“Can never tell with you,” I say. She blows a kiss, and we head back to join the boys in line for bumper cars.
Kush texts me before bed that night. It’s a picture I didn’t realize he’d taken, of me and Simran laughing as Steve enters a state of comic despair upon failing to whack a single mole.Glad I joined, he says.
Warmth fills my chest. I settle deeper into my sheets and heart the message.Me too, I say, and I realize how much I mean it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next week passes in a blur. In between work, driving, my research project, and Aai Baba’s various demands regarding their upcoming anniversary celebration and the twins, I barely have a second to myself. I’m shuffling between shifts and study sessions (both mine and Nabhi’s) and frustrating calls with vendors every waking minute.
Ajoba provides an extra-long scalp massage on my next hair wash day to try and soothe the stress away. “You work too hard, Maharani,” he says. “Good to take a break sometimes, too.”
“This is my break,” I sigh, leaning my head back into his hands. This rose-scented oil is a true solace. Ajoba clucks his tongue, but I’ve barely written another three pages, and Valdivia’s deadline is fast approaching.
Throughout it all, Kush and I keep up a kind of daily correspondence. It happens almost like an accident. He texts onMonday to inform me he’s reached the dizzying season one finale ofGrey’s. I can’t keep from giggling at his shocked, dramatic reaction, a string of all-caps messages littered with exclamations and question marks. He texts again on Tuesday to update on his progress with the show. I find myself checking my phone for messages throughout my GPL shift, careful to conceal my screen from Michael.
On Wednesday, it’s something different: a picture of the Wanda’s Pink Passion smoothie, with the captionGrowing on me.I text back,happy for you, and he thumbs-downs the message.
Thursday, I ruin my near-perfect driving streak by hitting a curb in the DOL parking lot. The preexisting dent on the car’s front bumper deepens, but I manage not to cry, which is kind of a win. I wait for Kush to lecture me, but instead he squeezes my arm. A jolt goes through me at the touch.
“We’re getting the bad stuff out of the way,” he says. “Like, you know how the main show will be a success when the dress rehearsal flops.”
“I forgot you were a theater kid,” I mumble. Kush played a nonverbal Lost Boy inPeter Panas a fifth grader. All the families in our circle showed up on opening night to support.
“Never mind,” Kush says, releasing me. “I hope you fail your test.” And I push his shoulder.
We head to Wanda’s for a pick-me-up. I’m sitting across from Kush in the corner booth when it arises in full force—such a consumingawarenessof his presence. The tilt of his body, angled toward me; the slope of his lips in a smile, one corner perpetually downturned; his hands around his glass, a white scar on his index finger from where he once stapled himself as a child.
I feel flushed and bothered by the sensation. I thought I’d overcome this, having done so well since the party. But perhaps it’s always been there, simmering, latent, a spark ready to ignite.
“Do you want a bite?” Kush asks, nodding at his apple crumble. It’s one of my favorite sweets from Wanda’s, but the thought of sharing a fork with Kush makes my head spin, so I shake my head.
That night, I indulge in the shameful temptation to scroll through Meera Singh’s Instagram. She has a few thousand followers, several times my eight hundred, and the latest posts are all photo dumps from her summer abroad in Portugal and Malta. I avoided the urge to stalk till today, and now I realize how wise that was.
Friday morning, I wake up to another text from Kush aboutGrey’s. And also to a text from an unknown number:Hey Rani, it’s Frank, sucks we lost touch! Let me know if you wanna hang out next week.
It appears Frank found my number after all. Bewildered, I take a screenshot and send it off to Simran, trusting she’ll know how best to respond. Then I push the matter from my mind. I have a million other tasks to focus on.
Monday marks our first driving lesson since the bruised bumper. I’m laser-focused so it’s smoother sailing. Overconfidence got the best of me on Thursday, and I’m determined not to repeat my mistake.
“How are you feeling?” Kush asks after we’ve done a couple of solid routes from the DOL.
I purse my lips, leaning forward against the steering wheel. “All right,” I say. My test date is only two weeks away, and while I’m not in bad shape, I’m not quite as comfortable as I’d like to be. “A bit stressed,” I admit. “Not just about my license but also everything else going on.”
I’ve mentioned it all in passing this last week, but I give him a quick run-through of my nerves about work, the boys, and even Aai Baba. Kush nods, taking it in.
“Well,” he says. “If you have some time now, I know a good place to relax.”
I don’t have much time, which is kind of the whole issue, but I find myself wanting to say yes. I haven’t had my fill of Kush today.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
At Kush’s insistence, we switch seats so he can drive. I complain initially, but soon I realize where we’re headed. He takes us down a longer, winding road up to the hiking trails behind Gilmore. I haven’t been here in ages, not since a middle school Girl Scout trip, but as soon as the smell of sulfur in the air hits me, I know we’re approaching the hot springs.
“This is the most PNWI know a spotpossible,” I remark as we slide into a viewpoint parking lot. Gilmore County, like much of the Seattle surrounding area, is famed for its scenic trails.
“What can I say,” Kush says, unclipping his seat belt. “I’m proud of my roots.”
We start on the main trail. It rained the night before, so the dirt path is still damp, though not muddy. Clouds hang low inthe sky, but bits of blue and sun peek through. The mild weather is ideal for a stroll. Plenty of joggers and dog walkers pass us on our way up.
