My irritation rises with the direct address. “Friends appreciate a check-in,” I say. “Friends say thank-you when brought a free matcha.”
“Thank you,” Kush says.
My nostrils flare. “Friends don’t need to be told to say thank-you,” I exclaim.
He releases a frustrated breath. “I don’t want to be your friend, Rani!” he says.
I draw back, eyes widening. There’s a pregnant pause. “What doesthatmean?” I say finally.
A flush crawls up his neck. “It means”—he speaks to the air—“that I don’t want to hear about your dates.”
My heart goes fast in my chest. “Singular,” I manage.
He absorbs this with interest. “So there won’t be a second?”
I shake my head and lift my leg, the bandaged ankle visible below the hemline of my jeans. “Remember what he did to my foot?”
“Right,” Kush says. He gives a nod, some of the fight going out of him. “Well, good.” There’s a pause. “Not good that you twisted your ankle,” he says quickly. “Good, as in…” he trails off. “Good.”
“Good,” I say faintly.
He’s already loosening from my clarification, visibly less tense. “Sorry for almost making you cry,” he says next.
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I say. “I never cry in public.”
His lips twitch, but he goes along with it. “My bad,” he says. “Sorry for assuming you were about to cry.”
“Forgiven,” I say. I turn the words over, still dizzy from his admission. “So you don’t want to be my friend,” I confirm.
He shakes his head, once. “No,” he says. He hesitates, then adds, like he might as well say it now, “I want more.” His skin flushes deeper when I don’t immediately reply. “Are you going to say something?”
I swallow, heart rate ricocheting. “Just,” I say softly. “Your hair looks nice.”
He blinks as the reference registers, and his eyes glint, surprised and pleased. We both step forward at the same time, movements clumsy. I’m drawn forward by the pull of his gaze, dark and heady. His hands have just grazed my waist when the door flies open, and we jerk hastily apart.
It’s Sam. “Sorry,” he says, eyes passing between us. “Needed a stapler.”
It’s on the table closest to me, so I pass it over. “Here it is!” I chirp. He grabs and goes, but it’s like a cold blanket has been thrown over us, a reminder that we are in Kush’s workplace. We smile at each other from a respectable few feet apart, stupid and embarrassed.
“I’ll head out,” I say after an improper amount of intense eye contact. “Seeing as I’m not supposed to be back here anyways,and all of that.” He rolls his eyes, expression still mirthful. “I’ll see you soon,” I say.
A half hour later, while I’m trying to focus on my readings and failing, his name flashes on my screen:I enjoyed the ambush, he writes.
Chapter Thirty
Simran and I celebrate our fifteenth anniversary of best friendship at our most beloved local haunt: the Cheesecake Factory.
She lets out a moan after the first bite of nutty brown bread slathered in butter. “I feel God in this Cheesecake Factory,” she says.
“I’m pretty sure God created the Cheesecake Factory,” I say.
“Let there be light, and let there be the Cheesecake Factory,” she muses.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sounds like a direct quote.”
Our waiter brings out our signature Shirley Temples and favorite small plates. I dig into the spinach artichoke dip with my spoon, forgoing the chip. Simran shoves an entire macaroni-and-cheese ball into her mouth. We always leave our table manners at the door when frequenting the Cheesecake Factory.
Simran fills me in on the status of her and Steve’s nascentrelationship as we stuff ourselves. “We are officially back together,” she declares. “It’s new, and we’re moving slow, but things have been really good so far.” She pulls out her phone to show me Steve’s Instagram story, a sunset picture of Sim along the pier. “It’ll be a good six months before he’s featured on my page,” she claims. “But I thought this was sweet.”
