“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “I was wrong for that.”
“Broken record,” I mumble.
“Let’s step outside and talk,” he says, gaze dark and sincere. “Please.”
His tone is so earnest that I’m nearly swayed. But I remember Simran’s advice to keep it moving and steel myself. I’m no longer confident anything valuable will emerge from further discussion.“I’m hungry,” I insist. I maneuver around him again, and this time, he doesn’t stop me.
Or so I think. Not two steps past Kush, and I’m jerked back to his side with force. I just barely manage to keep my drink from sloshing over the rim.
“Oh myGod,” I say, outraged by the manhandling. He’s yanked on my chunni. “Let mego.”
“I’mtrying,” he says, voice weak. My eyes flash back, and I see that he hasn’t grabbed me—not on purpose, anyways. The loose end of my chunni has caught on the buttons of his sleeve. We lock eyes in panic for a swollen moment. Then Kush uses his free hand to take my food and drink from me and sets it on the table.
He raises the attached arm, and I’m tugged to him. Both our fingers get to work detangling ourselves. A loose gold thread has somehow wound itself in the button.
“Let me—” I begin, trying to unravel the knot.
“Maybe if I—” he starts, picking at the fabric.
“Careful,” I scold. “This was very expensive.”
His touch turns gentle. My cheeks are aflame; our foreheads are inches from each other. A couple more delicate plucks, and the thread parts from his sleeve. We release a simultaneous sigh of relief and hastily separate.
At the movement, my chunni slips from its carefully pinned placement at my collarbone. My hand jumps to my neck to adjust, but it’s too late. Kush’s eyes snap to the blooming bruise, blinking back at the sight.
A flush creeps up his face. He scratches at his hair as if looking for something to do with his hands. “Sorry,” he says, and it’s unclear what the apology is for.
I deflate, the earlier fight leaving my body. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go talk.”
The patio outside the reception hall is still largely empty. We have a solid ten minutes before guests start to filter through with their food, so Kush and I head for the barren seating area by the water. The Mehras selected a dreamy lakeside resort as tonight’s venue, and a few wooden jhoolas with marigolds wrapped around the bases border the overlook. We sink onto the farthest swing, and I take care to sit as far from him as possible.
I fold my legs in an effort to take up even less space. “Talk,” I say, smoothing down a crinkle in my skirt.
He obeys the order. “I’m sorry for the brush-off this morning,” he repeats. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, and I didn’t have, um, any remarks prepared.”
My mouth twitches at the phrasing. “What, you need a speechwriter to speak to me?”
He shrugs. “Could have used one today, yeah.” There’s a pause. “And generally, too, you don’t always make it easy.”
It’s not like I can argue with that, and maybe it’s toxic, but I can’t help feeling a little pleased that Kush seems to find me unapproachable at times.
He continues. The words are careful and measured. “I’m also really sorry about last night.”
It’s mortifying how fast my stomach drops. “You’re sorry about last night?” I echo.
He nods. He glances over at me and swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “You were drunk. I was too. Things shouldn’t happen like that.”
I hesitate, unable to parse through the specifics of my messy feelings. “Right.” I clear my throat. “But you don’t need to apologize. It was equally on me.” Perhaps evenmoreso on me, but Kush does me the dignity of not pointing that out.
“I really hope we can move past this,” he says next.
Something that feels an awful lot like disappointment is twisting in my belly, which makes no sense, because I also desperately want to move past this. I hug my arms to my stomach as if to press the sensation away. “Of course,” I say.
“Especially since we were just starting to get along,” he says.
“I promise not to become touchy and hostile again,” I say, and a half smile starts.
“I’ll do my best not to provoke that, too,” he says.
