At the quarter-mile mark, Kush sneaks a glance at me. “How’s Michael doing?” he asks.
“He’s good,” I say, surprised at the question. Kush rarely mentions any member of the trio. “He’s been really busy lately, but good.” Summer reading for Michael’s upcoming seminar has piled up; he’s been as weathered down as I am during shift these days.
“Ah,” Kush says, eyes on the path. He toes at a pebble. “That’s nice.”
My mouth drops when I realize his angle. “Were you trying to pry?”
Michael and Aryan’s first date was last night, and according to our group chat with Zara and Noelle, who have been supportive of the new connection, it was a resounding success. Many voice notes accompanied before, somehow during, and just after their wine bar excursion.
Alarm flashes on Kush’s face, but then his mouth twists up, caught. “I told Aryan I’d do some recon,” he admits.
“Shameless,” I say, clucking my tongue, but now I’m curious. I test the waters. “Michael had a good time,” I say.
“Aryan did too,” Kush says quickly. “A really good time.”
We catch each other’s eyes and laugh. Immediately, I text Michael the verdict while we walk. A few more minutes, and then a sign announces that we’ve reached the entry point to the hot springs. The smell of sulfur strikes my nose again, mixed with something more sharp and earthy this time.
I thought we were here to hike—Gilmore’s greenery and cloudy views are reason enough to make the trek. But Kush tilts his head to the springs, questioning.
“Should we?” he asks, and I find myself nodding before I’ve thought it through.
The first pools we reach are empty, surprising for a Sunday afternoon in summer. Last night’s rain must have turned visitors off. Steam rises from the water, cloudlike wisps that thankfully obscure visibility. I’m slow to undress, even contemplating entering the springs in my jeans. But Kush is swift and mechanical, clothes in a neat pile on the rocks before I’ve unzipped my sweater. Through the steam, I catch a glimpse of brown skin over boxers as he steps in and I avert my gaze, face flushing.
I feel conscious of my mismatched bra and underwear as I enter. But the first touch of water drives the anxious thinking from my mind. It’s a perfect temperature, hot as possible without being unbearable, such a complement to the chilly trail air. It’s the immersive, liquid equivalent of sitting by the firepit in winter. I twist my hair up to keep it dry and sink lower in the pool, submerged up to my shoulders, insides turning fluid at the sensation.
Then Kush looks at me, and I feel it once more, the overwhelmingawarenessof his body near mine. He’s a respectable four feet away, as far as the spring allows, and this should feel no different from sharing a hot tub together, something we’ve done countless times since childhood. And yet itisdifferent. I feel my cheeks warm even more and hope he chalks the blush up to the heat.
“We don’t have towels,” I blurt, realizing the obvious far too late.
He swipes a stray bead of water from his neck. “I’m sure we’ll dry off by the time we get to the car,” he says.
Suddenly I’m in eager anticipation of doing so. “You sure you won’t drown?”
For once, he doesn’t rise to my bait. “I trust you to play lifeguard,” he says.
An invasive visual of my providing Kush with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation enters my mind. I close my eyes and shove it away, trying to return to my initial state of bliss upon stepping into the pool. It works; not looking at him helps. I feel my limbs begin to melt.
“You were right about this place,” I sigh after a beat. “I forgot what I was stressed about.”
I can hear the smile in his voice even with my eyes shut. “Never fails,” he agrees.
A few more minutes of peaceful silence pass, before Kush breaks the quiet.
“I found out that my parents are getting divorced,” he says.
My eyes fly open. His tone is conversational, expression neutral. “Oh, God,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t tell me sorry,” he says. His hand skims the surface of the water, and it ripples toward me. “Tell me congratulations.”
My brows furrow. His eyes turn mirthful at my confusion. “I promise it’s good news,” he says. “All I felt was relief when my mom told me. I’d been worried this was a temporary separation.” He fills in the blanks for me. “My dad is thinking about shifting back to Jaipur for good.”
I blink rapidly, taking it all in. From all of the fragments Kush has shared with me, his parents’ marriage has been rocky to say the least, but I didn’t realize that divorce was on the table.Generally speaking, for most Indian families, divorce is never on the table, even when it very much should be.
I try out the word: “Congratulations,” I say, each syllable elongated and hesitant. He laughs, and I ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I mean,” he says. “These are two people who never should have been married to begin with.” He provides some background, and my heart swells with sympathy for Noori Aunty as he speaks. I knew Noori Aunty’s marriage to Suresh Uncle was arranged while she and Aai were still in college, but I never considered the accumulated weight of all her sacrifices. Kush tells me about the cruelty she experienced from her in-laws, which somehow even continued through the newlyweds’ move to the States. She stuck through it, but it was like an old wound that festered, reopening every time she had to spend time with the Khannas—most recently, at the December wedding.
“They got into a fight at the reception,” he says. “And I overheard.”
