“Of course,” he says.
We drive mostly in silence, Kush glancing over to me at red lights and stop signs. When we reach my driveway, he finally asks, “Is everything okay? Outside of being under the weather, I mean.”
The words blurt out before I can try to present the question in a less whiny, pathetic way: “Did you make dinner plans with your ex?”
His brows rise high, surprised by the inquiry. “Did Michael tell you that?”
My stomach sinks at the confirmation. “So you did.”
“Rani—”
“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head, hand already on the handle. “It’s not my business.”
“I mean,” Kush says. “It’s a little bit your business.”
“It shouldn’t be,” I say. I smooth a wrinkle in my jeans and force down the mixed emotions rising in my throat. Foolishness is the most prominent of them all. How could I ever think Kush was a viable choice? I’ve known since childhood to only expect disappointment where he’s concerned.
“It wasn’t a secret,” Kush continues. “I was planning to tell you today. I like telling you things. Even the tough stuff.” He pauses, then adds, “Especially the tough stuff, honestly. I care about your opinion so much, Rani, I’m never trying to hurt you.”
I shake my head again, disbelieving. He nudges me gently, so I’m forced to meet his eyes, big and earnest today. “Let me tell you now.”
An ache pokes behind my rib cage, and I force myself to avert my gaze. Prolonged eye contact with Kush is dangerous, makes me far too impulsive, or worse, far too trusting. “It doesn’t matter,” I let out. “You can do what you want.” My headache only sharpens, and I swallow hard. “Everyone was right, this was a bad idea.”
His brows knit. “Who’s everyone?” he says. Then a beat passes as he registers the second half of the sentence. “You meanwe’rea bad idea,” he says, voice dull.
Silence swells. “I need to get some rest,” I say. “I’ll see you at the anniversary this weekend.”
His mouth presses into a line. “Good luck on your test Friday, Rani,” he says, and then I’m out the door and hurrying up the porch.
Chapter Thirty-Two
On the morning of my driving test, Ajoba wakes me bright and early. Light has just started to stream through the windows, the sun still low on the horizon. But I can tell Ajoba wants a slow start to the day, some time marked aside for us to sit and talk through the chaos of the week. I’ve been avoiding my family since Rakhi, including my grandfather, far too hurt and ashamed to mend a fence.
Bowls of sabudana khichdi are waiting for us on the kitchen counter when I arrive downstairs. The cozy dish of sauteed tapioca pearls, potatoes, and crushed peanuts is my all-time favorite Marathi breakfast. Ajoba would have had to set the pearls to soak late last night, then woken up practically at dawn to have the meal prepared by this hour.
Shaved coconut and fresh lemon is set beside my bowl to add as garnishes, exactly as I like it. I burst into tears at the sight.
Alarm strikes Ajoba’s features, and he hurries to my side. “Maharani,” he says. “I thought youlikedthis food.”
I wipe at my cheeks, tears coming out shaky and fast. “I do,” I insist through a pause in crying. “I love sabudana.” Another sniffle escapes.
A beat. “So you understand my confusion,” he says, voice dry.
I meet his eyes. “I don’t deserve this,” I say at last.
Ajoba takes his seat beside me in the breakfast nook. “Ah,” he says.
“I mess everything up,” I blurt.
He waves a hand. “Important to have some entertainment on festivals,” he says. “Aarti can be so dull.”
A smile twitches on my lips, but another tear slips out anyways. “You’re not mad at me?”
He shakes his head, and my stomach unwinds a bit. “Aai, on the other hand?” he says, but this much I know. We’ve been skirting around each other in common areas the last few days like bad roommates. I duck my head. “She says to drive safe,” Ajoba says, squeezing my leg. “And to make a big show of checking before turns. They’ll mark you off otherwise.”
I nod, swiping at my face again. “Okay,” I say weakly, but I feel considerably lighter. If Aai can pass on advice through Ajoba, it can’t be an unsalvageable situation.
“Since you’re already crying,” Ajoba says now. He reaches across the nook to grab a small bag I somehow missed, tissue paper peeking out over the handles. “From the boys.”
