Chapter 42
SIMRAN HAS A hard time catching Charlie alone at the reception hall.
TJ has latched herself to his elbow, patting down his shirt, picking invisible lint off his arm, and occasionally leaning forward to whisper in his ear.
Simran would applaud TJ’s little show, but it’s getting in the way of her plans.
As Simran’s watching, TJ gives Charlie a quick kiss before sending him off with her father, then approaches their table. She sits next to Simran, looking her up and down. “I did such a good job on you.”
She really did. After TJ finished her makeup, she revealed an embroidered gold anarkali from a garment bag.
Fancier than anything Simran has in her closet, and heavier, too.
Once TJ had zipped her up, TJ and Kiran ushered her to the mirror.
It had broken Simran out of her scheming when she finally saw herself.
The anarkali sweeps to her feet, weighed down by layers of fabric and detailing, with equally adorned sleeves ending in gold cuffs.
Matching jewelry hangs from her ears and throat, along with a gold tikka from the center part of her hair.
Her knee-length hair had taken TJ the longest to style; some of it pinned and other parts loose, a waterfall of texture TJ had created down her back.
Simran knows why TJ went this far. And while it hasn’t exactly cheered her up, it’s certainly been a distraction.
“Thank you,” she says, and TJ beams. She pops a pakora in her mouth and looks to the dance floor, where Gurjeevan and Neetu are dancing.
Gurjeevan is gorgeous in his off-white achkan.
Neetu glows, too, in an emerald lehenga laden with jewels, a genuine blush rising in her skin.
“Gurjeevan looks so good. Maybe I’ll make Charlie wear an achkan at our wedding, too,” TJ muses, then stiffens, sending Simran and Kiran a sharp glance. “Don’t ever tell Charlie I said that.”
“Of course,” Simran says. “Under no circumstances can your boyfriend know you like him.”
TJ kicks her foot. Kiran snickers. And for the first time in a long time, Simran feels almost normal. Then she notices TJ’s dad wandering along the edge of the crowd with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Without Charlie.
Simran stands. “I’m going to get some food.”
She doesn’t wait for a response before setting off into the crowd.
The lights are dimmed, dance music blaring, so it’s hard to make out where people are.
Luckily, Charlie’s wearing a bright colour—satiny pink—and she spots him at the buffet.
She grabs a plate and pretends not to see an auntie in line in order to cut in next to Charlie.
Toor Uncle and his wife are standing with him, pointing out various foods.
“Have the mattar paneer—”
“Oh, you must try the saag, Charlie—”
“Don’t go without taking the tandoori—”
Simran decides to rescue him. “Take one thing at a time,” she tells him.
“I’d start with the saag.” She smiles at Toor Uncle and Auntie, and they (tentatively) smile back.
Simran will have to work a lot to redeem herself from the backyard party.
Once they’re gone, she turns to Charlie. “How’s it going?”
“Good. Everyone’s friendlier than TJ led me to believe.” His voice is wry as they move down the buffet line.
“I didn’t realize she told you anything about our family drama.”
“She didn’t.”
It dawns on Simran that Charlie isn’t a star at school politics for nothing; he’s always intuited far more than he lets on. “Well, if you really understand what’s going on, then you must know it didn’t help that there was a photo going around of you two kissing.”
Charlie smiles slightly. “Not my fault.”
“Why do I get the feeling you actually enjoyed that part?”
His smile widens in answer. It’s honestly a wonder TJ and Charlie weren’t exposed sooner. Before they reach the end of the buffet table, Simran asks, “Can I ask you a favour?”
He falls back. “What is it?”
They lean against the wall. To anyone observing, it would look like they’re people-watching while they eat. “You can never tell TJ. Or anyone.”
The fact that he hardly blinks is testament to the strength of their high school friendship. “Name it.”
She pulls a USB from her purse and presses it into his hand. He doesn’t look down, but his fingers curl around it even as he gazes at her.
Casually, she looks back at the dance floor. After a moment, he does, too. “You’ve probably heard some rumours about me lately.”
“I have,” he agrees.
“TJ’s probably said I’ve been acting strangely.”
“She has,” he agrees.
“I can’t say anything about it or you’ll be in trouble, too,” she tells him. “But, hypothetically, if anything...suspicious, ever happened to me, I’d want you to give that to the police.”
“The police,” he repeats sharply, and she can tell she’s surprised him.
“Yes.”
Charlie says nothing for a long moment. Then: “What, exactly, do you think might happen to you?”
Simran lets the silence sit until there is no real question what she’s thinking might happen. Charlie’s poker face doesn’t slip, and they both smile at an auntie who passes as if they’re just making small talk.
“TJ’s not the only one worried about you,” Charlie says once the auntie’s gone. “Am I helping or hurting you by doing this?”
From across the hall, TJ herself looks up, sees them, and stands. Simran stops being coy. “You’re actually keeping me alive.”
He swallows. And pockets it at once. “Okay.”
As TJ approaches, Simran wonders if this was a bad idea.
But she honestly couldn’t think of anyone better to give it to.
Most people don’t associate her with Charlie at all—their quiet high school friendship is vastly overshadowed by TJ’s relationship with him.
Without a clear connection to Simran, he’s safe from the Lions.
“Don’t ever plug it into a computer. Keep it somewhere safe. Secret.”
“I will.”
Before she can thank him, TJ reaches them. “What are you two talking about so seriously back here?”
“You,” Charlie says instantly. “Simran said you can dance. I don’t believe her.”
“Ex-cuse me?” TJ’s outraged voice follows Simran even as she makes her escape. Bless Charlie for his diversions.
Her mom waves her over to her table, where most seats are abandoned; people are either on the dance floor, at other tables, or taking a break from the party.
Simran’s thankful; her pleasantries earlier were awkward enough.
The only people there now are Kiran, their mom, and TJ’s mom, who’s apparently drifted over for an obligatory brief conversation.
By their stiff body language, Simran can tell it’s going about as well as ever.
She sits next to them, and her masi brightens.
“Simran. I haven’t seen you in—”
“Yes, too long,” Simran says quickly. She doesn’t need her masi bringing up the time Simran was at their house. She turns to her mom, and the plate of gulab jaman in front of her. Simran hadn’t seen any floating around the other tables. “Can I have one?”
Her mom pushes them toward her. Simran bites into a gulab jaman. It’s fresh, and warm, and delicious.
“Good?” her mom says.
“So good.”
She nods. “I got them for you.”
The gulab jaman tastes even better when Simran takes her next bite. Her mom watches her eat like it gives her personal satisfaction.
Just then, Rupi Auntie returns from the dance floor, fanning herself. “Hai hai.” She collapses into a chair. “Bhangra is the best exercise, no?” She glances at Simran’s mom. “Tarleen! I meant to say earlier, but I’m so glad to see you here.”
Her mom smiles. “Thank you. Your suit is beautiful.”
Rupi Auntie leans forward and lowers her voice. “You’re looking much better than you did at the hospital. Were you sick?”
Simran freezes. Rupi Auntie saw?
Time slows. The Diljit Dosanjh song playing over the loudspeakers seems to warp and fade.
TJ’s mother’s eyes slide to Simran’s mother, who’s gone pale.
Meanwhile, Rupi Auntie’s guileless smile fades, as she clearly realizes her assumption that these sisters were well-versed on each other’s lives was wrong.
“Hospital?” TJ’s mom says quietly. “What’s she talking about?”
Rupi Auntie titters. “I’m going to get some chaat. Anyone? Chaat?” When no one answers, she excuses herself.
TJ’s mom instantly rounds on Simran’s. “What’s going on, Tarleen? Tell me, right now.”
“Nothing.” Simran’s mother stands abruptly and without any more words, she vanishes into the crowd, too.
TJ’s mother turns to Simran.
“I knew something was wrong. Why didn’t I know—What happened to her?”
Her voice is loud. Simran’s never been so glad for the deafening DJ sets at Indian weddings. She racks her brain for a believable lie. But just as she’s drawing breath, a hand lands on her shoulder.
Kiran. Her face is stony as she addresses TJ’s mom.
“Masi ji,” she says crisply. “With respect. If you want to know what’s going on with our mother, go ask her yourself.”
Simran’s jaw drops. TJ’s mom looks taken aback, too, but then she squares her shoulders and vanishes after her sister.
Once she’s gone, Simran says, “You shouldn’t have said that. She’ll think you’re rude.”
“Come on. I said ‘with respect,’ didn’t I?
” At Simran’s look, Kiran shrugs. “I couldn’t take it anymore.
As usual you were about to take the hits for Mom.
That’s not right, Simmi. It’s not your duty to protect them from their own bad behaviour.
” She picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one gulp as Simran stares.
“And it pisses me off that I can tell you’re sitting there feeling guilty about letting our parents down right now.
And I know you think I don’t care. That if I cared, I’d feel guilty, too.
But did it occur to you that neither of us has to feel guilty?
I know you’re mad at me, and you can be—but I’m mad at them for making you their anchor in the world, when anyone can see what it’s doing to you. ”