Page 46 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“I am going to jump off a bridge now,” I say.
“Before you do that,” she says. There’s a pause. “Was he a good kisser?”
“Sim,” I groan. I know the answer is all over my face. “You’re terrible.”
Simran cackles, and I click off the phone.
I add a scarf to my otherwise summer-appropriate outfit, Y2K Ashley Tisdale style, then I head down the stairs. Baba raises an eyebrow at the ensemble over his paper but doesn’t comment. Aai, of course, doesn’t hold back.
“Fashion show la jaate aahes ka?” she says, taking a break from stirring a pot on the stove to give me an appraising glance.
I roll my eyes, but a smile pushes at my lips. This is Aai’soldest refrain. I dress in anything out of the ordinary, and Aai will accuse me of going to a fashion show.
“Just to a coffee shop,” I say. I kiss her cheek good morning before grabbing a banana from the platter beside her as my to-go breakfast. “Simran and I are going to get some studying done.”
“Studying” is code for dissecting every minutia of last night, but Aai doesn’t call me on the lie. I texted Simran in my Uber home from the party last night, very much in need of an emergency Wanda’s session, and the anticipation is all that’s been getting me through the morning.
“Don’t be too late,” she says. “We need to leave for the reception by two, so plan accordingly.”
Shilpa Mehra’s big day (her son Shekar’s wedding) has arrived at last. Shekar and his bride already got married in Udaipur this spring, but the Mehras are hosting a hometown reception tonight as a final celebration. It’s all Shilpa Aunty has spoken of for the last several months, and if her routine at Ajoba’s birthday was any indication, this evening will be her very own show. I’ll be disappointed if we’re not honored with at least a few solo dance performances.
“I won’t be late,” I promise, and Aai returns to the stove. I grab my wallet from the counter and smooth down my hair as I head for the door. If I can just get my caramel latte and a full debrief with Simran, everything will be okay.
This is the lie I tell myself as I twist the handle. And find Kush Khanna standing on my porch.
He practically recoils at the sight of me, stepping back a good three paces. He blinks very fast. “Rani,” he says. A flush is crawling up his neck, and I don’t need a mirror to know the same is true for me. “Hi.”
I close the door behind me but don’t dare move forward. The backs of my legs brush against the frame. My body feels fluid. “Hello.”
“I, um,” he starts. He scratches at his hair, curls soft and rumpled today. “I didn’t think you were going to be here.”
My brows furrow. “At my house?”
“Awake,” he amends. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“It’s elevenAM.”
“Well,” he says, “you’ve never been a morning person.”
It’s the understatement of the century. On childhood family trips, our mothers enlisted Kush to be my alarm clock, and I’d wake to him banging on the B&B door, long after the twins had dressed and eaten.It’s like she’s hibernating, he’d complain, and I’d chronicle the interaction in my diary later, lovesick and delusional, convinced his rudeness was a defense against his private affection for me.
But what Kush doesn’t know,can’t know, is that I’ve been awake practically all night, playing back each moment from the party. I’m still unable to understand the choreography of it all, how an innocent slip away to the terrace to evade Frank morphed intothat. I want to blame the alcohol, but I know that’s a cop-out.
Instinctively, my hands jump to my neck. I clear my throat. “I have a coffee date with Simran today,” I say.
Kush nods. “I like the scarf,” he says.
My cheeks warm. I wonder if he realizes what he’s alluded to. “Thanks.”
“Anyways,” he says. “My mom wanted me to bring this by.” He raises a paper bag I hadn’t realized he was holding.
“I can take that,” I say. Clumsily, I reach for the bag, careful not to let our fingers touch. I peer inside to see two pairs of boys’ juttis.
“For the twins,” he says. “My hand-me-downs. Your mom said she didn’t have shoes for Sanju and Nabhi tonight.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks. Though they’ll be crushed to know they can’t wear their Air Forces.”
His lips twist in a smile. Then the expression fades. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says. “How are you.”
