Page 13 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“You spoil us,” I say.
“That’s the goal,” Sharmila says. They blow kisses, and then they’re out the door.
“Can I move in?” I say to Simran when it’s just us, and she giggles.
An hour later, we’re nestled in comforters on the couch, takeout boxes strewn about us, done with our teas and on to wine, already half a bottle deep. The brownies are baking in the oven downstairs, and the rich aroma makes my mouth water.
“We have to do something about your crying,” Simran says, smoothing down a crease in her eye mask. I’ve finished telling her about my disastrous first lesson with Kush, who I’ve yet to message or hear from in the last couple days, and Simran is very unimpressed.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“Work harder,” she says. “You’ve been working on it for a decade.”
My singular visit to the principal’s office in grade school was because I forgot my homework and wouldn’t stop crying as a result, so she’s not far off. Still, I feel the need to go on the defensive.
“My sensitivity is a gift,” I say. “And when you think about it, being emotional in public is like a feminist act of rebellion. Because women are constantly shamed for their feelings.”
“Yeah, okay, Gloria Steinem,” she says. I swat her, and her lips quirk. “Time to pick a movie?” she asks, very wise with the subject change. She clicks through some suggested options on the screen, musing. “Gone Girl? OrPrincess and the Frog?” I’m about to quip about the dramatically different choices when shegives a satisfied sigh. “Clueless,” she decides with a glance to me for approval.
“I do love Paul Rudd,” I say.
“It’s been a minute since we’ve seen it,” she says. “And it’s so fitting for you.” She pokes my ribs, her smile turning wicked. “You’re my favorite virgin who can’t drive,” she coos.
It’s a perfect, brutal reference. “Sim!” I exclaim, outraged. She cackles, and I kick her shins. “You’re terrible.”
She’s still doubled over, way too pleased with herself, so I shake my head, crossing my arms tight around me. “Once again, I’mworking on it.” I sit up straight. “I’m going to text Kush tomorrow,” I say. “That statement will no longer apply by the end of the summer.”
“Which part is he helping you with?” she says, eyes teary with laughter. I fix her with a glare, and she relents. “Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll shut up.” She squeezes my knee with affection. “You’re doing so good on your list, and I see it,” she says. “Totaled car aside. Have you been swiping away?”
I’m quiet, and her eyes narrow. “You haven’t?” Another pause, and her eyes widen when she realizes. “You haven’t made an account?” I give a guilty nod, and she throws me a furious look. “Hand me your phone,” she orders.
We’re halfway throughCluelessand on to our second bottle of wine by the time Simran wraps up my profile.
She holds my phone up so I can scroll while it remains in her possession. “Only looking, no touching,” she says, and I obey. She’s primarily used pictures from my Instagram, and she’s described me as a passenger princess whose love language is bookshop browsing and who thinks not knowing the sidewalk rule is a major red flag. I have no real notes, until I reach the last picture.
My mouth drops. “Absolutely not,” I say, and Simran scowls. She’s included a bikini mirror selfie I sent her as a fit check from our family San Diego trip last summer. It’s a small cerulean piece, and I look incredible, but it’s not something I want strangers to have access to.
“I knew you’d say that,” she says, clucking her tongue. “It’s risqué!” she adds when she sees my expression.
“It’s revealing,” I say.
“It’s sexy,” she insists.
“It’s slutty!”
She raises a brow. “And what’s wrong with that?”
I roll my eyes and grab my phone back from her. “Thank you for the starter profile,” I say. I immediately put my Hinge account on pause. I’ll return to it in due time. “Can we finish the movie now?”
She huffs, but she reaches for a gooey brownie and settles into the sheets behind me anyways. “Your lack of gratitude seriously stings,” she says. “That was some of my best work.”
“I literally said thank you,” I remind her.
She has the nerve to shush me, and we fall into silence just as Cher fails her driving test.
Chapter Seven
Preeti Pujari’s baby shower is something out of a dream.
