Chapter Nineteen #2
“Right,” she says, but there’s a trace of irony in her voice.
The exchange stalls, and we all sip at our drinks for something to do.
In the background, a Britney song crescendos to a chorus.
“Well, I’m gonna go find Noelle!” Zara interrupts.
“Don’t leave without saying goodbye.” She directs this last line to Kush, a clear reference to his winter break departure, and slips away.
There’s another uncomfortable pause. Michael redirects the conversation by asking Aryan a question about his rings, and as the boys chat, Kush takes the pause to head for the bar station again. After a moment, I follow after.
“Refill already?” I ask, leaning against the countertop, watching as Kush pours a heavy serving of rum into his mixed drink.
His mouth twitches down, not quite a grimace but close. “The jungle juice was pretty watered down.”
“I know,” I say. “I made it.”
“Huh,” he says. “I don’t think you have a future in bartending.”
“Bummer,” I say. “I’ll adjust my LinkedIn accordingly.”
A semblance of a smile starts. He raises the bottle at me, and I put my glass forward, allowing a generous splash. I’m at the level of tipsy (drunk?) where a vodka-cran-rum doesn’t sound too vile.
As he pours, my eyes catch on a figure behind Kush.
With a horrified start, I recognize Simon, the birthday boy from last week’s party.
And if Simon’s here, the chances are that Frank isn’t far behind.
I take a few frantic sips from my cup at the realization, ducking my head to keep from being spotted.
The mixture is revolting, but I’m too panicked to care. Before I can rethink the suggestion, I blurt out to Kush, “Do you want to head for the terrace?” It’s a more concealed part of the apartment farther down the hall, and I could use the discretion. And also a friend.
His brows lift, but then his features relax into gratitude at the offer. “Please,” he says, and I’m already making my way past the bustle, careful to avoid a familiar face.
“Bring the bottle,” I call back.
I know the drinks have kicked in because I hardly notice the chill out on the terrace.
Veiled by flowy white curtains, the terrace extends from the den, offering a glimmering view of Seattle’s nighttime cityscape.
The water gleams in the distance, streetlights glow back at us, and a crescent moon hangs low in the sky tonight.
We lean against the railing, looking out.
The terrace is far enough from the main room that party chatter fades to a low hum in the background.
Kush takes long sips of his rum and Coke. I tilt my head at him, insides still warm from my own mixed drink. “You’re off-theme,” I notice. He’s dressed nice, a linen shirt and shorts, but there’s nothing remotely pop culture about the ensemble.
“I decided to come last minute,” he says. “Didn’t have the time to plan a costume.”
“Hm,” I say. “That’s what Alexa said.”
His expression twists. He’s clearly clued into the Noelle-Alexa drama. “Don’t compare me.”
I wonder if he knows that the trio often does. I feel sorry for him at the thought and shake off the sympathy. It’s not an unwarranted comparison.
“I like your outfit, though,” he says. I feel all too aware of how his eyes pass over me. I hug my arms around my stomach, right where the skirt and top part to show a strip of skin. He frowns a bit. “I can’t say I like the phrase,” he adds. “People can’t just stop being poor.”
My mouth falls open. “It’s a reference,” I exclaim. “Not a policy proposal.”
His brows merge. “Oh,” he says.
“A very famous reference,” I add. I shake my head, disbelieving. “God, you are so uncultured.”
His mouth twitches. “Offline,” he corrects. He takes another sip of rum and Coke.
“I’m going to stick with uncultured,” I say.
He rolls his eyes, and we keep drinking in silence for a few minutes.
When his cup empties, he pours more rum in from the bottle, offering another serving to me as well.
I accept even though I’m well past my usual tolerance at this point.
But I’m not ready to leave the terrace yet, and I’m finding it helpful to be drunk while alone with Kush, usual inhibitions lowered.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Kush says at last. The words are loose, some of the vulnerability from our afternoon at the pond resurfacing. “There are lots of people at this party who don’t like me.”
“I like you,” I say, surprising myself. The words slip out, automatic, and I realize I mean it. At some point in the past few weeks of driving together, learning more about him, my former bitterness for Kush has receded, my childhood fondness beginning to return.
I’ve surprised him too. His features soften, pleased. “That’s new,” he says.
Not at all, I almost say, but I catch myself at the last moment. I hurry from the subject. “And I know,” I say. “About…” I trail off, unsure how to frame it, but he catches on.
“Ah,” he says. He sips his drink. “I figured.” He shifts toward the banister and speaks to the air. “They were my friends once,” he says. “Close friends. I miss that. I guess I’m still not used to this version of our relationship.”
I’m not sure how to reply. I’ve entered their lives as Kush has exited, and that’s an odd role to be in. I settle for closing the gap between us, so our sides are nearly touching, forearms resting beside each other on the railing. I scan for something lighter to say.
“I’m glad you didn’t get a mullet,” I say.
A smile starts. He turns his head to meet my gaze, blinking back when he takes in how close we are. But he doesn’t move away. “Good,” he says.
The proximity and eye contact together is overstimulating.
I resort to babbling, as I always do when nerves spark.
“Yeah,” I say. “I like the—” I gesture to a loose curl that falls underneath his brow bone.
“It’s a nice one—” I break off. He looks bemused, not comprehending.
“The style, I mean,” I say. My cheeks flush, feeling the need to make myself clear.
I reach up to grasp the strand with my thumb and forefinger, and he stills at the touch. “This,” I say stupidly.
Even in my intoxicated state, it’s an out-of-body experience to discover I am holding a piece of Kush’s hair, an unprompted and objectively ridiculous thing to do.
Embarrassment sweeps through me, and I should drop my hand, but he’s turned motionless, so any movement from my end also feels impermissible.
I can’t pin down exactly when the energy shifts, but at some point, his confused stillness gives way to something heady and unreadable. I relax my hand, so it rests at his shoulder, fingers still lost in his hair.
“What are you doing, Rani?” he asks. The words are mild, but his eyes give him away, gaze wary yet filled with want. The understanding sends a rush through me, intensified by the sudden knowledge of my reciprocation.
“Just,” I start. I swallow. He’s close enough that I could count his lashes if I wanted to. He swallows too, and I follow the movement in his throat. “Your hair looks nice.”
The compliment comes out like an invitation, and he’s not saying no. Almost out of curiosity, hardly believing it myself, I lean up, and then we are kissing.
The first kiss is gentle, explorative, a question—is this okay? There’s a beat of hesitation, but before I can withdraw, he’s telling me yes, again and again, by the way he kisses me back. His mouth melts into mine, hands skimming my hair, my hips, my sides.
He presses me against the railing, and for a second, we separate. I see his eyes flash, lips parting as if to say something. I kiss him again to cut him off. The last thing I want is the emergence of driving instructor Kush, telling me what’s best and what’s not. I’m in charge of this moment.
His mouth dips to my neck, and I almost gasp at the sensation. His thumb grazes my waist as he kisses a trail up to my jaw. My skin still tingles, electric, when his lips at last find mine again. I can taste the rum and Coke on his tongue.
We break away abruptly at the sound of a shattering crash from the party. From the noise, it appears the disco ball pinata has been successfully burst open, and cheers and shouts resound inside. Kush and I stare at each other, breathing fast, eyes wide and stunned.
He interrupts the silence first. “Rani—” he starts.
What just happened? My hands find my lips, still tender and stung from his kiss. Awareness of the last few minutes washes over me, sobering me up fast. “Oh, God,” I say, and I’m pushing past him, hurrying back into the party.