Chapter 32
TJ ALWAYS ACCUSES Simran of being an adrenaline junkie, but not even Simran would’ve dared pull this stunt a few months ago. After all, what if her parents came home early? What if a neighbour saw her lead Rajan inside?
But, it seems the Simran of the present requires higher stakes than before to get a rush.
She shuts the door behind them, encasing them in near darkness aside from the setting sun’s last rays spilling in through the window.
She’s acutely aware of Rajan’s breathing next to her, standing in her foyer. It’s...thrilling. Intoxicatingly so.
Rajan breaks the silence, voice dry. “Should I strip now?”
“No. I need my glasses.”
“Your glasses are toast.”
“I have old glasses lying around somewhere.” She pauses. “I think, in my bedroom.”
Her words hang in the air. She holds her breath.
He stoops to pick up the vague outline of his shoes. “Well, lead the way.” His voice is a little thicker than usual. Like he, too, recognizes what a bad idea this is, but can’t bring himself to stop.
She turns to the staircase. Rajan follows closely, stairs creaking under their feet.
When they reach her room, illuminated only by dying sunlight, Rajan laughs softly. “Holy shit. Simran Auntie is a hoarder.”
Simran doesn’t need 20/20 vision to know how much clothing is strewn on the bed. That her backpack spills onto the floor. Her harmonium and rabab are still out from her last half-hearted practice, and her underwear drawer’s ajar.
Heat floods her face. “It’s not that bad.” She drops her purse with a heavy thud.
“No, of course not. It’s totally normal to not be able to see your carpet. Why am I not surprised?” He walks over to her desk chair, and she only remembers there’s a bra slung over the back when he pauses next to it. Then he steps away. “So where are these glasses?”
Simran grabs a coat from a nearby stool and throws it over the desk chair in the least subtle move ever. “I think in the closet. Top shelf?”
She usually uses a stepping stool for that, but he easily reaches up and starts taking down boxes.
They sort through the knickknacks inside.
Dried-out putty. Kinder Surprise toys. Gum.
A Slinky. Dollar-store jewelry her dentist handed out during childhood checkups.
Each box contains more obscure things than the last.
“Why do you keep all this stuff?” Rajan examines a solved Rubik’s Cube with interest. “I’m learning so much about your psyche right now, dude.”
This is getting embarrassing. She takes the box from him and flings it into the depths of her closet. The Slinky boings somewhere behind a suitcase. “Never mind. I’ll ask my mom about it tomorrow.”
Rajan grabs her wrist. “Shit, I forgot about your arms.”
She looks down. There’s still a fine sprinkle of glass in her arms—the sting has faded to the background, though. “I’ll clean it later.”
“We’ll clean it now. Where’s the bathroom?”
“I brought you in here to look at you—”
But he’s already spotted it, right across the hall, and she lets him tug her inside. As he flicks on the bathroom light, she sinks onto the toilet seat lid and watches him. Incredibly surreal. Rajan Randhawa in her bathroom, sorting through her medicine cabinet.
He doesn’t seem to notice her gawking. He sits on the edge of the tub and clacks his tweezers. “Ready?”
She offers him her arms, and he sets to picking out the glass. At one point he accidentally catches one of her long arm hairs and she winces. He lets go immediately, apologizing and running his palm over the underside of her arm.
“It’s okay,” she says with a little laugh, trying to distract herself from his touch. “I have a lot of hair. You can pull it out if the glass comes with it.”
“I’d rather not,” he says, completely serious. Her laughter dies. How much attention he pays, the care with which he tries to preserve each individual hair.
A tender feeling washes over her as he works.
She longs to reach for him, to somehow articulate the feeling taking flight in her chest. It’s like.
..she could tell him her most frivolous, insignificant worries, and he would take each and every one just as seriously.
She feels like he cares not only about her body, or her brain, but about her soul.
Such a stark contrast to earlier tonight—when he was about to shoot someone in the head. In that moment, she remembered everyone’s warnings about him. The ones she could never quite reconcile with the boy she knew.
But now she’s seen it. She’s seen his brutality, his desperation, his fear. He was going to kill that man. That wasn’t what shook her. What shook her was this: She was going to let him.
After all, it made sense to tie up the loose end.
What if her attacker remembered her? What if he’d gotten a good look?
It would be safer that way. The cruelty of writing off his life didn’t occur to her at all.
What actually made her stop Rajan from doing it was the thought that she could not protect him from a murder charge.
“What’s going on in your head?” Rajan dabs the last of her cuts with a Dettol-drenched cotton ball, then her bloodstained fingers.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” she asks bluntly. When his head comes up, she adds, “I know you didn’t really run that guy over.”
A beat. Then: “Zohra should’ve kept her mouth shut.” He drops the cotton ball in the trash and stands to wash his hands. “I’ve helped put people in the hospital. I’ve watched people die.”
“But you’ve never directly—”
“Don’t get it twisted. If I were in the driver’s seat, I would’ve killed Jai, too. Piece of shit had it coming, after what he did to Zohra.”
He spits out the words, his loathing clear. Once again, Simran’s left wondering what the deal is between him and Zohra.
At her silence, Rajan scoffs. “What? Does it bother you, that I think that?” He leaves the washroom, sounding irritated. “Too bad.”
She catches up to him in her bedroom. “Was Zohra your girlfriend?”
He halts in the doorway. She wishes she could see his face in the silence that follows. Then: “Me and Zohra are bad for each other. We were both in a shitty place when we met. She used me and I used her, that’s it.”
“So you had sex,” Simran says, she can’t help it.
“Well, yeah.” He sighs. “Are you gonna make me relive every humiliating thing I did after my mom died, or can we stop here?”
She flushes. Here she was, so enveloped in her own jealousy she didn’t realize she was making him relive the darkest time in his life. “Rajan, I’m—”
“It’s okay.” His voice is gentle, and that makes her feel even worse. “Let me do that striptease I owe you so I can get out of here.”
Simran busies herself clearing space on the bed. “Okay.” She pats the space next to her.
He remains standing. “I can do it here.”
“I can’t see you that far away.”
He sighs again, like it’s a big chore, and sits on the edge of her bed with her, drawing one leg up. “Can you see me now?”
She can’t make out his expression. He seems to understand that, because he brings his face closer. “How about now?”
He’s a touch closer than anyone should be.
She’s hyperaware of his fingers spread over her comforter, nearly touching her leg.
But now she can see every flicker on his expression.
The fullness of his lips. His long, thick eyelashes.
The bob of his throat as he swallows. The tiny cut on the underside of his jaw where he must’ve nicked himself shaving.
The bruise forming on his cheekbone, despite his insistence that he didn’t get injured at all.
Those expressive eyes, nearly haunted tonight.
Despite everything, she feels completely at ease. She’s seen every piece of him now. And she cannot help but adore the picture they create.
She looks at him straight on. “Yes,” she says. “I do see you.”
His breath catches. And then—then—he kisses her.
Simran freezes. His mouth is soft against hers. It reverberates down her entire body, all the way to her toes. She has no room for anything but shock—shock, and giddiness—before he abruptly pulls away.
Completely. His arms are gone. Her mattress shifts as his weight leaves, too. She’s left gaping and frozen and missing his heat and he’s—he’s on his feet, pacing her bedroom, or at least the little of it with open floor.
He curses. Loudly. His next words are harsh and cutting. “Tell me to leave.”
“Wh-what?” She touches her lips with trembling fingers. He kissed her. Rajan kissed her.
He runs his hands down his face and turns to face the wall. “Shit,” he mutters. “Shit, shit, shit. What the fuck is wrong with me—the one thing I swore I’d never do—”
He seems to be talking to himself. Simran clutches the fabric of her comforter on either side of her. She can’t draw enough breath to reply, anyway.
He finally turns her way again. “Don’t look at me like that. This is the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever done to you. Tell me to get out.”
He sounds desperate, gutted, furious. Her mouth opens and closes several times.
He doesn’t appear able to wait. “Fine.” He wheels away. “Don’t say anything. I’m leaving.”
He reaches for the doorknob. Simran stands before he can turn it.
“Rajan.”
It’s funny, because right until then, she would’ve thought nothing could make him hesitate.
But his whole body stills. She has power over him, she realizes.
The thought makes her heady. He kissed her.
That means something, doesn’t it? Even if it was just for a moment, he wanted to do it. He wanted...her.
“Come here.” She doesn’t recognize her own voice.
Rajan lets go of the doorknob like it burned him. He turns back around. A thick silence falls. He doesn’t come to her...but he’s not leaving, either.
Some part of Simran reminds her this is reckless—so reckless. But she doesn’t want to think about that. Just this once, she doesn’t want to think at all. She wants to feel.