Chapter 26 #2
Her head jerks up, bewildered, as his fingers wrap around her wrist. She hadn’t noticed him approaching, or kneeling next to her chair.
His expression is strangely intent. When she doesn’t pull away, he captures her hand entirely, their palms sliding together as if they’ve done it a million times before.
But they haven’t; the feel of his skin against hers is new. Dizzying. Dangerous.
“Sahiba,” he says simply, and the dam in her breaks.
“She’s in the hospital again with an infection,” Simran says. “I can’t...I can’t. I can’t visit her. I can’t.”
She’s aware she’s nearly hyperventilating, not making any sense, but he nods anyway. “The last time my mom got admitted to the hospital, I left, too.”
His words are overly casual, despite the fact that he rarely talks about his mom. Right then, Simran understands why. “You don’t have to—”
“She wasn’t doing so hot. Hadn’t been for a while.
My dad was making plans to come down and be with us, but he never got a chance.
She just...tanked so suddenly. I don’t know exactly what happened that day, though, because I wasn’t sober.
And I must’ve been a real asshole, because security kicked me out. ”
“Rajan,” she exhales, but he holds up a hand.
“That’s not the worst part. I was glad they kicked me out.
I didn’t want to see her like that. She wasn’t my mom anymore, she was just tubes and lines and monitors.
I went out looking for a distraction—you know, my type of distraction.
Not yours.” He chuckles without humour. “I didn’t find out she died until the next morning. ”
Horror clogs her throat. There aren’t words to respond adequately. Rajan doesn’t seem to mind.
“I haven’t even told you the worst part yet. Part of me, a real fucked-up part of me, is still glad I wasn’t there.”
And in that moment, she realizes he understands her perfectly.
While she’s reeling, he smiles bitterly. “Huh,” he says. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even the shrinks at juvie.”
Of course he didn’t. This is what it feels like to be pushed to your limit, desperate for an escape. You think things you’re not proud of. That you can hardly even admit to yourself in the dark.
She finds her voice. “I don’t think it’s bad to not want to watch someone you love die. But my mom isn’t...” Not yet, anyway.
“She’s suffering, though. And it’s hard to watch people you love suffer. You gotta pick. Either you and me are both assholes, or we’re not.”
She doesn’t know how to respond, and thankfully, she doesn’t have to—the sound of conversation on the other side of the wall reminds her they’re not alone. She jerks away, and so does he.
Rajan slides his hand back into his hoodie pocket. “Let’s go home. You’ve done enough for them for one night.”
And Simran finds, for once, she can’t argue.
Surprisingly, Rajan agrees to let her give him a ride. It seems they’ve made a silent pact not to discuss their earlier argument, because the drive to Rajan’s place is largely spent in the type of conversation that reminds her of simpler times:
“Nice monster truck.”
“It’s not a monster truck.”
“Have you seen how high off the ground this thing is? You’re a glasses-wearing math nerd, you should drive a little sedan or something. Where’d you even get this?”
After she explains an auntie gifted it to her as a hand-me-down, Rajan flicks her pine-tree air freshener, sorts through the CDs in the glove box (“What decade is this again?”), and comments on the random junk and snacks accumulating in the back seat (“You planning a cross-country road trip?”).
Although he’s making fun of her truck, she has a feeling he’s delighting in exploring it.
At least, until he holds something up. “What’s this?”
She glances over and her heart somersaults—Rajan’s got the printout of Dr. Maxfield’s email in his hand. She’d printed it ages ago, planning to show her parents. At least before everything went sideways.
She takes it from him and stuffs it in her driver’s-side door. “Nothing.”
But clearly, he’s read enough. “You were thinking of going to UBC Vancouver for this hotshot prof? And you didn’t?”
“I had to be here, Rajan. For my family.” He says nothing, looking troubled. She attempts a smile. “I don’t mind. I like it here. Either way, I get my degree. There was no need to go to Vancouver to pursue a few niche interests.”
“But you wanted to.”
Her gut twists. “Just tell me how to get to your house, please.”
Rajan takes the hint and doesn’t push her further, but he also doesn’t crack any jokes for the rest of the ride.
She follows his directions to his neighbourhood.
She’s never been here before; the houses seem to progressively shrink until they squat, almost indistinguishable from trailers at first glance. Rajan points at one.
“That’s it.”
It looks like it broke its hip and is leaning on its side.
The white paint peels; the stairs to the front door have splintered edges.
The lawn is more gravel than green. There’s a bike tossed to the side with slit tires, a rusted swing set in the overgrown grass beside the house. A tree fallen next to it.
“Shithole, isn’t it.” Rajan chuckles. “Well, thanks for the ride. I gotta make dinner before my brothers order takeout again.”
Simran watches him get out and thinks about her next move. Her father might be home from the hospital now, and if so, she’ll have to pull herself together and endure talking about her mom. Then she’ll have to face her growing apology tour and answer her messages.
She’s not ready.
“Rajan,” she blurts. “I could help.”
He turns. “With what?”
“Dinner. If you want.” She’s flustered. “I...”
He looks at her—really looks at her—and his expression softens. “Yeah, why not. I’m a shit cook anyway.”
So she hops out and follows him in.
The inside is nicer, with a lived-in charm.
Worn carpet, walls yellowed with age, a wooden coatrack overflowing with jackets and hats.
Various shoes are haphazardly scattered across the welcome mat.
She toes out of hers and follows Rajan around the corner.
The first thing she sees is a multiplayer shooter game on the TV.
Two boys sit on the squashy salmon-coloured couch facing it; the taller one turns his head and stills upon seeing them.
Simran pauses, too. This boy is almost the spitting image of scowling, fourteen-year-old Rajan.
The younger boy shoots the other’s character. Rajan’s lookalike whips back around.
“That’s not fair.”
“I won,” the younger one gloats, but then he sees them, too.
“Sukha, Yash,” Rajan introduces them, pointing first at his lookalike, then the younger one. “This is Simran Bhenji. Friend from school. Be nice or I’ll drop you into the lake and let the Ogopogo eat you.”
Sukha rolls his eyes and tosses his controller on the table. “I’m done.”
“We just started,” Yash protests, but Sukha’s already brushed past them. A door slams somewhere down the hall. Yash says, to the air, “The Ogopogo’s not real.”
Rajan glares at the hallway Sukha disappeared down. “Guess we’ll find out. What do you want for dinner?”
“Not hungry,” Yash mumbles.
“Because what, you’re filling up on Oreos again?” Rajan leans over the couch back and holds up the open box. “This is junk, dude.” He stuffs one in his mouth, then offers the box to Simran.
Simran accepts one before heading to the fridge. There’s not a whole lot inside. A bag of bell peppers; two have already gone significantly moldy. A block of paneer, with one corner also moldy.
She looks at Rajan. He nods. She nods. “Cut the mold off?”
“Obviously,” Rajan says. “What kind of operation do you think we’re running here?”
Rajan, despite his comments, isn’t a bad cook; of course his creativity translates here, too.
He expertly shaves the moldy parts off the peppers over the trash can.
Dusts salt over the cubed paneer. Starts the tardka while Simran’s peeling potatoes.
They debate the ratios of each ingredient, since they’ve grown up using different proportions.
He says they need more mirch. She says more haldi.
Once they’ve agreed on a compromise, he puts the lid on.
Then they’re just standing there, watching it cook.
She doesn’t want it to be over. “Do you have flour? For roti?”
“Haven’t made roti in years, but all right, all right.” He opens a cabinet and hauls out a bag of flour. “Let’s make it a fuckin’ occasion.”
So Simran watches the pot, adding the last few spices and cilantro, while he kneads the dough. He’s gotten rid of his hat and rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, his muscular forearms getting dusted with flour. However, it appears he finally hits his Achilles’ heel when rolling out rotis.
“Creative shapes you’ve got there,” she comments.
“You find this funny?” He’s grinning, though. She takes the rolling pin from him and rolls out a perfectly circular roti.
“Well, I don’t make circle rotis,” Rajan says, playfully shoving her aside. “Cuz I’m not a fucking cop. You flip them, I’ll roll them out.”
Simran obliges, hopping on the counter next to the stovetop and flipping, taking care to inflate the rotis completely. She doesn’t normally enjoy the tedious task, but with him, it’s fun.
Rajan throws the last one on the tawa with a great flourish. It looks suspiciously heart shaped. She looks up, and he winks.
“I thought you were supposed to be smooth, not corny,” she tells him. “Is this what works for people?”
Rajan abandons the rolling pin and comes close, nearly slotting between her knees. “Seems to be working for you, dude. You’re looking pretty hot and bothered.”
She is overheating. “That’s the stove.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say.”