Page 28 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“They can’t be paying him enough for that,” I whisper to Ajoba in Marathi, and his eyes crinkle in a smile.
“Well, we are mooching,” Ajoba acknowledges graciously. “And they are a small business.”
Horror sinks in my stomach. “You’re right,” I say. “We’re so going to hell.”
“But who has fourteen dollars for cheese?”
The number eases my conscience. “Bill Gates, maybe,” I say. In my periphery, I see the cashier shoot us another glance, and I brush my hands of any crumbs. “Smoothie time?” I suggest. Theberry blasts have been calling my name, always made from the ripest, juiciest strawberries in the county.
He nods, and we slip away before we can get accosted again.
We sip and stroll, pausing to taste test whenever a stall looks appealing. The bolani stand is back after a brief hiatus, and they’re far more generous than the cheese vendor, insisting we don’t leave before sampling both the potato and pumpkin fillings. The dumpling place has outdone itself; I have to drag myself away from the chicken xiaolongbao. I’m feeling full before we’re halfway through the market—which is when Ajoba chooses to disrupt the peace.
“Have you spoken to your aai today?” he asks in between bites of crème brûlée from the local bakery’s booth.
My eyes narrow. His voice is innocent, like it’s a passing question, but I know my grandfather too well. “No,” I say. “She left for yoga before I woke up.”
Ajoba nods and takes another spoonful of the decadent dessert. “I was thinking we could both go to her class this afternoon,” he says.
My brows fly up. “Youwant to go toyoga?” I ask.
“It’s time for me to start being more thoughtful about my health,” Ajoba says with a sigh.
“This is your second sweet treat of the day,” I say. “And it’s not even noon.”
“Mental health matters too,” he says, and I snort. He meets my gaze, eyes warm but firm. “My maharani, you can’t avoid your mom forever.”
“I haven’t been avoiding her,” I say, but it’s an empty insistence. I’ve been doing my best to minimize time at home sinceSunday. Work has ramped up, sure, but my persistent irritation with Aai is the real factor.
“Might it be time to move on?” he asks.
“I’ll move on when she apologizes,” I say, and Ajoba’s expression turns knowing.
“The word ‘sorry’ is not in your mother’s vocabulary,” Ajoba says, and I’m well aware. Aai’s version of reconciliation has always been to pretend nothing happened in the first place. She’s already begun the process in the wake of our fight. Fresh flowers from Baba’s garden were on my nightstand when I got home yesterday, Aai’s go-to make-up gift.
“Which is really bad!” I say, and Ajoba puts his hands up.
“I’m not defending it,” he says. “But for your own peace of mind at home, it might be best to let this spat go.”
I understand where Ajoba’s coming from, but I hate that the burden of repair has once again fallen to me. And I’m still upset with Aai’s hostile reaction. The suggestion that I don’t do enough for the twins grates, when the reality is that I’ve functioned as one of their primary caretakers since I was a child myself.
The sun rose higher as we walked, and now the light pierces my eyes. I put a hand up as a barrier while I consider Ajoba’s proposal. “I’ll go to yoga,” I say finally. He starts to smile, and I continue in a hurry. “So long as I get the last bite of crème brûlée.”
He deflates but passes it over, nonetheless. “The sacrifices I make for this family,” he murmurs.
Chapter Thirteen
Getting ready with Simran has always been one of my most beloved traditions. From curling each other’s hair for middle school dances to our two-person pregames senior year, my favorite part of any night out is typically before we’ve left the house: makeup strewn about the bathroom counters, man-hating music queued on full blast, already giggling and tipsy from a single shot of bottom-shelf tequila.
Tonight might be an exception. The anticipation of seeing Steve has had Simran spiraling all day. She barely said a word at dinner, anxiously tracking Steve’s location and refreshing for new texts. His flight arrived in the afternoon, and his “gig” is in Seattle tonight. My attendance has not been up for debate.
“Will you check the address and map the time?” Simran calls from the bathroom. She’s trying on outfit number four, a cerulean halter top with her favorite black skirt. “Just sent you the invite.”
I’ve been ready for ages, so I take a break from scrolling on Twitter to check Simran’s message. A neon flier flashes on my screen:Simon’s nasty nineteen with DJ STEVE—you’ll never wanna leave!
I can’t help but wince. “God,” I say. “That sounds like a threat.”
“Address, please, Rani!”
