“I do need a lot of support,” I say. I’m hoping the mild self-deprecation will melt the ice, but it doesn’t produce the desired effect on Zara.
“Supportive and Kush?” she says. “Kind of an oxymoron, no?”
Kush goes silent, mouth in a line, and Aryan gives a dark look on behalf of his friend. “New leaf, Zara,” he says.
“Right,” she says, but there’s a trace of irony in her voice. The exchange stalls, and we all sip at our drinks for something to do. In the background, a Britney song crescendos to a chorus. “Well, I’m gonna go find Noelle!” Zara interrupts. “Don’t leave without saying goodbye.” She directs this last line to Kush, a clear reference to his winter break departure, and slips away.
There’s another uncomfortable pause. Michael redirects the conversation by asking Aryan a question about his rings, and as the boys chat, Kush takes the pause to head for the bar station again. After a moment, I follow after.
“Refill already?” I ask, leaning against the countertop, watching as Kush pours a heavy serving of rum into his mixed drink.
His mouth twitches down, not quite a grimace but close. “The jungle juice was pretty watered down.”
“I know,” I say. “I made it.”
“Huh,” he says. “I don’t think you have a future in bartending.”
“Bummer,” I say. “I’ll adjust my LinkedIn accordingly.”
A semblance of a smile starts. He raises the bottle at me, and I put my glass forward, allowing a generous splash. I’m at the level of tipsy (drunk?) where a vodka-cran-rum doesn’t sound too vile.
As he pours, my eyes catch on a figure behind Kush. With a horrified start, I recognize Simon, the birthday boy from last week’s party. And if Simon’s here, the chances are that Frank isn’tfar behind. I take a few frantic sips from my cup at the realization, ducking my head to keep from being spotted.
The mixture is revolting, but I’m too panicked to care. Before I can rethink the suggestion, I blurt out to Kush, “Do you want to head for the terrace?” It’s a more concealed part of the apartment farther down the hall, and I could use the discretion. And also a friend.
His brows lift, but then his features relax into gratitude at the offer. “Please,” he says, and I’m already making my way past the bustle, careful to avoid a familiar face.
“Bring the bottle,” I call back.
I know the drinks have kicked in because I hardly notice the chill out on the terrace.
Veiled by flowy white curtains, the terrace extends from the den, offering a glimmering view of Seattle’s nighttime cityscape. The water gleams in the distance, streetlights glow back at us, and a crescent moon hangs low in the sky tonight. We lean against the railing, looking out. The terrace is far enough from the main room that party chatter fades to a low hum in the background.
Kush takes long sips of his rum and Coke. I tilt my head at him, insides still warm from my own mixed drink. “You’re off-theme,” I notice. He’s dressed nice, a linen shirt and shorts, but there’s nothing remotely pop culture about the ensemble.
“I decided to come last minute,” he says. “Didn’t have the time to plan a costume.”
“Hm,” I say. “That’s what Alexa said.”
His expression twists. He’s clearly clued into the Noelle-Alexa drama. “Don’t compare me.”
I wonder if he knows that the trio often does. I feel sorry for him at the thought and shake off the sympathy. It’s not an unwarranted comparison.
“I like your outfit, though,” he says. I feel all too aware of how his eyes pass over me. I hug my arms around my stomach, right where the skirt and top part to show a strip of skin. He frowns a bit. “I can’t say I like the phrase,” he adds. “People can’t just stop being poor.”
My mouth falls open. “It’s a reference,” I exclaim. “Not a policy proposal.”
His brows merge. “Oh,” he says.
“A very famous reference,” I add. I shake my head, disbelieving. “God, you are so uncultured.”
His mouth twitches. “Offline,” he corrects. He takes another sip of rum and Coke.
“I’m going to stick with uncultured,” I say. He rolls his eyes, and we keep drinking in silence for a few minutes. When his cup empties, he pours more rum in from the bottle, offering another serving to me as well. I accept even though I’m well past my usual tolerance at this point. But I’m not ready to leave the terrace yet, and I’m finding it helpful to be drunk while alone with Kush, usual inhibitions lowered.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Kush says at last. The words are loose, some of the vulnerability from our afternoon at the pond resurfacing. “There are lots of people at this party who don’t like me.”
“I like you,” I say, surprising myself. The words slip out,automatic, and I realize I mean it. At some point in the past few weeks of driving together, learning more about him, my former bitterness for Kush has receded, my childhood fondness beginning to return.
