He’s quiet as he takes it in. “Oh, God,” he says at last. “And I thought I had a big night.”
“Your big night is the only one that counts,” I rush to say. “Since it’ll never happen again.”
He nods, still processing. “Well, good.”
“I didn’t mean to keep this from you,” I say, a twinge of guilt creeping in. “But it felt delicate, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”
“Hey, I’m not upset,” he promises, and the tightness in my stomach eases. “But,” he continues, voice careful, “the others might be, and you know, it just isn’t a good idea.” He gives me a look. “For your sake, I mean. Kush doesn’t have a good track record here.”
I’m surprised by my urge to defend Kush. Just weeks ago, I would have doubled down on the criticism, even relished in it. But I’ve softened from spending more time with him. It’s not my place to excuse his behavior with Meera, but his family crises at the time make clear things weren’t so black-and-white.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I say instead. “I swear it was a one-time thing.” He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but I rush to push the topic aside. “Let’s not get sidetracked, though,” I say. “Tell me more about Aryan.”
Michael accepts the olive branch, eyes brightening again as he tells me bits from their chats in between helping the day care students get checked out.
Friday’s driving session is a victory lap. Earlier in the week, Kush started taking me through potential test drives: We’d begin at the Gilmore DOL, and he’d invent a route to follow, instructing me when to turn, when to lane change, or when to demonstrate a particular skill. Our first few tries were bumpy; after weeks of driving on the same streets, an unfamiliar path posed a challenge. But Friday, I am on fire.
I can’t help but let out a little squeal when I seamlessly slide into park after another great go. It’s our last route for the day, and apart from a couple missed indicators, I’ve hit most of my marks. If the test was today, I would pass with ease.
“Did I kill it or what,” I say, unclipping my seat belt and stretching out. My whole body tensed up in my focus on the road.
“You killed it,” Kush confirms.
“To think you used to freak out at the thought of me behind the wheel,” I say with a sigh. “I’m basically ready for F1 at this point.”
“That’s the exact kind of driving we want to avoid, actually,” he says. “But take your moment.”
I take it, relishing in my success. I think of how panicked I’d felt in June at the prospect of one more unlicensed year and feel a rush of pride. It feels nice to remind myself that I’m capable of follow-through, of making good things happen for myself.
“How should we celebrate?” Kush asks. “With some more Wanda’s Pink Passion?”
I wrinkle my nose, already tasting the beetroot and sea moss concoction on my tongue at the mere mention. “That’s gonna be a passionate no from me,” I say. I glance at the clock and seethat it’s nearly five. “I’m actually supposed to meet Simran at the fair in a few,” I say. Steve is back in town, and Simran decided a county fair evening was the perfect setting for our next group hang. The invite leaves my lips before I can think it over: “Would you want to join?”
His brows rise. I realize that I’m proposing new territory—though we’ve grown closer over the last few weeks, we’ve still never hung out outside of driving and family functions, with the exception of our party run-in. But the question’s out there now, so I double down.
“I have to hang out with the guy she’s seeing,” I say. “He’s an out-of-work DJ. No reason I should suffer alone.”
A half smile starts on Kush’s lips. “This I have to see,” he says, and then we’re off to the fair.
It turns out that Kush and Steve have incredible chemistry. In that they are both equally terrible at all carnival games.
After suffering devastating losses at Skee-Ball, ring toss, and arcade basketball, the boys decide a food break is called for.
“These games are all rigged, anyways,” Steve says.
“Of course,” Simran says, mouth twitching, arms full of candy and stuffed animals from her winnings. All water-gun games hate to see Sim coming. Her hand-eye coordination is unmatched.
Kush accepts his failures with a little more dignity. “I’m out of practice,” he admits. “I haven’t been to the fair all summer.”
We head to the funnel cake booth, the smell of sweet fried dough making my mouth water. The line wraps around twice,and for good reason. I dream of their berries and cream option long after the summer ends.
“When’s the last time you came to the fair?” I ask. It’s Gilmore’s pride and joy, drawing people from all over the county.
He considers. “Last year, I think,” he says. He hesitates. “I brought Meera when she visited.”
“Ah,” I say, something unexpected and unpleasant twisting in my stomach at the name-drop. It’s invasive to question him, but I can’t help but ask, “Are the two of you still in touch?” All my information about this relationship is through the gossip grapevine, and I’d rather hear it from the source himself.
He shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking about reaching out, though,” he says. “I know everything that happened is my fault, I messed up badly at the end, but it makes me sad that things are so hostile between us now. We were close friends for so long, even before anything happened.”
