“Um, if you say so,” I say, surprised by the reaction. “You guys know him?”
“Intimately,” Michael says. “By transitive property.”
“Gross,” Zara says, wrinkling her nose. “But, yeah. He dated our friend.” She does a quick scan to check the coast then nods to her left, voice dropping. “That was Kush’s best friend earlier, Aryan. We’re kind of all in an odd spot, at the moment.”
Noelle frowns. “I saw him,” she says. “What’s he doing here, anyways?”
“Friends with Priya,” Zara says with a huff. “Anyways,” she continues, returning to me. She squints, assessing. “Are you close with Kush?”
“No,” I blurt. My mind spins, processing this information, but it’s clear they have a negative opinion of Kush, and the last thing I want is for that to extend to me. “Our moms are really close, so our families spend a lot of time together, but driving is the most we’ve interacted in years.” I pause, nosiness overwhelming me. “What’s the story?”
Michael whistles. “How much time do we have?”
“Like, five, till intermission ends,” Zara says.
“Okay, so SparkNotes,” Michael says.
“Kush was my neighbor freshman year,” Noelle explains. “His apartment and my apartment got pretty close, and at the end of the year, he started dating my roommate, Meera Singh.”
“We all went on a ski trip last winter break,” Michael continues. “He and Meera had been having some problems by that point, and then abruptly one night, in the middle of the trip, Kush ups and leaves.” Michael pauses for dramatic effect. “No note, no explanation. I genuinely thought he was abducted.”
“He proceeded to ghost Meera for a week,” Zara says. “When we got back to school, he at last had the decency to perform an official breakup speech.”
“Woah,” I say, tracking this intel alongside my own memories. I saw Kush at a couple family functions over break, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He must have a killer poker face.
“Can you believe?” Noelle says. “Friends for a year, dating for six months, and this is how he ends things?” She shudders. “Gave me trust issues on Meera’s behalf.”
“That’s awful,” I say, feeling a sincere pang of empathy. Kamran’s carelessness had cut me deep, and we were never even in a real relationship. I can’t fathom the hurt of this situation.
“Meera bounced back, of course, she’s a queen, but Kush is still pretty much excommunicated from our lives. You don’t get to act like that,” Zara says.
“No,” I agree. “That’s unforgivable.” I shake my head, absorbing it all. “Well, if you want me to bump him with my car or anything, say the word. Happy to help out with the revenge scheme.”
Noelle laughs. “Meera might just take you up on that.”
The mic squeaks as one of the other organizers takes the stage. Noelle jumps to her feet. “My cue,” she says, hurrying away.
We return to an agenda of novice poetry performances. Silent tears escape Michael’s eyes at a particularly dramatic recitation. Zara shoves her face in her hands to cover her own reaction. Though the night’s revelations still linger in the back of my mind, I push down the curiosity, allowing myself to settle into the warmth of their company—so new but already so welcoming.
Chapter Eleven
This week’s Sunday dinner is thick with the anticipation of adding a new member to our small circle of family friends. Preeti’s due date is fast approaching, and Sonal Aunty has been flooding the WhatsApp group chats with premonitions of an early labor.
Aai doubles tonight’s recipe to bring a plate over to the Pujaris’ later on. We’re having chicken karahi, such a staple comfort meal, and the warm smell of fresh spices and aromatics fills the kitchen. I try to sneak a bite as the curry bubbles on the stove, but Aai swats my hand away.
“Don’t be greedy,” she says. “It’s for the baby.”
“Didn’t realize newborns could have solids,” I say but let it rest. I’m already planning to help myself to seconds at mealtime.
I set the table for seven. Baba’s working late, and Suresh Uncle just left on a trip to Jaipur, so everyone fits in the dining room for once. Sanju and Nabhi are riding high from a just-won basketballgame, but excitement quickly morphs into chaos when I make the mistake of assigning them the side salad.
In true Desi fashion, our salads consist of nothing more than sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, and raw onions with salt and lemon added to taste. Simple enough for the twins to assemble, in theory. But Nabhi’s eyes begin to water at the mere sight of the peeled onion, which Sanju finds too funny not to record, which in turn spirals into a physical argument over the mandoline. The doorbell rings as blood starts to gush down Sanju’s palm—he’s just sliced his finger on the blade.
“Can you get that, Rani?” Aai calls from upstairs. She dashed away to get dressed ten minutes ago, and in a stroke of good luck, missed the accident.
I lock eyes with the twins, who have finally gone mute and frozen, understanding the gravity of the situation. Aai is a wreck when it comes to injuries of any kind. “I’m a bit occupied,” I reply on a delay, hurrying to the cabinet where we keep our first-aid supplies. Sanju moves to set his hand under the icy tap, and the water runs pink.
I hear Aai sigh and grumble, and her footsteps sound as she scrambles to open the door herself just as the bell rings again. Voices fill the foyer, effusive greetings and compliments, and I use the moment to treat Sanju, who doesn’t seem to be in much pain, despite his considerable bleeding. He winces as I swipe the antibacterial ointment on.
