Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday marks bring-your-kids-to-work day at the hospital.
I urge the twins to go along with Baba so I can take the day off of babysitting, but at the last minute, I decide to join too.
College-aged daughters home for break are definitely not the program’s target audience, but campus is a short bus ride away, and I figure I can head to the library to get some work done right after.
The multipurpose room is packed with activities for the boys: arts and crafts booths, science experiment stations—the fun, blow-stuff-up kind—and more educational panels on jobs in medicine.
Of course, Sanju and Nabhi beeline for the recreational section, busy with a game of air hockey before I have the chance to say goodbye.
I leave them to their own devices; Baba will be in and out to check on them throughout the day. Then I head to the hospital café. I have an ulterior motive in tagging along to the function.
Kush had to cancel our driving practice today, forced to come into work.
Terrible timing, as it would have been our first session since my injury, as well as our final session before my scheduled test on Friday.
I’m finally (mostly) mobile again, and I’m itching to get in last-minute practice.
Though Aai Baba have volunteered to take me out for one last ride before the big day, the person I most want to drive with is Kush.
It’s comical to think of the shift from the start of summer, when I was panicked and desperate to have just about anyone else as my instructor, to now being disappointed at his absence.
I’ve grown used to Kush’s daily presence in my life, no longer as a thorn in my side but as a wanted companion.
I feel pretty prepared for the test, thanks to him, and I want him around for my celebration.
We haven’t spoken much since his impromptu house call on Friday, both busy with our other obligations.
I have a couple of all-nighters ahead of me if I want to submit my first draft on time, and I know Kush has been swamped with work and MCAT prep.
Still, I miss our usual exchanges. He’ll be at Aai Baba’s anniversary later this week, but that feels like too long of a wait.
So I grab him his usual matcha order from the café, along with a caramel latte for me, and head up the elevator to the pediatrics department.
I’m planning to just drop off the drink and say hello, not wanting to intrude or disturb. But he’s not at the information desk when I arrive. Another bored intern is manning the space instead.
“Can I help you?” he asks, voice monotone, when I approach.
My eyes catch on a nameplate by the empty chair next to the boy that reads Kush Khanna in loopy lettering. I have to fight a smile; the setup is very much that of a receptionist. “Is Kush here?” I ask, and the boy juts his head to a side door.
“Copy room,” he says.
I’m not sure if that’s permission to venture back there, but the intern doesn’t seem to be the monitoring kind, already back to his phone. And I’ll only be a few minutes as it is. I slip over before I can second-guess the decision.
Kush is at the printers, head bent over the machine. The door shuts behind me, and he looks up at the sound. He stills at the sight of me, bewildered. “Rani?”
“Hi,” I say. I raise the drinks in my hands. “Brought you matcha.”
His brow crinkles. He’s wearing glasses today, his hair unstyled and curling softly at the nape of his neck. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s bring-your-kids-to-work day,” I tell him.
“There’s a whole assembly going on downstairs, booths and everything.
” I pause. “Though I guess it’s always bring-your-kids-to-work day when you work in pediatrics.
” I shake my head, getting off-track. “I’m not participating, of course,” I clarify.
“But I came with the boys, so I thought I’d say hi before heading to campus. ”
My arm is still outstretched with his drink, and at long last, Kush takes it from me. He puts it on the side table. “I already had one today,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
Kush turns back to the copier, sliding another sheet of paper in the machine. “You’re not actually supposed to be back here,” he says to the printer.
A funny feeling rises in my chest. “I didn’t realize,” I say. “Your coworker seemed chill about it.”
“Yeah, well,” Kush says. “Sam’s not very good at his job.”
I’m not sure what’s so classified about a copy room, and I’m starting to wish I was hanging out with Sam instead of Kush.
But I’m already here, so I swallow down the surprised sting and move forward.
“I’ll be on my way in a second,” I say. I put my coffee on the side table next to his and hug my arms to my stomach.
There’s a bit of a draft in the space. “How was your weekend?” I try.
“Fine,” Kush says. Done with one printout, Kush slides in another document to scan. “Pretty busy.”
“Have you seen more of Grey’s?” I ask. Last he mentioned, Kush was approaching the dramatic season two finale. It’s all downhill from here, but I’m still eager to hear his commentary.
“Nah,” Kush says, head still ducked over his work. “Since I’ve been pretty busy.”
His tone is clipped, curt. The funny feeling grows. “Kush,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
He finally meets my gaze, expression lazy and dull. “Everything’s fine,” he says. “I’m just really busy.”
“So you’ve said,” I say. “Three times now.” A beat passes. “Even though all you’re doing is pressing print.”
He gives a dark look. “All I mean,” he says, “is that you should probably text a heads-up before you ambush me while I’m on shift.”
I recoil, hurt swelling. “Ambush?” I repeat. “God, say what you really mean.”
He sighs, eyes to the ceiling. “Look—” he starts.
“You’re being so rude,” I say. My nose prickles like I’m about to angry-cry, and I blink fast, not willing to show such weakness. But Kush knows my tells, and alarm and apology immediately mix on his face. “I was just trying to be friendly, and you’re not acting like my friend at all.”
He takes a step forward, eyes sorry. “Rani—” he says.
My irritation rises with the direct address. “Friends appreciate a check-in,” I say. “Friends say thank-you when brought a free matcha.”
“Thank you,” Kush says.
My nostrils flare. “Friends don’t need to be told to say thank-you,” I exclaim.
He releases a frustrated breath. “I don’t want to be your friend, Rani!” he says.
I draw back, eyes widening. There’s a pregnant pause. “What does that mean?” I say finally.
A flush crawls up his neck. “It means”—he speaks to the air—“that I don’t want to hear about your dates.”
My heart goes fast in my chest. “Singular,” I manage.
He absorbs this with interest. “So there won’t be a second?”
I shake my head and lift my leg, the bandaged ankle visible below the hemline of my jeans. “Remember what he did to my foot?”
“Right,” Kush says. He gives a nod, some of the fight going out of him. “Well, good.” There’s a pause. “Not good that you twisted your ankle,” he says quickly. “Good, as in…” he trails off. “Good.”
“Good,” I say faintly.
He’s already loosening from my clarification, visibly less tense. “Sorry for almost making you cry,” he says next.
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I say. “I never cry in public.”
His lips twitch, but he goes along with it. “My bad,” he says. “Sorry for assuming you were about to cry.”
“Forgiven,” I say. I turn the words over, still dizzy from his admission. “So you don’t want to be my friend,” I confirm.
He shakes his head, once. “No,” he says. He hesitates, then adds, like he might as well say it now, “I want more.” His skin flushes deeper when I don’t immediately reply. “Are you going to say something?”
I swallow, heart rate ricocheting. “Just,” I say softly. “Your hair looks nice.”
He blinks as the reference registers, and his eyes glint, surprised and pleased. We both step forward at the same time, movements clumsy. I’m drawn forward by the pull of his gaze, dark and heady. His hands have just grazed my waist when the door flies open, and we jerk hastily apart.
It’s Sam. “Sorry,” he says, eyes passing between us. “Needed a stapler.”
It’s on the table closest to me, so I pass it over. “Here it is!” I chirp. He grabs and goes, but it’s like a cold blanket has been thrown over us, a reminder that we are in Kush’s workplace. We smile at each other from a respectable few feet apart, stupid and embarrassed.
“I’ll head out,” I say after an improper amount of intense eye contact. “Seeing as I’m not supposed to be back here anyways, and all of that.” He rolls his eyes, expression still mirthful. “I’ll see you soon,” I say.
A half hour later, while I’m trying to focus on my readings and failing, his name flashes on my screen: I enjoyed the ambush, he writes.