The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Where do you think I’ve been driving to?”
Wanda’s is a beloved local institution, and for good reason. Founded by Vietnamese immigrants in the early 1990s, the shop features an Asian-fusion menu supplemented with usual American diner offerings. They’ve retained their turn-of-the-century aesthetic—checkered floors, cozy crimson booths, paper clippings tacked to walls—and perhaps most important, their turn-of-the-century prices. An iced latte and delectable pastry runs me less than ten dollars with tip.
Today, I order some ube beignets to go along with my coffee. Kush sticks to an unsweetened matcha. When I wrinkle my nose at the choice, he insists, “Drinks shouldn’t taste like dessert.”
“They shouldn’t taste like grass, either,” I say.
We sit in a window booth, downtown Gilmore’s afternoon bustle as our view. I almost let out a moan at the first bite, sweet and gooey on my tongue. “The beignets alone were worth transferring back home for,” I say, dusting powdered sugar from my hands.
“Proximity to Wanda’s should always be a deciding factor,” he agrees. “I make the drive once a week even during the school year.” There’s a beat. “How are you feeling about starting up soon?”
I pull at my beignet, disliking the question. “I feel excited,” I say, hoping I sound like it. “My program’s exactly what I want to be doing, and I’ve missed Seattle a lot.” I sip at my latte. “Clearly,” I add, tapping the side of my already half-empty glass.
It’s not a lie. Iamhopeful about this new start. But there’s a big dose of nerves and fear mixed in too, not that I need Kush to be clued in on that. He nods at the answer, lips pushing up.
“Well,” he says. “If you ever want a tour guide, or have questions about classes or professors, I’m around.”
“Thank you,” I say, though I’m not sure what advice a premed student could have for an English and education studies major. But it’s a nice offer, and I try to ignore the instinct to feel patronized, always so quick to arise around Kush. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I clear my throat, ready for a new subject. “So,” I say. “I’ve been wondering. What made you agree to be my driving instructor?”
He blinks, surprised by the inquiry. “My mom asked me to,” he says.
“And you do everything your mom says?”
I intend it as a playful quip, some harmless teasing, but his eyes glint a little. Then he shrugs, expression relaxing. “Increasingly,” he says.
My brows knit, curious now, but I don’t feel like I have the license to ask a follow-up. And the last thing I want is to sound insulting to Noori Aunty, who remains by and large my favorite of Aai Baba’s friends—not that she has much competition. I backtrack instead.
“I just meant that I’m sure you have better things to do with your time, that’s all,” I say.
He stirs his matcha, and the ice clatters. “Figured I could write this off on my taxes,” he says.
“Good one, Kush.”
“Bystander intervention, really,” he continues. “I’d feel complicit in your developmental delay if I didn’t help you out.”
“How generous.”
He smiles, any prior trace of touchiness gone, his usual polished and polite presence returned. “How about you?” he says. “What’s taken you so long to get your license?”
“I never saw it as a big priority in high school,” I say. “Especially since I wouldn’t have had my own car. Once Simran got her license and started chauffeuring me around, driving completely fell off my radar. Ajoba wanted to teach me last summer, but then…” I trail off; we both know the next part. My lips twist. “It feels urgent now, though. I never meant to get this far behind.”
That seems to be the theme of this summer. It’s like I woke up a few months ago with clearer vision and consequential panic, noticing all the ways my life had veered off course. I have my work cut out for me these next several weeks to get back on track.
“Makes sense,” Kush says. “I’m glad your grandfather’s doing so much better now. I know it was rough there for a second. My mom had me bringing dishes over throughout the fall.”
I remember Ajoba sending me pictures of the meals all last year.Nothing like a medical crisis to turn the house into a food bank, he joked, but he loved Noori Aunty’s deliveries. She started her catering business during the two years the Khannas lived in New Jersey, and Ajoba was the first to encourage her to keep it up following their return to Seattle. And now she has a flourishing enterprise on her hands, a well-loved Instagram page, and a popular cooking blog to boot.
“A silver lining,” I say. “Having a stroke isn’t a bad price to pay for free Khanna catering.”
There’s silence. “My grandma passed away from a stroke in April,” he says then, voice funny.
I want to eat my words. “I am so sorry,” I blurt. I can’t fathom my own foolishness and horrid memory. Aai had mentioned the news to me, and I even commented condolences on Suresh Uncle’s Facebook eulogy in the spring, feeling extra sympathetic given Ajoba’s similar diagnosis. “I remember hearing—I didn’t mean—” I break off. “I’m so sorry.”
Kush’s lips quirk, and I realize he’s just giving me a hard time. “We weren’t close,” he says. “Dad’s side.”
I swallow. “Ah,” I say. “Right.”
He laughs, dark eyes mirthful. “Anyways,” he says. “Should we discuss our lesson plan?”
