Chapter 13
SIMRAN WATCHES THE truck rumble down the street, leaving them in the dust. The night seems too quiet suddenly. The only evidence that anything happened is the baseball bat in the gutter.
Based on what she just heard, Simran has some idea what Rajan might’ve done with that bat. She waits for horror to rise in her. But instead, she feels...nothing. At all.
Probably for the best. She busies herself sliding her kirpan back into its sheath. Her fingers fumble under the hem of her shirtdress. It’s not usually a problem, but her coordination is strangely shot right now.
Fingers wrap around her wrist, stopping her trembling. Rajan is silent as he guides the blade to its sheath. She stops breathing when his knuckles skim the skin of her waist, scalding her in the seconds before her shirtdress falls back into place.
Rajan drops her wrist. “I,” he says lowly, “am so fucking sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah, it is. I should explain—”
“I need to go to the store,” she interrupts.
He falters, and she takes advantage of it, brushing past him and marching into the night.
She recognizes where they are from the IHOP sign across the road.
There’s a Save-On-Foods two blocks over.
She’s lost—an hour? two?—but she still needs those groceries.
She glances down at her silent phone. Normally she’d be peppered with texts from her parents if she was gone this long, but not tonight. “I’ll get a cab from there back to my car,” she tells Rajan, who’s keeping pace. “I can give you a ride home, too.”
“I don’t need a ride.” He grabs her arm. “Stop for a second.”
That’s the last thing she wants to do. Simran wrenches her arm away. “Then I’ll see you next time at Hillway.”
He catches up to her. “Where did they take you from?”
Her footsteps slow and stop. The street fades away.
Suddenly, she’s at UBCO with a gun pressed against her head.
Obeying orders to get out of her pickup.
Flinching as they yank her phone from her pocket.
Being led into the back of a van, wishing that anyone on campus was watching, that someone would help—
“I’m quitting Hillway,” Rajan says quietly, and she realizes, with a start, that he’s been watching her reaction closely.
She attempts to smooth her expression. “You don’t have to.”
“The hell I don’t. You can’t even tell me what happened to you.” He sounds shaken. “I’m not putting you in more danger.”
For some reason, the thought of him leaving finally makes her feel something—panic.
She faces him. “If you leave, it’ll just confirm what Nick thinks about.
..us.” Their eyes meet. Both look away quickly.
“If you really want to throw him off, act like this didn’t bother you at all. He’ll realize he made a mistake.”
It’s funny how when her own lies gain steam, she starts believing them herself. And she can tell, from Rajan’s silence, that he’s considering them, too. Good. She marches on.
They don’t speak as they cross into the grocery store parking lot, or when Simran grabs a shopping basket, or when she picks through the scarce amount of okra in the produce section.
Rajan wordlessly leans against a display of avocados to watch, and she starts to think maybe they can avoid talking about it altogether.
But when she drops her okra into the basket, he finally speaks. “Do you always go grocery shopping on Saturday nights, or just after near-death experiences?”
His voice carries. An old couple gives him side-eye and a wide berth. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixated on Simran.
She sets off for the spices aisle. “I needed groceries.”
He falls into step with her. “Let me get this straight. You escape a kidnapping from your perfect little life, and your first reaction is: ‘Well, time to go make bhindi now’?”
She stops in the middle of the spices aisle and spins to look at him. “Rajan. Either leave me alone while I shop, or go home.”
A pause. Then his brown eyes widen. “Holy shit. Are you mad at me right now?”
She shoves her glasses up her nose and scans the shelf for garam masala. “No.”
“You sound kinda mad, dude.” He steps closer. Simran can feel his heat at her back. “What’d I say that got you worked up?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to be efficient here.
” She turns to tell him to back off, but he’s not as close as she thought.
He’s taken his cap off, his closely cropped hair making an appearance.
It suits him, she finds herself thinking, absurdly; it shows off the sharp contours of his face and throat—
Rajan reaches for her.
Simran’s heart jumps. She flattens against the shelf, spine digging against the price tags, unsure what she’ll do if he touches her, wanting and not wanting to find out—
He reaches behind her head and plucks out a packet of garam masala. “Last one.” He drops it in her basket and braces his hand against the shelf beside her head. Now he’s too close. “Are you gonna tell me what I said that pissed you off?”
“You didn’t.” It’s a struggle to think. “I’m fine.”
His eyes bore into her for a moment before he scoffs, pushing back a healthy distance. He puts his cap back on. “Yeah, tell that to someone who’ll believe it.”
Everyone else does. “If you want to help, get me a bag of onions.”
Rajan mock-salutes. “Yes, Simran Auntie.”
“And don’t call me that,” she adds, but he’s gone. To fetch her onions. As if this night could get more surreal.
She heads to the next aisle. They need flour for roti, but the shelves are sparse here, too. She scans the tags for her mom’s regular flour. None left.
She spots a store employee and waves them down. “Do you have any more of these?”
“No, I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re getting restocked tomorrow, though.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
The employee walks away. Simran stares at the empty shelf, not entirely certain what to do. She squats to make sure there aren’t any bags in the back. But there aren’t; there will be no roti tonight. And her parents don’t like the store-bought ones. Dinner is ruined.
And just like that, Simran is crying.
Real, hot tears, streaming down her cheeks.
A violent shudder rips through her as she sinks to her knees.
Full-on sobbing. She tries to wipe the tears away, but each time her eyes fixate on the empty shelf, they surge again, and she can’t seem to control her breathing, can’t claw back the sobs, can’t stop.
“Honey, you all right?” someone says behind her. She nods into her hands, and she hears them walk away.
Get a grip. She drags a breath into her lungs. Someone she knows could be here, and if they see her like this, she’ll have to explain herself. But she wouldn’t know how to. It’s just flour—
A bag of onions hits the ground beside her. And then Rajan’s there, hand on her shoulder. “What happened?”
She shakes her head. Tries to stand up. But as she’s rising, another uncontrolled sob rips through her. He presses down on her shoulders, gently guiding her back to the floor.
“Okay.” His voice is soft at her ear. “Okay. Take a break.”
This time, she doesn’t resist. Her face falls back into her hands, and he kneels with her, rubbing her shoulders, hands big enough to span her shoulder blades.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet. She feels like she could cry past closing and he wouldn’t lose patience, wouldn’t leave her, wouldn’t tell her to be strong and hold it together.
No; instead it’s like he’s silently saying it’s okay to fall apart.
It’s so soothing she finds herself able to take her first steady breath. She wipes her eyes under her glasses, although she can’t lift her face out of her hands yet. What must he think of her, breaking down in a grocery store? She has to explain.
What comes out of her mouth is: “They’re out of my mom’s favourite atta.”
Rajan takes this in stride. “What about a different brand?”
“My mom doesn’t like the other brands.” She sounds so whiny, she can’t blame him for not responding. But when she lowers her hands, she sees him jerk back slightly in surprise.
She looks down at her fingers. Smudged black and brown with all Kiran’s makeup efforts. “Oh. This.” She laughs absurdly and reaches into her purse for a tissue. Again, she feels the need to explain. It comes out unfiltered: “I was on a date.”
“The fuck?”
His voice rings loud enough to attract stares from people shopping around them. They drift away quite quickly.
Rajan lowers his voice. “You’re joking. Right?”
Simran finishes wiping her face and puts her glasses back on. Rajan’s staring at her like she grew another head. Why’d she even tell him? They hardly know each other anymore.
“I mean, it wasn’t really a date. We were just meeting up.” Heat blossoms on her cheeks. “He didn’t even show.”
She shuts her mouth. Rajan stares at her another second before accurately summarizing. “Holy shit. You actually want to date this guy.” He rubs his jaw. “I have so many questions I don’t even know where to start.”
“He’s—a friend from school.” Rajan’s staring so dubiously, her self-confidence withers. Is the idea of her dating so ridiculous? Probably. She should count herself lucky he isn’t laughing himself to stitches right now. She gets to her feet. “Never mind.”
He rises, too. “Wait, no, I’m only surprised because—he stood you up. Talk about fumbling the bag. What, you’re too perfect for him?”
“I’m not perfect.” He scoffs, and she says it louder. “I’m not.”
An understanding gleam enters his eye. “So that’s what I said that pissed you off.”
She bites her lip, furious she gave it away.
But that’s what people think of her. Perfect Simran, so well-mannered and intelligent and disciplined and talented. She didn’t ask for that. She didn’t ask to become the standard for perfection, so high up she can’t even climb down herself.
“I don’t want people to see me that way,” she whispers. “As perfect. I have flaws. And limits.”
He studies her. “I don’t really think you’re perfect, you know.”
“I know.” And she does. He’s always being sarcastic. Rajan has known, since the day she let him sneak out of the Northridge supply room with a knife, that she is not perfect. But in the wake of everything happening in her life now, this joke is starting to sting.
Rajan nods slowly, and Simran has the feeling she’ll never hear it from him again. “So this guy—”
“Let’s just get out of here. Please,” she adds, because he looks ready to argue. “I just...Today was hard.”
His eyes become soft, and wide, and earnest. “Yeah, and I’m sorry. I’m going to murder Nick for what he pulled tonight.”
He says it so sweetly she almost wants to laugh. “No, not that—” She sighs and pushes her glasses up. The lenses are horribly smudged after her crying. “My mom has cancer.”
As soon as the words leave her lips, she feels an aftershock ripple through her body. Cancer.
“Shit,” Rajan mutters, and that’s when she remembers one crucial fact: She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.
Horrified, she says, “Never mind—”
“When’d you find out?”
She hesitates. She already broke her promise. What’s a little more? She’s bursting to talk about it. She needs someone to listen and care, and he’s right there, and she can’t stop herself, no matter how bad of a daughter that makes her.
“You can’t tell anyone,” she says in a rush. He nods. “I found out the day we met at Hillway.”
Understanding dawns on his face. “That’s why you’ve been acting so weird.” He sighs again. “That’s...Yeah, that’s...Shit.”
Somehow, his incoherent response is affirming.
It’s exactly how she feels on the inside.
“She needs surgery,” she whispers, “and I’m afraid of what her scans will show.
I don’t want to lose my—” Her throat clogs.
She switches tack. “I want to cheer her up somehow. And she likes this guy for me, so I was going to meet him. I know it’s stupid,” she rushes to add.
“I know I’m not supposed to care what my parents think, I shouldn’t want to make them happy—”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” he says quietly. “Trust me, I get feeling guilty about your parents.”
She shuts her mouth. How could she forget?
If anyone knows this pain, it’s him. Rajan was much younger when his mom got sick.
He didn’t talk about it much, but she knew through the grapevine, just as he knew things about her through the grapevine.
Her high school problems must’ve seemed so silly in comparison.
“How’d you get through it?” she whispers. “How did you deal with everything happening?”
A self-deprecating smile twists his lips. “As everybody knows, I didn’t.”
Well, that wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. She never used to get why he did the things he did, but now she can see what broke him. It’s breaking her, too.
The conversation lulls once they reach the cashier.
As they’re leaving the store, someone calls Simran’s name.
She turns, and there’s Kamaljot Uncle, putting away his cart.
She’d forgotten he lived in this neighbourhood.
As he approaches, she and Rajan both bend to their manners, greeting him in Punjabi.
He only acknowledges Simran. “Simran, putt, out shopping so late? Is this a volunteering errand?” His eyes flick to Rajan at her side.
This is not a volunteering errand, and they all know it. “We ran into each other.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll take it from here. Let me walk you out.”
He thinks Rajan was harassing her. She opens her mouth to correct him, but Rajan subtly nudges her foot with his.
“See you at volunteering,” he says, with a look. Not worth it.
And so, helplessly, she lets him go. He disappears into the night while she watches, and she keeps watching until Kamaljot Uncle turns to her. “Simran, you need to be more careful. I don’t like the way that boy looked at you. Remember what he did?”
“Yes,” she murmurs, but she finds it hard to make herself care, even now. Especially when she was offering Nick—
She shuts down her thought process right there. She doesn’t want to think about what she offered. It’s ridiculous. Born out of desperation. It no longer makes any sense.
Kamaljot Uncle, meanwhile, is oblivious. “Just be careful, Simran. You know what boys like him do to nice girls like you.” He takes her grocery bags from her. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”