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“My condolences for being so dull.”
She hums, “My cottage-core bird-watching bodyguard.”
Bodyguardsounds a lot likeboyfriendto me in that dreamy voice of hers.
The wordsI'm fuckedscroll through my head. It's a boring repetition of thoughts, but it's how I feel.
“What should we do now?” I ask, ignoring how my heart pounds.
Through a yawn, she says, “Your turn at a big secret. You talk.”
I'm not sure what to tell her, so I don’t say anything. We stay like this for a while. I am listening and hearing Komal’s breathing even out. I think she’s asleep, but then she clumsily rocks into me. “Get on with it,” she says. “Before I fall asleep. Talk.”
What does she want?
Oh, yeah. A secret. My secret.
Secret… secret… What’s my big secret?
I miss you, Komal. When I'm not assigned to you, I think about you. If I see a video I think you'd like or some sort of book cover with the kind of title that would make you laugh, it's you in my head. I wish it would stop. I try to make it stop.
No, can’t say that.
“My dad and stepmom, Preeti, know about you.”
“Mmmm”—she’s slurring—“How so?”
“On the phone, I stopped calling youthe clientand used your real name. That’s a first for me.”
“Do you tell them… how I make your life difficult?” Her words are thickening slightly. “Do they have thoughts about me?”
“My dad thinks being here is helping me move on from the past.”
Any second now, Komal’s going to pass out. “What about your past? What’s so bad about it?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Give it to me. Don’t you dare hold back.”
“The short version is?—”
“No,” she interrupts. “Long version.”
“Fine.” I’m sighing. “My past starts off with my grandparents who didn’t live with us because my dad left them to be with my biological mom. Then she left us, and my dad got a lot of shame for that decision. People in our apartment building talked about us. Or relatives visited and berated my dad for disrespecting his elders.”
Komal is quiet. She’s not asking questions. And I've only said a few things so far, but it feels like we’re padded in our own world. That—for once—my words have a soft landing. They don't have to keep buried inside that tight spot within me.
“When she got older, Becca noticed how people treated us. And her solution was to not care. She kept to herself and loved staying inside. But I couldn’t do it. I wanted to fix it. Fix what people thought.”
Komal remains quiet. Shemustbe asleep.
Good. I’ll get up and leave. Go now. Stop talking. For some reason, I can’t. Words push out. “So I got a good job. Built relationships, carried groceries for neighbours, hosted tea ceremonies for crap family members, sent New Year cards to my dad’s boss who never promoted him. Anything, so my dad got credit for raising such a respectful, obedient son. Of course, Becca thought I was a square. That I was wasting my time trying to make people change when it wasn’t us who were the problem.
Why am I still talking?
“And I wonder whether she was right. Because then she got sick and all my focus went to her. Instead of fixing my dad, I wanted to fix her so badly, even when it got bad. I couldn’t let her go. I loved her so irresponsibly.”
I can't stop. Maybe because I want to wrap myself in Komal, close my eyes and scrub the shame of my past away. Maybe because holding her like this makes it almost seem possible.
