Page 65 of Rani Deshpande Takes the Wheel
“Clumsy as ever,” he says. I shoot him a look, and he loops an arm around my shoulders to help me forward. A tingle shoots up my spine, body sparking at the contact. “Let’s sit,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say, clearing my throat, but he’s already walking me to the couch. I take my seat as instructed, and Kush kneels on the carpet before me. I look down at him, confused. “What are you doing?”
“Let me take a look,” he says. “I can help.” At my incredulous stare, he adds, his voice wry, “I work in a hospital, remember?”
“Yeah,” I say. “As a receptionist.”
He gives me a glare. “I’m not a receptionist.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a receptionist,” I say.
“Right,” he says. “Except that I’m not.”
“You answer phones,” I say. “Send emails, make copies—”
“Foot, Rani,” he orders.
“I’mfine,” I repeat, but the insistence is clear on his face, so I extend my leg on the pillows. Kush rolls the hem of my pants up and starts to peel the bandage off, fingers delicate. My skin tingles at the touch.
“I thought you were in pediatrics, not podiatry,” I say next, feeling the need to keep talking.
“Kids have feet too,” he says. He murmurs the next sentence almost to himself. “This is an exceptionally poor wrap job.”
“Well,” I say. “Idon’twork in a hospital.”
He smiles faintly at this, continuing on. “It’s a good sign that you’re weight-bearing,” he says. “Can’t be that bad of a twist.”
“Better not be,” I say. “I need my feet for next Friday.”
“You’ll crush the test,” he says. “I’ve made sure of it.” Footbare, he rests the cloth bandage to the side and presses his palm against the arch. Gently, he pushes forward. “How does that feel?”
Like there’s something fluttering in my chest, but that’s not what he means. “Fine,” I manage.
He presses my ankle to the right, which I take, then to the left, which elicits a hiss. “Sorry,” he says. He releases my foot. “I think you’ll be okay,” he says. “Only minor swelling. Just ice, elevate, and rest up.”
“As I’ve been doing,” I say.
He ignores this and reaches for the bandage again. I brace myself for the feel of his fingers on my bare skin. Despite the clinical nature of the task, it’s an oddly intimate position to have Kush at his knees before me, his touch impossibly gentle so as not to place unnecessary pressure at the injury site. My insides feel fuzzy and molten, a telltale sign of forthcoming word vomit.
“Do you have a foot thing or something,” I blurt into the silence.
His fingers slip over the bandage, his tidy wrapping coming undone. “What?”
“A foot thing,” I repeat, like I haven’t asked something utterly ridiculous.
He shakes his head, astonished. “I heard you the first time,” he says. “I was hoping you’d retract.”
“Natural question,” I say. “You’ve been taking your time.”
“Of course you’d double down,” he mutters. He meets my eyes, unnerved and amused at once. “I donothave a foot thing,” he affirms.
“Huh,” I say. “You don’t like my pedicure?” I opted for a bold fuchsia on the toes during my and Aai’s last visit to the salon.
He plays along as he restarts the bandaging. “Not sure,” he says. “Seems like a color Shilpa Aunty would go for.”
I gasp and pull my foot away from him. “Take that back!” He laughs, and the horrible part is, now that he’s said it, I see it too. Hot pinks and purples have always been Shilpa Aunty’s go-to shades. “I need acetone,” I groan.
“After,” he says. “Now hold still.” I oblige, and he starts to loop the bandage over once more. Each brush of his knuckles feels electric in my bloodstream. After what feels like ages, Kush announces, “All done.” He smooths over the bandage and rises to his feet. My skin is left cold at his absence.
