Page 47 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
It’s less of a question than an obligation he forced himself to choke out. Horror slowly rises in my chest.Does he think last night was a mistake?I obviously do, but it would be unbearable if he felt the same way.
“Oh, you know,” I say, light and glib. “Hungover.”
I realize once the words leave my lips that I probably look it. My hair is unwashed, my eyes hung with dark shadows. I cross my arms against rising self-consciousness.
“Ah,” he says. He swallows. “Right. Me too.”
“Are we still driving tomorrow?” I blurt, realizing abruptly that last night’s error may have cost me my driver’s education.
“Is tomorrow Sunday?”
“Yes?”
“Then we’re driving,” he says. He cocks his head, aggravating as ever. “That is, if you still want to get your driver’s license before you turn thirty.”
“Good one, Kush.”
The smile resurfaces. “Well,” he says. “I’ll see you.”
He begins to turn, and my mouth drops. “Are you serious?” I say, and he halts. “That’s it?”
His gaze goes wary. “What do you mean, Rani?”
“You’re joking!” I cry. I take a step forward, arms tightening around my chest. He takes a step back. “We’re not going to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says.
“There’s nothing to talk about?”
He heaves a sigh and speaks to the air. “Look, it happens.”
“It does?”
“Itdid,” he says. “Any other questions?”
“A few,” I say. “To start: What is wrong with you?”
He finally returns my glare, expression lazy and maddening. “Look, if there’s nothing besides personal attacks, I’ll just see you at the wedding later.” He starts for his car, calling over his shoulder, “Try not to kill any pedestrians during practice tomorrow, okay?”
A backward glance through the car window, and he’s gone.
“To be clear,” Simran drawls, stirring the ice in her latte. “When I encouraged you to be nicer to Kush, this isnotwhat I meant.”
I shoot her a look in between a heaping mouthful of jammy chili eggs and hash browns. My singular solace this morning is the Wanda’s brunch menu. I can feel life return to me with each bite.
“I was thinking more polite pleasantries and taking instructions in stride, notjumping him. Though this is one way to show your appreciation, I guess.”
My glare intensifies. “I’m holding a knife, Simran, remember that.”
She ignores the threat, nodding instead to where my scarf has slipped below my collarbone while eating. “He really went to work, huh?” she says, lips twitching.
I groan, utensils clattering on my plate. “Don’t make me lose my appetite.”
She giggles, enjoying herself too much, and I take a moment to fix the scarf so I’m all covered. It’s still beyond me how such a brief encounter has left so dark a mark.
“I have to say,” she continues. “I’m really starting to doubt my clairvoyance here, because I didnotsee this coming.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. A Pike Place fortune teller once told a sixth-grade Simran that she too possessed the sight, clearly trying to hustle Saira and Sharmila for more money, and Simran’s never forgotten the diagnosis.
