Chapter Thirty
Simran and I celebrate our fifteenth anniversary of best friendship at our most beloved local haunt: the Cheesecake Factory.
She lets out a moan after the first bite of nutty brown bread slathered in butter. “I feel God in this Cheesecake Factory,” she says.
“I’m pretty sure God created the Cheesecake Factory,” I say.
“Let there be light, and let there be the Cheesecake Factory,” she muses.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sounds like a direct quote.”
Our waiter brings out our signature Shirley Temples and favorite small plates.
I dig into the spinach artichoke dip with my spoon, forgoing the chip.
Simran shoves an entire macaroni-and-cheese ball into her mouth.
We always leave our table manners at the door when frequenting the Cheesecake Factory.
Simran fills me in on the status of her and Steve’s nascent relationship as we stuff ourselves.
“We are officially back together,” she declares.
“It’s new, and we’re moving slow, but things have been really good so far.
” She pulls out her phone to show me Steve’s Instagram story, a sunset picture of Sim along the pier.
“It’ll be a good six months before he’s featured on my page,” she claims. “But I thought this was sweet.”
“It is sweet,” I say. “Believe it or not, Steve has started to grow on me.”
Simran claps her hands, excited. I was surprised by it too, but despite his childish personality, on full display at the fair, his devotion for Simran is clear, which is what counts most. While he might not be the person I would select for my best friend, I can’t find anything objectionable.
“I think he and Kush hit it off,” I say. “Shockingly.”
“I know,” Simran says, crunching on a chip. “They’re Spotify friends now.”
I laugh; this is news to me. “Speaking of Kush,” I say. I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I kind of have some news.”
I fill Simran in on this afternoon’s copy room confessions. Right before dinner, he texted me to confirm plans for a final drive Wednesday after work. I’m anticipating a more in-depth discussion about our relationship after practice.
Which is what I’m hoping to get Simran’s advice on. Her eyes widen as I speak. She rests her fork down on her plate once I finish.
“Rani,” she says finally. “What are you doing?”
My brows crinkle. This is very much not the reaction I was anticipating. “What do you mean?”
“Frank is literally a better option than Kush,” she says.
“Please,” I exclaim. “He broke my ankle.”
“Twisted,” she corrects. “And you should really keep your shoes tied.” I glare and she goes on. “Okay, I’m obviously exaggerating,” she says. “But come on. I thought we agreed this was a bad idea.”
I cross my arms on the table. “Before,” I say. “I feel differently now.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You feel differently about how he behaved with his ex?” I draw back at this, unable to retort, and she continues. “Or how he behaved with you? Remember how you felt after the party?”
“I remember,” I say. “And he apologized.”
She changes tack. “What about Michael and the girls?” she asks.
I blink. “They’d come around,” I say, though I sound unsure even to my own ears.
“Or the fact that he’s so embedded in your life because of your moms?
” She purses her lips. “So if things go wrong, and they will go wrong, you can’t catch a break.
” I press my mouth closed, and Simran heaves a sigh.
“I’m not trying to be alarmist,” she says.
“But it’s so messy with Kush. The risk just isn’t worth it.
” She takes a beat. “Frank, on the other hand—”
“God,” I say, well and truly irked now. “Will you quit it about Frank? Frank is never going to happen.”
She tries for a joke to lighten the mood. “What, you don’t want to double-date?” I narrow my eyes at her, and she continues. “I get it, basketball was a huge miss,” she says. “But seriously, you never know what people are going through, it can’t hurt to give it another go.”
“It could,” I say. “He might break my arm next time.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, he texted to ask about your ankle, didn’t he?”
He did, but I’d shared the screenshot with Simran so she could clown him, not endorse him. “Simran, I’m generally very grateful for your counsel, but this is shockingly bad advice.”
It’s her turn to glare at me. “Fine, forget Frank, I honestly couldn’t care less about Frank.” She huffs. “I just want you to get your mind off Kush. I think he’s the wrong move, Rani.”
My mouth forms a line. “Yeah,” I say. “You’ve made that clear.”
“There’s better for you out there,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed giving him a hard time at the fair and everything, but things with Kush are far too complicated. You’ll regret this.”
There’s a degree of condescension lacing her tone that grates. “And Steve isn’t complicated?” I return.
She furrows her brows. “Not nearly,” she says. “And I still took all summer to deliberate.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t think you have a leg to stand on here,” I say.
“Rani,” she says. “I’m looking out for you. I don’t want to see you hurt. You’re not thinking this through.”
I know I’m probably being oversensitive, but her sharp criticism stings. “I don’t know when you got so judgmental,” I say. “I thought I could come to you for support.”
She reels at this. “You can,” she says. “And it’s not judgment, it’s care.”
I cross my arms tighter around me, shaking my head. “Never mind,” I say. “Forget I told you.”
Her expression goes cool. The waiter comes out with our entrees, and we pick at our food in stilted silence.
I’m still obsessing over my rift with Simran during Rakhi the next evening.
In our decade and a half of friendship, fights have always been few and far between.
Outside of playground squabbles in early elementary school, we’ve had only a handful of icy spats over the years, always resolving with time more so than discussion.
Neither of us are big on confrontation, preferring instead to wait it out, and we always find our way back to each other in the end.
But while I know the routine, I can’t help the restlessness building over the next day.
With so much going on, the last thing I want is an additional stressor, especially one I created for myself—I’ve played our conversation back in my head enough times to know I took her words in the worst possible light.
The rest of our meal passed in passive-aggressive small talk, neither of us willing to extend an olive branch.
I keep refreshing my phone for texts during Rakhi prayer and coming up empty.
Aai throws a vicious glance at me the second time she catches me not paying attention, but I don’t have the energy to care.
When aarti ends, I tie a customary red-and-gold thread around both Sanju’s and Nabhi’s wrists.
It’s a traditional talisman meant to protect the boys from harm, and in return, they’re meant to offer a token of their affection.
But the boys go squeamish and apologetic when I finish tying their rakhis.
“Your gift isn’t ready yet,” Nabhi says.
There’s a bloated pause. “It’s really good,” Sanju adds. “But it won’t be ready for a little bit.”
I take this to mean they placed a last-minute order, likely for some cheap silver jewelry once more, and the package hasn’t arrived. Irritation rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. “Whatever,” I say. “That’s fine.”
Baba fills the unpleasant silence that follows. “Rakhi is not about gifts, anyways,” he offers.
“Of course not,” I say. The next words blurt out before I can reconsider; the week’s events have taken away my filter. “It’s another reminder how unappreciated I am in this family.”
I feel instant regret when I see the twins’ faces fall, but that’s overridden with vexation when Aai fixes me with a glare.
“How can you say such a thing, Rani?” Aai says. She shakes her head, brows knitted. “This is such a bad attitude to have.”
A scoff escapes me. “I have a bad attitude?” I repeat, incredulous.
“You have for some time now,” she says, doubling down. “You complain, you don’t do your responsibilities.” She grasps for an example. “Just this morning, I had to confirm RSVPs for the party myself because you forgot.”
My jaw drops at this. “So you had to do your own work for once,” I exclaim. “Big deal.”
Aai reels at the back talk, and I feel some instant shame. I never speak to my parents like this. But my frustration has been accumulating for some time, and I can’t stand to hear Aai’s criticism on top of it, when I’m already so vulnerable from my quarrel with Simran.
“We’re sorry about your gift, Tai, I promise it’s coming,” Sanju interjects sheepishly.
“I don’t care about the gift,” I snap, and it’s true.
The delayed gift is just the final straw, a trigger to lash out after a summer of feeling taken for granted.
A lifetime, really. I’d forgotten while I was away, glossed over the bad while ruminating in homesickness, but it’s always been this way.
My whole life, my family has expected my labor as a sister and a daughter to be available and guaranteed.
Ajoba has been observing in quiet, but he speaks now, attempting to mediate. “Let’s eat,” he says. “Tensions only rise in hunger.”
Aai Baba’s expressions remain stoic, and my nose pricks. “I’ve lost my appetite,” I mutter, and then I’m hurrying up the stairs to my room.