Chapter 35 #2
It still wasn’t easy. She had to act fast, because she had no idea when the pills she’d taken would kick in.
Yet she had to pause frequently when people came to check on her.
And when Manny brought another bag of cocaine, she had no choice but to accept.
That was when numbers began sprouting from the page and she lost confidence in reality.
Her photos became blurrier the further things went.
That could’ve been bad. If Nick and Zohra hadn’t found her. ..
“Simran putt!”
An auntie’s voice makes her lower her phone immediately. She’s finally been noticed.
The auntie drops her paper plate into the garbage bag next to Simran.
“Did you eat anything yet? You should.” She gives Simran a hug, but her embrace loosens almost immediately in surprise.
Simran knows right then that despite Nick giving her a makeshift bath, she still smells like what she’s been doing.
Normally, Simran could spin a lie on the spot to explain this. But at the moment, she can’t think of a single thing. “Sat Sri Akaal, Auntie ji. How are you?”
The auntie, smile fading now, replies, but Simran barely hears it.
Her brain feels like molasses. The longer she entertains the useless, airy conversation, the more she realizes the drugs did more than she thought.
Niceties that normally come easy—such as knowing the correct responses, how to act impressed about so-and-so’s son’s promotion, asking after someone’s health—currently feel impossible.
Her answers are one-worded and awkward. There’s a small silence before the auntie says, “Well, your mother’s in the house.”
“Thanks. I’ll get some food first,” Simran says, and then they part ways. Her smile drops immediately. How could she forget her mother was here? She has to avoid her as long as possible. Her mom will know. Simran’s stomach lurches at the thought.
Get a grip, she tells herself. She takes several deep breaths before entering the party.
The makeshift dance floor is crammed, and the buffet line long. Neetu’s at a table near the front. She looks gorgeous in her plum lehenga, her hair curled loosely around her shoulders. A handsome man in a matching shirt sits beside her, his hand on her back. That must be Gurjeevan.
As if sensing her, Neetu’s eyes meet hers and light up. And so Simran has no choice but to go over.
“You came! Gurjeevan, this is my friend Simran. We’ve been doing kirtan together for ages.” She pats the seat on the other side of her.
Awkwardly, Simran sits. How had she never appreciated before the coordination it takes to maneuver into a chair? She has to consciously tuck every limb into the right place.
Neetu notices. “Are you okay?”
Simran makes a noise of confirmation before folding her hands, nodding at the others at the table.
Kamaljot Uncle, Toor Auntie—Toor Uncle’s wife—and someone young who looks a lot like Gurjeevan, probably a cousin.
She’s about to introduce herself when she spots a bunch of ants crawling over the tablecloth.
Not real. Not real...right? Gurjeevan would notice if there were really ants swarming on his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Gurjeevan.”
“Same here.” He inhales as if to ask a question, then frowns slightly.
Right. Simran gets ahead of it with a lie she prepared on the way to the table. “I’m sorry if I smell like...smoke. I was at Hillway before this. Someone I was working with was smoking quite heavily.”
Neetu makes a sympathetic noise and reaches into her handbag for a perfume bottle. “Hold out your hands.” She spritzes Simran’s wrists.
“What’s Hillway?” Gurjeevan asks. Neetu starts explaining, while something drops on Simran’s hand.
A bright red splatter. She automatically touches her nose. Her hand comes away wet. Neetu notices at the same time, cutting off her explanation with a gasp. “Simran! You’re bleeding.”
Her voice is loud enough to carry. Simran takes the offered napkin to staunch her nosebleed.
She only vaguely remembers the first line of cocaine.
Manny showed her how to do it. She asked him to demonstrate a second time, because she hadn’t understood.
He laughed and did. She tried, and failed.
Asked again. Manny gave her a look, and for a second, she wondered if she’d gone too far.
But then, he said he’d help. Shoved her head down.
She felt the chunks in her nostrils. Her gums tingled, and she tasted it somehow all the way to her toes. Her body locked up and her thoughts slowed down. She felt tense, but in a good way.
So this is what Rajan likes, she thought, right before it hit her.
Simran lowers the napkin. There’s a shocking amount of red. Everyone’s staring, so Simran scrounges for a new topic. “How did you two meet again?” She knows the story, but it’s the best she can think of.
Neetu indulges her for the sake of the table, though, sharing a smile with Gurjeevan. “I looked for partners through family feelers. Friends thought I was so old-school.”
“As if they weren’t doing the same thing on dating apps,” Gurjeevan puts in. Neetu nods.
“But they’d be like, ‘Why not open up to other people? That guy walking by could be your soulmate.’ And I guess my answer is, I think there’s multiple people, not just one, that you could be compatible with. There’s eight billion people in the world, after all.”
Gurjeevan says, “But none of those other soulmates are as handsome as me, right?”
The whole table laughs. Neetu elbows him before continuing.
“If you follow the logic that there’s plenty of people you could love, you add a couple of filters, you know?
Narrow it to people who wouldn’t complicate things.
People who have similar goals in life, people who’ve had similar life experiences, so they understand you, and your families get along okay.
People who make your life easier. Relationships are hard enough without adding unnecessary drama and misunderstandings. ”
“Well said,” Kamaljot Uncle says. He nudges Simran, whose nosebleed is slowing. “TJ could learn something from these two.”
Simran shifts uncomfortably. That photo of TJ and Charlie sure made the rounds.
Toor Auntie tuts. “Come now, Bhah ji. She’s happy, isn’t she?”
“For now,” Kamaljot Uncle says ominously. “But real, long-lasting partnerships require more mature thinking. She’ll see in a few years.”
He sounds so confident. Even Toor Auntie shrugs, as if to say fair enough.
It pinches at Simran. As the others move to other topics, she impulsively leans toward Neetu.
“What if you met one of those other soulmates first?” she whispers.
“One of the ones outside your filter, who might make your life harder? Before you met Gurjeevan. What would you do then?”
Neetu’s smile fades, and Simran abruptly realizes how inappropriate this is, asking about other possible lovers in front of her fiancé. She leans back, about to say, Never mind, when Neetu exhales. “I’m not sure. Why?”
Simran wipes her nose one last time, a bitter taste in her throat that has nothing to do with blood. “Just curious.”
She can feel Neetu still looking at her oddly, but she avoids her eyes.
Instead, she tries to imagine being in Neetu’s place, sitting next to the perfect faceless person she specifically went looking for.
Someone who ticks all the boxes. It’s logical.
It’s the exact kind of thing she would do.
The problem is, the person she imagines isn’t faceless.
“Aw, dude, you wanna marry me? That’s cute.”
Simran jumps, whipping her head to the right.
In the previously vacant seat lounges Rajan, one arm draped over the back of her chair.
He’s in the same black hoodie Simran has stowed in her truck.
“You need to chill. We’re eighteen,” he goes on, taking the toothpick from his mouth, “and I don’t take everything as serious as you.
They’re right. This was never gonna work. ”
Simran rubs her eyes vigorously. When she opens them, the seat next to her is vacant again.
“Simran?”
She blinks to find the whole table staring.
“You look pale,” Toor Auntie notes, reaching over to press a hand to Simran’s forehead. “And you’re sweating! Are you sick?”
“I’m fine.” Simran wishes they’d stop looking.
So much concern for a person who doesn’t deserve it.
What would they think if they knew about her and Rajan?
After her erratic behaviour these last few months, people already whisper about her, but this would be so much worse.
Would they still love her? Would they still trust her as they do now?
Her nausea intensifies.
Meanwhile, Neetu jokingly says, “Maybe she inhaled too much smoke at Hillway.”
“She’s very brave, working there,” Kamaljot Uncle says. “I don’t know why she does it.”
“Because she’s a good person,” Toor Auntie says.
“And it’s wasted on them!” Kamaljot Uncle harrumphs. “They’re completely disrespectful. Like that Randhawa boy, swearing at one of our diners at the kitchen.”
Toor Auntie tuts. “Really? That’s how they treat people?”
“Exactly!” Kamaljot Uncle exclaims. “Ungrateful—”
“You don’t know him.”
Simran doesn’t even realize she spoke until Kamaljot Uncle blanches. The table goes quiet. She should take it back. She knows she should. But as the silence stretches, she finds that she can’t.
Kamaljot Uncle says, “Simran, we’ve been over this. He went to jail for—”
“So what!” Simran shouts. Conversations pause. Neetu stares at her. Gurjeevan, too. “How dare you judge those people when you don’t know what they’ve been through?” The volume of the backyard lowers even farther, and Neetu puts a hand on her arm.
“Simran—”
Simran shakes her off. “They never even get a chance to rebuild because you all keep throwing their mistakes in their faces. As if you’re so angelic? Let’s go through your dirty laundry at every party and see how you do. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Leave him alone!”
Someone has actually turned down the music in the middle of Simran’s rant. It feels like everyone is watching, but she can’t focus enough to tell. Every face is a blur.
She gets up, chair screeching back, and strides away from the party. If anyone calls after her, she doesn’t hear. Her head is filled with a roaring sound.
She darts to the side of the house, avoiding eye contact with people coming from inside. On her way she bumps into someone—a boy of about twelve, the one who asked about her face at kirtan practice yesterday. He opens his mouth.
“Get out of my way,” she snaps, and his eyes widen. Even while shouldering past him, she feels awful. But she can’t make herself turn back to apologize.
She slows to a stop in the driveway, breathing hard.
Maybe everything people whisper about her is true.
Maybe she’s not a good person anymore. How can she set an example for kids when she literally came here after doing cocaine, and who knows what else?
When she just ruined a good friend’s celebration?
When all she does is lie? And there’s more, too—months of mistakes crash down on her.
How can she call herself a Sikh when she’s stood by while someone who might’ve been innocent was killed?
How can she be an upstanding person when she instigated a gang war, causing an untold amount of death and misery at the playplace and beyond, all because of—she finally admits it—her ego?
That ever-present nausea rises in her throat. She’s always been a gifted liar, and maybe that means she’s also been lying to herself.
Simran whirls and throws up on the side of the house.