Page 59 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
I nod, unsure how to reply. The line moves forward, and I busy myself by studying the menu. He continues. “I realized ultimately we were better off as just close friends,” he says. “But I should’ve been a lot more thoughtful about communicating that.”
“No Irish goodbye on the ski trip, you mean,” I quip. He gives me a wry look, and I lift my shoulder. “I have my informants.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Bad moment, obviously.” He scratches at his neck. “I’d just come back from Alina’s wedding,” he adds. “It’s not an excuse, but all the stuff with my parents really got me thinking. I didn’t want to stay in a relationship that wasn’t working longer than I should.”
I can’t resist the urge to pry further. “What wasn’t working?”
“We’d started fighting a lot,” he says. “Constantly disagreeing on the smallest things.” He pulls at his sleeve, right where the fabric frays. “Which is a dynamic I grew up around, you know, so I really didn’t want to reproduce that in my personal life.”
“Sensible enough,” I say. Against my will, I think of the earlier version of my own relationship with Kush—all our incessant bickering. I push the thought away; it’s not at all a relevant comparison. I clear my throat. “Though delivery matters, of course.”
“Agreed,” he says.
I’m spared from having to give Kush more romantic advice when Simran and Steve appear at our side. They were craving a more savory snack, and the fried pickle line clearly moved much faster than the funnel cake booth. I reach for one, letting out a satisfied moan at the first bite.
“Try with the dip,” Simran says, and I submerge my next pickle in the spicy ranch.
“Delish,” I agree.
“How can you guys eat that?” Kush says, nose wrinkling.
Simran’s mouth drops. “How can you not?” She shoves another pickle in her mouth. “This is a true delicacy of county fair cuisine,” she says.
Kush considers this. “If it’s a delicacy,” he says. He reaches for a piece, and we all watch with bated breath. I laugh at his ultimately revolted expression. “Not for me,” he decides.
After acquiring our funnel cakes, we find a table to eat and chat. Steve tells Kush all about his latest gigs, and Kush reacts with what appears to be sincere interest, asking after Steve’s inspirations and processes. Simran catches my eye in amusement. I was glad to find she wasn’t irked by my asking Kush to tag along;if anything, she seems to be relishing the opportunity to observe and analyze. I tilt my body a bit farther from Kush on the bench so as not to give her further fuel.
My phone buzzes as Steve begins to recount his favorite Dartmouth party from the spring. My eyes widen at the notification—a Hinge message from Frank:Rani how’s it been!
A bizarre opening after he never bothered to text me. I’m bewildered to say the least, and this warrants a full discussion with Simran later, but the last thing I want to do is call attention to the matter now. I shake away my confusion and slip my phone into my pocket, snapping back to the conversation.
Right in time to hear Simran say, “So, Kush, Rani tells me you’re super offline.”
Kush glances to me, expression dry. “You do?”
I scrunch my face, apologetic. “Paris Hilton,” I remind him. It’s an allusion to my top from the party, but I realize too late it’s also an inadvertent allusion to what happened while I was wearing said top. I hurry from the topic. “Kind of a big one,” I say.
Kush rolls his eyes. “I do have an Instagram,” he says to Simran.
Simran’s smile widens. “So I’ve seen,” she says, and I aim a kick at her under the table. Simran spent the latter half of our post-party Wanda’s debrief scrolling through Kush’s profile (all of three photos) and tagged content, but there’s no need for him to know that. “But if that’s all, don’t you ever feel out of the loop? Culturally speaking.”
He sips his water. “Well,” he says. “Rani’s been educating me.” As an aside to me, he adds, “I started watchingGrey’s Anatomy.”
My brows rise. “You did?”
He shrugs. “You said it was mandatory.”
A pleased spark runs through me, and I realize I’ve drawn closer to him by accident. I pull back. “And?”
“And,” he says. “I wish someone would tell those people they can date outside the hospital.”
“That’s the beauty of the show,” I say. “They never learn.”
He laughs, and I have to stop myself from smiling too. Food finished, we start to pack up our trash. I get Simran alone by the compost bin.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, irritation seeping in.
Her eyes widen, all innocence. “Making conversation,” she says. “I think I’ll ask him about his dad next.” She cackles at my expression, squeezing my arm. “Joking,” she says.
