Especially in light of the email revelation, which has demonstrated that at least some of my biases are entirely baseless. It’s hard not to wonder at what would have shifted in my perspective of Kush had I known earlier. Perhaps I would have shown him more grace after the poolside comment. Perhaps I wouldn’t have spent most of high school eager to avoid him.
Or maybe not. If there’s one thing adolescent Rani was skilled at, it was retaining grudges. But I’m grown now, and my theme for this summer is a new start, a clean slate. There’s no reason that shouldn’t extend to Kush. While I still have reasons to be wary of him, given everything I’ve learned about his personal life, I’m more than capable of having a pleasant professional relationship.
After a couple smooth drives up and down the street, Kush instructs, “Turn right here.” I do as told, and the edge of downtownbecomes visible in the distance. “A left here,” he says next, and I blink, a realization arising.
The familiar red-and-white logo of the Wanda’s drive-through gleams ahead. “Are we—” I start, recalling his promise weeks ago that we’d celebrate driving progress with a Wanda’s run.
“I think you’ve earned it,” Kush says.
I resist the urge to squeal, and soon I’m pulling into the short line. The Toyota Camry ahead of us orders enough pastries to feed a small village, and then it’s our turn. Kush gets his usual matcha, and after some deliberation, I get the juice Simran loves. I’ve already had two coffees today, and one more will surely destroy my sleep schedule.
We park for a moment to enjoy our drinks. Kush stirs extra honey into his matcha, and I poke a straw into my juice. I almost gag at the first sip.
“God,” I say, a cough rising in my throat. It’s somehow sour and bitter and sludgy all at once. I take another sip in case my first was a fluke and regret it right away. I shake my head. “This is rancid.”
Kush furrows his brow. “What is it?”
For the first time, I read the label on the side of the juice. “Sea moss–infused ginger beetroot.”
Silence swells in the car. “And you’re sure it doesn’t taste good?” he says, voice dry.
“The name is so misleading!” The listing on the Wanda’s sign read:Pink Passion. My fault for not reading the fine print, perhaps, but still. “I’m not feeling very passionate about this.”
“No?” He reaches for the drink, and I pass it over. He takes a tentative sip, and I laugh at how his face twists in reaction. “Rare Wanda’s L,” he agrees.
“Looks pretty at least.” The beetroot gives the juice a shocking magenta color. “I can’t believe Simran swears by this stuff.”
“Do you do everything Simran says?” he asks, amusement on his lips.
“Basically,” I say. “I’m very easily influenced.” Aai has posed the jumping-off-a-bridge adage more times than I can count, and in all honesty, it applies. We’d likely hold hands as we jump. “I cut my own bangs in fifth grade because she told me to,” I recall. I burst into tears as soon as I saw my reflection, and Simran spent the next few weeks falsely reassuring me that the look worked.
“I remember,” Kush says, and pleasant surprise sparks. He ruins it a second later. “Your Dora moment.”
I give an outraged gasp, and he laughs. “What else?” he says.
“I joined track in ninth grade because she had a crush on a boy and didn’t want to go alone. But my mile is a solid eight minutes now, so I can’t complain there.” Kush nods, approving. I continue. “I got my nose pierced with her senior year even though Aai wanted me to wait till college.” The gold hoop feels like a part of my face now—well worth Aai’s initial anger.
“Looks nice,” he says, almost offhand.
A beat. “Thanks,” I say. I grasp for another example. It blurts out before I can reconsider: “I got a Hinge this summer because she told me to.”
His brows rise. My cheeks grow hot. I wish I could retract the admission. I’m right about to switch topics when he says the last possible thing I’d expect: “Can I see?”
I’m sure I’ve heard him wrong. “What?”
His tone is so neutral that I can’t assess his motive. “I can help,” he says. “Provide some notes.”
“I don’t need yournotes,” I say, offended at the offer, but I’m pulling out my phone anyways. Part of me is curious to hear what he has to say.
I’m hyperaware of our proximity as he peruses the profile; the car feels too small for such a vulnerable encounter. He takes his time, thoughtful and poker-faced as he scrolls past each photo and prompt. My account is still paused, and I’ve made minimal edits since my sleepover with Simran, just swapping out the bikini picture for a more modest mirror selfie. He lingers on that slide, and heat spikes in my chest.
Finally, he hands me my phone. “Well?” I say, when he doesn’t immediately volunteer a verdict.
He nods. “It’s good,” he says. The words sound stuck, and he clears his throat. “No notes.”
I blink, heart thrumming fast. “None?”
“None,” he repeats. He shakes his head, disliking the conversation. He clears his throat again. “Should we drive?”
