Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’m still suffering from a slight limp on Friday, the day of our next scheduled driving practice.
I wait it out, hoping for some last-minute relief, but in the end, I text Kush to cancel an hour prior to our lesson.
It’s unfortunate timing—my test is only a week away now, and while I’m gaining confidence at the wheel, additional practice can only help.
But my ankle requires rest, so I take the day off, setting up a space on the living room couch with elevated pillows to alleviate leftover swelling. A few more days of ice and ibuprofen, and I should be back on the road with ease.
Simran texts as I’m starting to make some headway on my outline: a frowny-face reaction to a picture I sent of my amateurishly bandaged ankle. This is exactly why I told you to ghost him, she says. I scoff, but she follows it up immediately: Jk so sorry you can Venmo request me for your co-pay.
My lips push up. I’m not planning to visit the doctor, since Baba took a quick look last night and prescribed bed rest, but I’m happy to have Simran make it up to me regardless. I’m typing a reply back when the doorbell rings.
I wait it out, hoping it’s a delivery person who’ll drop a package and leave, but the bell rings again. I groan and rise from the couch with a sigh. Aai Baba are at work, the twins are at a friend’s, and Ajoba left on his afternoon walk a while back, so it’s up to me.
I’m halfway to the door when the bell rings a third time. “Coming!” I call, limping on, irked by the impatience.
An irate Kush is on my porch when I twist the handle. “Where have you been?” he says, not missing a beat. “I’ve been sitting in the driveway for twenty minutes.”
My brows furrow. “I texted you.” I lift my injured foot, the white bandage already peeling off. “Need to tap out today.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, God,” he says. He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “My phone died at work, and my charger in the car isn’t working,” he explains. He nods at the foot. “How did this happen?”
I give a version of the truth. “Tripped on my shoelaces,” I say, and he clucks his tongue.
“Clumsy as ever,” he says. I shoot him a look, and he loops an arm around my shoulders to help me forward. A tingle shoots up my spine, body sparking at the contact. “Let’s sit,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say, clearing my throat, but he’s already walking me to the couch. I take my seat as instructed, and Kush kneels on the carpet before me. I look down at him, confused. “What are you doing?”
“Let me take a look,” he says. “I can help.” At my incredulous stare, he adds, his voice wry, “I work in a hospital, remember?”
“Yeah,” I say. “As a receptionist.”
He gives me a glare. “I’m not a receptionist.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a receptionist,” I say.
“Right,” he says. “Except that I’m not.”
“You answer phones,” I say. “Send emails, make copies—”
“Foot, Rani,” he orders.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, but the insistence is clear on his face, so I extend my leg on the pillows. Kush rolls the hem of my pants up and starts to peel the bandage off, fingers delicate. My skin tingles at the touch.
“I thought you were in pediatrics, not podiatry,” I say next, feeling the need to keep talking.
“Kids have feet too,” he says. He murmurs the next sentence almost to himself. “This is an exceptionally poor wrap job.”
“Well,” I say. “I don’t work in a hospital.”
He smiles faintly at this, continuing on. “It’s a good sign that you’re weight-bearing,” he says. “Can’t be that bad of a twist.”
“Better not be,” I say. “I need my feet for next Friday.”
“You’ll crush the test,” he says. “I’ve made sure of it.” Foot bare, he rests the cloth bandage to the side and presses his palm against the arch. Gently, he pushes forward. “How does that feel?”
Like there’s something fluttering in my chest, but that’s not what he means. “Fine,” I manage.
He presses my ankle to the right, which I take, then to the left, which elicits a hiss. “Sorry,” he says. He releases my foot. “I think you’ll be okay,” he says. “Only minor swelling. Just ice, elevate, and rest up.”
“As I’ve been doing,” I say.
He ignores this and reaches for the bandage again.
I brace myself for the feel of his fingers on my bare skin.
Despite the clinical nature of the task, it’s an oddly intimate position to have Kush at his knees before me, his touch impossibly gentle so as not to place unnecessary pressure at the injury site.
My insides feel fuzzy and molten, a telltale sign of forthcoming word vomit.
“Do you have a foot thing or something,” I blurt into the silence.
His fingers slip over the bandage, his tidy wrapping coming undone. “What?”
“A foot thing,” I repeat, like I haven’t asked something utterly ridiculous.
He shakes his head, astonished. “I heard you the first time,” he says. “I was hoping you’d retract.”
“Natural question,” I say. “You’ve been taking your time.”
“Of course you’d double down,” he mutters. He meets my eyes, unnerved and amused at once. “I do not have a foot thing,” he affirms.
“Huh,” I say. “You don’t like my pedicure?” I opted for a bold fuchsia on the toes during my and Aai’s last visit to the salon.
He plays along as he restarts the bandaging. “Not sure,” he says. “Seems like a color Shilpa Aunty would go for.”
I gasp and pull my foot away from him. “Take that back!” He laughs, and the horrible part is, now that he’s said it, I see it too. Hot pinks and purples have always been Shilpa Aunty’s go-to shades. “I need acetone,” I groan.
“After,” he says. “Now hold still.” I oblige, and he starts to loop the bandage over once more.
Each brush of his knuckles feels electric in my bloodstream.
After what feels like ages, Kush announces, “All done.” He smooths over the bandage and rises to his feet. My skin is left cold at his absence.
Having finished the task, I expect him to get going, but instead he sinks onto the seat beside me. He stretches his legs out on the recliner so that there are just inches between us. “Do you want to watch something?” he asks.
I blink, surprised at the question. I nod at the papers and books strewn out around me. “I have so much work,” I say, apology but also longing clear in my voice.
“Take a break,” he says. He can see me considering and eggs it on. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Receptionist,” I quip, and he ignores this. I’m already moving my laptop and materials to the side. “You’re a bad influence,” I sigh.
His smile is instant and boyishly bright. I sit back, pleasure warm in my chest at the knowledge that the prospect of hanging out with me has made Kush this glad. “Grey’s?” he offers as he reaches for the remote. “I’m closing in on season two.”
“Or we could finish Zindagi,” I say. We’d just reached the intermission before being called in for dinner the other night, and the best is yet to come. Kush has been watching an entire show at my recommendation, so wrapping up his favorite movie is a small return in comparison.
And maybe there’s a secondary motivation—the film will take longer than an episode, and I wouldn’t mind prolonging my time with Kush. I push the thought away.
“Would never say no to that,” he says.
A half hour later, we’re settled in our seats, approaching my favorite song of the movie. Kush rose up to grab a couch throw minutes into watching, and now our knees are nearly brushing under the blanket. We could have opted to turn off the air-conditioning, but neither of us voiced the suggestion.
“I figured out my answer,” I tell him, calling back to his inquiry about my bucket list activity.
His eyes flash to me. “And what’s that?”
“A road trip,” I say. I nod at the television. “Just like the boys. Somewhere totally unfamiliar, and I’d drive. Nights and freeways and all.” He looks amused, and I raise a brow. “You’re supposed to pick what scares you, right?” Those are the rules in the film, anyways.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Rani on the freeway, nothing could be scarier.”
I swat his shoulder, and he laughs. Then he leans over to press pause. “I’m going to grab some water,” he says. “You want?” I shake my head, and he rises, gentle as he adjusts the blanket. I still feel the loss of his body heat. “Foot doing okay?”
I nod. “Expert care,” I say, and his lips push up.
“You never me told the whole story,” he says next. He stretches his arms, tired from spending so long sitting. “Where did you hurt yourself?”
“Oh,” I say. I consider, unsure how much to reveal. “Um, at the basketball courts downtown.”
He cocks his head, amused. “What, did Sanju and Nabhi make you sub in?”
A funny feeling lurches in my chest. “No,” I say.
“I wasn’t with the twins.” I might as well say it now, so I rush on.
“I was with Frank.” There’s a beat. “He’s a friend of Steve’s?
We met at their other friend Simon’s birthday, which Simran dragged me to a few weeks ago.
But then Frank and I matched on Hinge, so we went to Gloria’s, and after, played pickup for a bit.
” Another beat. “During which I twisted the ankle.”
He’s quiet for several seconds. “Ah,” he says, expression going neutral. “So this was a date,” he clarifies.
I pause. “Yes,” I say.
He digests the information. “Gloria’s is pretty subpar coffee,” he says.
“Agreed,” I say.
“Wanda’s puts it to shame any day,” he adds.
“Without question,” I say.
Silence again. “Well,” he says. “I’m pretty thirsty.”
He starts for the kitchen. When he returns, ice water in hand, he sits as far from me as the couch allows. We resume watching in silence.