Chapter Fifteen
Simran and I have breakfast at Wanda’s the next morning.
It’s the first I’ve seen of her since the party, and it’s as if several lifetimes have passed.
Steve leaves Seattle tomorrow, but he’s already booked a return trip to see Simran in a few weeks.
Their working plan is to take this time to consider what changes are required to make a reunion viable.
Simran presents the situation to me like it’s a business pitch, and I’m a wealthy potential investor.
“I want to be really thoughtful about this,” she says. “That was the issue in the past, we kept rushing back together without working things through.”
I think the primary issue is that Steve is a loser, and Simran deserves more, but this feels too harsh, so I just sip my latte and let her continue.
“I honestly think this time will be different,” she says. “We’ve both grown a lot, and Steve has really demonstrated that he wants to be super high effort moving forward.” She rests now, folding her hands on the table. “What do you think?”
I stir the ice around in my cup. “How you feel is what’s most important,” I say.
It’s clear Sim has all but made up her mind, and while Steve isn’t my preference, I didn’t see anything at the party worth warning her off.
Simran always craves my approval on people she’s seeing, and I don’t want to hurt her by denying it.
Though I can’t help from adding, “Proceed with caution, of course.”
“But proceed, right?” she says, giggling when I roll my eyes.
She finishes her last bit of brioche and brushes her hands of crumbs.
“Okay, your turn. Frank is over obviously, so tell me how the Hinge search is going.” I duck my head to avoid the inquiry, and she gasps.
“Still? What have you been waiting for?”
The door jingles open as she speaks, and I glance up at the most inopportune time, locking eyes with Kush as he enters the shop.
He sees me at the same time I see him, slowing in his tracks.
He looks between me and Simran and gives the world’s most uncomfortable nod of acknowledgment before walking up to the register to order.
It’s not much of a coincidence; I know Kush is a loyal Wanda’s customer. A painful knot still twists in my stomach. “I can’t catch a break,” I groan, sinking in my seat. And truly, this weekend has just been a back-to-back mess, not a silver lining in sight.
Simran’s eyes narrow. “What’s going on?” she asks, our previous point of tension abandoned.
“Nothing,” I mumble. I huff at her prying expression. “Another bad driving practice,” I admit.
I give her a quick overview. Simran’s face morphs from curious to exasperated as I speak.
“Rani,” she says when I finish. “You’ve got to apologize.”
I startle, not expecting this reaction. “What?”
“He’s doing you a pretty big favor by teaching you,” she says. “For free. And it’s like you’re on a mission to be the most uncooperative student possible.”
“I’d cooperate if he’d let me drive!”
“Well,” she says, mouth twitching. “Public safety must come first.”
I swat her, and the smile escapes. “Plus he called me hostile,” I continue.
“Aren’t you?” she asks, and my words die on my tongue. Simran goes on. “I mean, I get it,” she says. “It’s understandable that you’re so sensitive around Kush.” Her voice goes wry and teasing. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, or whatever.”
My mouth drops in outrage. “What?”
She laughs, and I swat her again, feeling very attacked by such an accusation. “Isn’t that it?” she says. “You had an unreciprocated crush as a girl, so now you’re easily insecure around Kush, and that makes you lash out.”
I waver. “I don’t think that’s true,” I say, but I sound doubtful to my own ears. I deflate. “Not the whole truth, anyways.”
It’s deeper than childhood bitterness—being compared to Kush my whole life has also played a role in my prejudice against him. Still, it’s as if Simran has held a mirror to a dark, concealed part of me, and the reality of my own vanity is discomforting.
The door jingles again, and I glance up to see Kush’s retreating frame exit, head down and pace swift. He must have gotten his matcha to go. I recall his love for a sit-down dining experience and feel a pang at disrupting the routine.
I meet Simran’s sympathetic gaze. “Ugh,” I say. “I’ll make it right.” I clear my throat, aching for a subject change. “Did you want to berate me about online dating some more?” I request, and her eyes brighten, more than eager to oblige.
In the evening, before Sunday dinner, we stop by the Pujaris’ place to meet the newest addition to our community: baby Ishika, home from the hospital for five days now.
Baba has a shift tonight, and Ajoba is watching the twins, so it’s just me and Aai on our end.
I feel confident Ajoba volunteered to babysit in order to give me and Aai some bonding time—we are still tiptoeing around each other at home, all polite formalities, no apology from either side.
I’m too excited to meet the newborn to feel irked by the arrangement.
The Satoors and Khannas have already arrived. Preeti is taking a much-earned nap upstairs, so we’re greeted instead by her husband, Kumar, and the Pujari elders. Naturally, Sonal Aunty recounts Ishika’s birth like she’s the mother and not the grandmother.
“The most exhausting evening,” she exclaims. “I was at the salon when Kumar phoned and had to leave with wet hair! Then Prashant forgot to bring the camera, and we got trapped in traffic while hurrying back for it.” She shakes her head, expression alive and flushed.
“But by the morning, we had our baby girl, so it was all worth it.” She beams. “Who wants to see pictures?”
Ishika is in her cradle only ten feet away, but the parents still crowd around Sonal Aunty’s phone.
“Preview of the Facebook album,” she says with a laugh.
Everyone coos and praises Prashant Uncle’s photography skills.
The Satoors’ ten-year-old son, Arjun, tosses a baseball between his hands, unimpressed.
Kush stands politely off to the side, as far from me as possible in such a tight space.
I seize my opportunity to intercept him when the adults move to the kitchen to grab some chai, walking over before I lose the nerve.
“Hi,” I say, halting right in front of him. He looks up, gaze wary. His eyes dart to the kitchen and back, considering whether it’s still possible to join the others.
He must decide against it. “Hi,” he says at last, hands finding his pockets.
I settle on the safest possible topic. “Have you met the baby yet?” I ask. He shakes his head, and we both step over to the cradle. Kumar dozes in an armchair beside his daughter. I drop my voice so as not to spoil his rest. “She’s beautiful,” I say.
And she is, in the way all newborns are: so miniature it’s almost impossible, tiny toes and rosy lips and glossy eyes. Ishika blinks up at me, her stare considering and steady.
“She’s so serious,” I say. “I’ve never seen a serious baby before.” Kush is wordless beside me, so I continue. “Stoic, almost.” He’s still quiet, so I add, “Pensive, even, like she’s lost deep in thought.”
There’s a beat. “Maybe she’ll be a philosopher,” Kush says finally. It’s an olive branch, and I feel my insides loosen.
“Maybe,” I agree. I glance at him; his focus is still trained on Ishika. “How was Wanda’s?” I say.
If he’s surprised that I’ve alluded to our non-encounter, he doesn’t show it. “Never disappoints,” he says, tone noncommittal.
“Real,” I say. “Though their portions are getting smaller, don’t you think?
” I can’t quit the urge to ramble today, anything to delay the vulnerability of an apology.
“I mean, Simran’s salmon scramble was literally four bites.
Two of those were mine, of course, food always looks better on someone else’s plate, but the point stands. ”
Kush’s mouth twitches at this, but he remains silent. He gives the cradle a gentle push, and Ishika stretches at the movement.
“Okay,” I say. I cross my arms against my stomach and take a long breath, steeling myself.
“I wanted to talk about our botched practice. I’m sorry for being, um, touchy and hostile.
” He meets my eyes at the direct quote, and I find the courage to continue.
“It was inappropriate of me to snap at you when you’re being so helpful.
I really appreciate you taking the time to teach me, and I’ll make sure our future practices are a lot smoother. ”
It occurs to me just then that maybe there won’t be a future practice, that maybe I’ve wrecked things so badly, Kush is no longer interested in teaching me. But he nods, accepting my words. “Okay,” he says.
“I can be pretty sensitive to criticism,” I say. “And I’m going to work on that.”
“I wasn’t being critical, though,” he says. “I was being instructive.”
I’m not sure I agree with that assessment; the dog-slaughter comment felt pretty critical. But I know when not to push it. “Right,” I say. “I’m sensitive to that too, I guess.”
He tilts his head. “Why?” he asks.
It’s a fair question, and I’m trying to be as earnest as possible in this conversation, so I say, “I don’t like being bad at things.
Or struggling to get something right. Especially not in front of you.
” The last part slips out, accidental, and Kush rears back, surprised and bemused.
My cheeks flush, and I carry on. “Though I’ve accepted I’ll be bad at driving for a while. Progress is slow and all that.”
“Slow progress is still progress,” Kush says, generous. “Your brakes have gotten a lot less jerky, for one thing.”
I smile, pleased. “They have, haven’t they?” The corners of his lips turn up too. Unable to resist confirmation, I ask, “So we’re all good?”
“We’re all good,” he says.
“Good!” I say, relief washing over me. “Another crisis would have been unfortunate. This week has already been a lot.”