, in the dim room lit up only by the glow of the TV, I wanted to close the distance between us. I wanted to cup her cheek with my hand and tell her, You’re not too much; you’re perfect, and screw anyone who thinks differently.
But all I said was “Is that why you won’t tell him you like him?”
“Come on.” She snorted and tossed the last kernels of her homemade caramel popcorn into her mouth before settling into the soft fabric of the couch. “He’s way out of my league. Have you looked at him? Have you looked at me?”
“I have,” I said, taking her in. Her dark brown skin, her wavy black hair tied in a loose braid, and the sharp jut of her collarbone. She’s so beautiful. When would she see herself the way I did?
Meera sighed loudly and turned toward me, so I averted my gaze to the empty bowl of popcorn and stood. “Let’s clean this up and go upstairs.”
She was asleep within seconds of her head hitting the pillow. I stayed up for a whole hour, though, tossing and turning beside her, wondering when and how I had developed feelings for my best friend.
A girl who was in love with the boy next door—not me.
“Lucy?” Dadima’s voice jars me back to now. She’s standing beside me, one hand on my chair. “Are you finished with dinner?”
I look down at my half-full plate. Sushant told me his parents hate wasting food, that it’s bad manners to leave the table with food still on your plate. But my stomach is squirming and sweat pools at the base of my neck, so I nod. “Yes, I’m done.”
Dadima pinches my cheek and shakes her head sadly. “You need to fatten up, my girl. Come home for aloo parathas sometime.”
“I will.” I rise, throw the rest of my food in the trash, then put my plate in the sink. I offer to help with the dishes, but Mrs. Khera drives me out of the kitchen, thanking me but also reminding me I’m a guest in their home.
“Ready to get going?” Sushant asks as he puts on his shoes at the door. One of his hands is on his belly, somehow still flat and chiseled despite the filling meal.
“Yeah.” I say goodbye to the Kheras—lots of hugs and kisses ensue—and then I’m in Mr. Khera’s car, staring out the window as Sushant drives me home.
He turns on the radio to an electronic dance song by Gryffin.
Gryffin was Meera’s favorite artist back when we were best friends.
A few years ago, she’d wanted to go to LA to attend one of his DJ concerts, but her parents had said no.
She’d cried on my shoulder for a whole hour.
I wonder if she still uses that coconut shampoo.
The car brakes to a halt, and I put a hand to my heart and gasp in fright. “Sorry,” I mumble when I realize we’ve reached my driveway. “I was lost in thought.”
“About what?” Sushant unbuckles his seat belt, leaning forward. He moves some hair away from my face and studies me glumly. “You’ve been distracted tonight.”
“I’m anxious about New York.” I nibble on a fingernail before remembering my expensive manicure. “And the tarot reading.”
“Come on, babe.” He throws his head back and laughs. I told him about the Tower card reading over lunch, and he said I was overreacting. Sushant doesn’t believe in tarot, or spirituality, or any of the things Café Kismat represents. He doesn’t even like coffee.
“I know you think tarot is nonsense,” I say, threading one hand into his curly hair, “but Mr. Rao’s never been wrong before. He predicted I’d win homecoming queen, remember?”
“Anyone could have predicted that.” Sushant scoffs. “You’re the best-looking girl in school.” But his eyes soften, and he kisses me, his warm hand cradling my neck, and we only break apart a minute later to catch our breaths. Kissing Sushant always soothes my anxiety, and tonight is no different.
He kisses me goodbye in his standard fashion—nose, cheeks, lips—and doesn’t pull out of the driveway until I close the front door behind me.
Mom’s talking loudly in her office again.
From the gap between her door and the wall, I see her recording something for her social media audience.
I go upstairs without disturbing her, choosing instead to text her, good night, I’m home!
I change into my favorite silk pajamas and scroll through Instagram while lying in bed.
Sushant posted a selfie with the football team, his goofy, dimpled smile out in full glory.
I like the photo, marveling internally at how handsome my boyfriend is, and move on.
Natalie’s cat, Buttons, is playing with an empty paper bag on her Stories.
I react with a heart-eye emoji. Some authors I follow did a live stream together, so I make a mental note to watch it when I have more time.
Before I exit the app, I check Meera’s profile. I’m careful not to click on her Stories ring or like any of her posts. I don’t want her knowing I sometimes still look her up online.
The most recent photo on her feed is from a few days ago, featuring three cups of coffee—one Americano, one latte with whipped cream, and one large iced ginger turmeric chai latte. Her friends Ron and Valeria are tagged, as well as Café Kismat’s IG page.
Has Mr. George told Meera I still always order my favorite beverage, the one she introduced me to?
Does she know that we have the same drink order even now?
Sighing, I turn off the lights in my bedroom and put on a Spotify playlist I created last year—it’s titled “MRG” and has all the Gryffin songs Meera used to play on loop—and then I curl into a fetal position as a tear falls down my cheek.
It’s been well over a year. She has new friends now, friends who would never break her heart to hide their secrets like I did. She’s happy. She probably doesn’t miss me.
I should stop missing her too.
Meera
Weekends are when the café is comparatively busier, so I’m on duty at the counter alongside the barista and Dad.
Appa is sitting in his little tarot corner, doing a reading for two customers.
Instrumental music plays from the speakers: the theme song from one of my favorite Bollywood movies, in which a former convict stops at nothing to hunt down the cops who killed the love of his life.
The smell of the incense Appa burned earlier this morning is slowly dying out.
I’m putting a few drops of lavender and peppermint essential oils into the diffuser by the toilets when the door opens and two people walk in.
I nearly fumble with the dropper in my hand at the sound of Lucy’s soft, girlish voice.
“And guess what? They didn’t think I could prioritize washing dishes over my manicure, so they didn’t even interview me. Jerks!”
My ears prick up. So she is still looking for a job. Valeria’s sister turned her down and hired someone else, but I don’t know if Lucy has any other leads. I crouch down beside the wall, hoping I can eavesdrop for a bit before they notice me.