Page 108 of Reasons We Break
Sadly, Simran realizes upon arrival at Neetu’s house that Nick was right.
The backyard party is in full swing; several of Neetu’s and Gurjeevan’s cousins flit around with mehndi-adorned hands. A seating arrangement underneath a white tent is bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights, cloth-draped tables covered with catered food. It’s a warm, humid evening, and the house’s screen door is slightly ajar. Inside, several aunties are on the couch having chah while little kids chase each other around.
Simran pauses at the side of the house to check her reflection in her phone screen. Zohra rebraided her hair after she put on her salwar kameez. But her nose still looks red, the blacks of her eyes too big. At least her heart has calmed somewhat, and she no longer has the urge to laugh at everything.
She clicks to her phone’s photo gallery. After Manny got bored with her, and before Nick and Zohra arrived, Simran spent every moment of her time alone with the ledger on the table, photographing each page. It was just like Zohra said: Manny does drugs and counts his money at the same time. It makes sense that he would keep his ledgers close. All she had to do was get close, too.
It still wasn’t easy. She had to act fast, because she had no idea when the pills she’d taken would kick in. Yet she had to pause frequently when people came to check on her. And when Manny brought another bag of cocaine, she had no choice but to accept. That was when numbers began sprouting from the page and she lost confidence in reality. Her photos became blurrier the further things went. That could’ve been bad. If Nick and Zohra hadn’t found her...
“Simran putt!”
An auntie’s voice makes her lower her phone immediately. She’s finally been noticed.
The auntie drops her paper plate into the garbage bag next to Simran. “Did you eat anything yet? You should.” She gives Simran a hug, but her embrace loosens almost immediately in surprise. Simran knows right then that despite Nick giving her a makeshift bath, she still smells like what she’s been doing.
Normally, Simran could spin a lie on the spot to explain this. But at the moment, she can’t think of a single thing. “Sat Sri Akaal, Auntie ji. How are you?”
The auntie, smile fading now, replies, but Simran barely hears it. Her brain feels like molasses. The longer she entertains the useless, airy conversation, the more she realizes the drugs did more than she thought. Niceties that normally come easy—such as knowing the correct responses, how to act impressed about so-and-so’s son’s promotion, asking after someone’s health—currently feel impossible.
Her answers are one-worded and awkward. There’s a small silence before the auntie says, “Well, your mother’s in the house.”
“Thanks. I’ll get some food first,” Simran says, and then they part ways. Her smile drops immediately. How could she forget her mother was here? She has to avoid her as long as possible. Her mom willknow. Simran’s stomach lurches at the thought.
Get a grip, she tells herself. She takes several deep breaths before entering the party.
The makeshift dance floor is crammed, and the buffet line long. Neetu’s at a table near the front. She looks gorgeous in her plum lehenga, her hair curled loosely around her shoulders. A handsome man in a matching shirt sits beside her, his hand on her back. That must be Gurjeevan.
As if sensing her, Neetu’s eyes meet hers and light up. And so Simran has no choice but to go over.
“You came! Gurjeevan, this is my friend Simran. We’ve been doing kirtan together for ages.” She pats the seat on the other side of her.
Awkwardly, Simran sits. How had she never appreciated before the coordination it takes to maneuver into a chair? She has to consciously tuck every limb into the right place.
Neetu notices. “Are you okay?”
Simran makes a noise of confirmation before folding her hands, nodding at the others at the table. Kamaljot Uncle, Toor Auntie—Toor Uncle’s wife—and someone young who looks a lot like Gurjeevan, probably a cousin. She’s about to introduce herself when she spots a bunch of ants crawling over the tablecloth.
Not real. Not real...right? Gurjeevan would notice if there were really ants swarming on his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Gurjeevan.”
“Same here.” He inhales as if to ask a question, then frowns slightly.
Right. Simran gets ahead of it with a lie she prepared on the way to the table. “I’m sorry if I smell like...smoke. I was at Hillway before this. Someone I was working with was smoking quite heavily.”
Neetu makes a sympathetic noise and reaches into her handbag for a perfume bottle. “Hold out your hands.” She spritzes Simran’s wrists.
“What’s Hillway?” Gurjeevan asks. Neetu starts explaining, while something drops on Simran’s hand.
A bright red splatter. She automatically touches her nose. Her hand comes away wet. Neetu notices at the same time, cutting off her explanation with a gasp. “Simran! You’re bleeding.”
Her voice is loud enough to carry. Simran takes the offered napkin to staunch her nosebleed. She only vaguely remembers the first line of cocaine. Manny showed her how to do it. She asked him to demonstrate a second time, because she hadn’t understood. He laughed and did. She tried, and failed. Asked again. Manny gave her a look, and for a second, she wondered if she’d gone too far. But then, he said he’d help. Shoved her head down.
She felt the chunks in her nostrils. Her gums tingled, and she tasted it somehow all the way to her toes. Her body locked up and her thoughts slowed down. She felt tense, but in a good way.
So this is what Rajan likes, she thought, right before it hit her.
Simran lowers the napkin. There’s a shocking amount of red. Everyone’s staring, so Simran scrounges for a new topic. “How did you two meet again?” She knows the story, but it’s the best she can think of.
Neetu indulges her for the sake of the table, though, sharing a smile with Gurjeevan. “I looked for partners through family feelers. Friends thought I was so old-school.”