Chapter Twenty
I say a silent prayer as I remove the cold compress from my neck, movements shaky and panicked. I peer into the mirror and immediately groan. A splotchy purple bruise still blooms along the skin.
I take a mirror selfie and send it to Simran with the caption, SOS. Her reply is instantaneous: sorry is he a VAMPIRE??
My phone buzzes with an incoming video call, and I swipe up to accept.
“It’s like you got with Edward Cullen himself,” Simran says, eyes bright with laughter.
“What the fuck do I do,” I say hoarsely.
“Turtleneck,” Simran says.
“It’s July,” I say. “And I meant about Kush.” Memories from the night before rise unbidden in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “How could I let this happen?”
At a party hosted by Kush’s former friend group, and my very first friends at UW, no less.
A shudder goes through me at the thought of Michael and company discovering my transgression.
Zara’s iciness toward Kush last night made clear how unforgivable association with him is.
I have to fight the urge to curl into a ball and never rise from the ground.
“I’m not drinking again,” I blurt. “Ever. I am so stupid when I’m drunk.”
“And horny,” Simran adds, enjoying herself a little too much.
“I am going to jump off a bridge now,” I say.
“Before you do that,” she says. There’s a pause. “Was he a good kisser?”
“Sim,” I groan. I know the answer is all over my face. “You’re terrible.”
Simran cackles, and I click off the phone.
I add a scarf to my otherwise summer-appropriate outfit, Y2K Ashley Tisdale style, then I head down the stairs. Baba raises an eyebrow at the ensemble over his paper but doesn’t comment. Aai, of course, doesn’t hold back.
“Fashion show la jaate aahes ka?” she says, taking a break from stirring a pot on the stove to give me an appraising glance.
I roll my eyes, but a smile pushes at my lips. This is Aai’s oldest refrain. I dress in anything out of the ordinary, and Aai will accuse me of going to a fashion show.
“Just to a coffee shop,” I say. I kiss her cheek good morning before grabbing a banana from the platter beside her as my to-go breakfast. “Simran and I are going to get some studying done.”
“Studying” is code for dissecting every minutia of last night, but Aai doesn’t call me on the lie. I texted Simran in my Uber home from the party last night, very much in need of an emergency Wanda’s session, and the anticipation is all that’s been getting me through the morning.
“Don’t be too late,” she says. “We need to leave for the reception by two, so plan accordingly.”
Shilpa Mehra’s big day (her son Shekar’s wedding) has arrived at last. Shekar and his bride already got married in Udaipur this spring, but the Mehras are hosting a hometown reception tonight as a final celebration.
It’s all Shilpa Aunty has spoken of for the last several months, and if her routine at Ajoba’s birthday was any indication, this evening will be her very own show.
I’ll be disappointed if we’re not honored with at least a few solo dance performances.
“I won’t be late,” I promise, and Aai returns to the stove. I grab my wallet from the counter and smooth down my hair as I head for the door. If I can just get my caramel latte and a full debrief with Simran, everything will be okay.
This is the lie I tell myself as I twist the handle. And find Kush Khanna standing on my porch.
He practically recoils at the sight of me, stepping back a good three paces. He blinks very fast. “Rani,” he says. A flush is crawling up his neck, and I don’t need a mirror to know the same is true for me. “Hi.”
I close the door behind me but don’t dare move forward. The backs of my legs brush against the frame. My body feels fluid. “Hello.”
“I, um,” he starts. He scratches at his hair, curls soft and rumpled today. “I didn’t think you were going to be here.”
My brows furrow. “At my house?”
“Awake,” he amends. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“It’s eleven AM.”
“Well,” he says, “you’ve never been a morning person.”
It’s the understatement of the century. On childhood family trips, our mothers enlisted Kush to be my alarm clock, and I’d wake to him banging on the B we do still go to the same school, and the dreaded Sunday dinners will persist. But it’s comforting to have her tell me what I want to hear, so I nod and try to accept the affirmation. “Okay,” I say. “You’re right, I think I can do this.”
“You so can,” Simran says warmly. She gives my hand a squeeze on the table. “Now eat up, the hangover’s not going to cure itself.”
In my anxiety, I forgot for a bit how ravenous I was. My meal dissolves in seconds.