I shoot her an apologetic glance. “Almost done,” I say. It’s a lie; I have several chapters left to get through tonight, but I’ll allow a break once I finish my current one.
“Five minutes, and then I’m walking through without you,” she warns.
I gasp, wounded. “You wouldn’t.” Tonight’s exhibition theme, on women in migration, is one I’ve been looking forward to all summer.
“Watch me,” she says, and her tone is so firm that I relent. With a groan, I slide my book shut. Simran claps her hands in glee.
“A quick stroll,” I say. “And then I need to be back at it.”
She ignores this, already standing tall and smoothing down the skirt of her dress. It’s lacy and long, skimming the floor when she walks. “Do you want red or white?”
Two glasses of merlot later, I’m starting to relax about everything. Simran eggs me on.
“You need to take it easy,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.
“I’vebeentaking it easy,” I say. “I’m in this predicament because I’ve been taking it easy.”
Simran shrugs. “It’s summer,” she offers.
Her logic is sound, but I can’t help from remarking, “It’s different for you. You’re already set up at Dartmouth.” And it’s true—of the two of us, Simran did her freshman year right. She’s found her people, and she has her roots in all the academic and professional activities she wants. She even landed her current labor rights internship through a favorite professor. I’m feeling the pressure this summer because I lack what she’s got.
Simran’s expression twists, part sympathy, part something else. “I mean, I have my shit too, Rani,” she says.
My lips quirk. “Like what, Steve?”
Her expression sours for a second, but she rolls her eyes, and I think I must have imagined it. “Like all of it,” she says. “I mean, I stuck it through, I didn’t jump ship, but yeah, it took a beat for me to feel settled too.”
I don’t love her framing my transfer asjumping ship, but I feel more struck by the last part of her words. “I didn’t know that,” I say, and it’s true. My impression of Simran’s first year has always been that it was smooth and exciting, nothing heavy to weigh her down.
She shrugs. “It didn’t feel relevant to say, given the context of what you were going through, especially with your grandfather. But natural enough, I think. I was so far from home and didn’t know anyone at all. It took lots of trial and error to find my place.” She tilts her head. “Darshan being one of the errors, of course.”
I smile at the reminder of Simran’s first campus crush, a stoner and unsuccessful SoundCloud rapper. “Of course,” I agree, but something remains unsettled in my chest. I don’t like feeling likeI’ve missed out on anything in Simran’s life, like I was too caught up in my problems to be a good friend to her. Or worse, that my envy of her interfered with that. “I wish you’d told me,” I say next. “I always want to know what’s going on.”
She locks gazes with me, expression warm. “Okay,” Simran says. “Good to know.”
We continue our stroll, and I pause for a refill on wine. It’s a mixed-media exhibition, so some of the art pieces have audios to accompany them. I linger at an Alina Joshi portrait, on loan from San Francisco, that makes my breath catch. Two Desi sisters adorn themselves in traditional finery and jewelry as a woman, perhaps a mother, watches in the distance. Old Bollywood music plays on the headphones to match, and the full effect is lovely and melancholy.
I’m so struck by the piece, still thinking of it as we walk, that I almost miss Simran’s address the first time. She repeats herself.
“How are you feeling about K-word now?” she asks.
I swat her, and she giggles. “No need to censor,” I say. “Since I’m feeling fine.” We completed two successful and highly professional driving practices this week. I mastered lane switching and only hit the curb twice. We did not discuss the party.
“Really?” she says, surprised.
“Really,” I say. “You were right about barreling through and moving forward. I think driving is going to be totally fine. Just another month to go.”
“Good,” Simran says warmly. “You can totally do it.”
“In fact,” I say, pulling my phone from my purse. I pull up Hinge to show her my profile is unpaused at last. “You’re going to be so proud.”
Simran gives a happy shriek, drawing stares from surrounding attendees that she ignores. “Give,” she orders, and amused, I pass my phone over. She spends a pleased several minutes swiping through my likes on my behalf, and then her lips form an O.
“Rani,” she says, voice odd.
My brow furrows. “What?” She holds up my phone to show me a familiar face, and my mouth drops. “What?”
Because Frank, from Simon’s party, has liked my profile. Simran squints at the screen. “This can’t beFrankFrank,” she says.
