Page 11 of Reasons We Break

Okay,that’skind of fucking rude. “You don’t call four years of tutoring a significant relationship?”

She meets his gaze squarely. “It wasn’t if we decide it wasn’t.”

Her voice is firm. After a second, it clicks, and he finds he’s no longer offended. In fact, he has the urge to laugh.

“Okay, so,” he says, “what’s the story? You tutored half the school and don’t even remember me?”

“We never had classes together either,” Simran confirms. “You definitely never promised free edibles to people who donated to my fund-raisers.”

Damn, he’d forgotten about that. “Right,” he says, enjoying this game now, “and we never stayed late trying to connect the dots of teachers’ affairs with each other.”

“You never rehearsed my speeches with me before my debate tournaments.”

“And you never stole my earbuds to listen to my music. You never liked my music taste.”

“That’s right,” Simran says. “None of those things. So what kind of significant relationship was there, Rajan?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Beats me, dude.” He should’ve known Simran would do this. Lie, and invite him to lie with her. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“Youhave.”

His amusement vanishes at her somber tone. Fine. She’s going to ask about it, then. About what happened to get him to the point of probation. There was never any way theyreallycould’ve picked up where they—

Simran blurts, “Your hair’s different.”

His hand automatically comes up to run through his hair, now closer-cropped than it was in high school. Gone are the waves he once kept shoved under a hat. He’d had it buzzed in juvie.

It’s hilarious (and a relief) thatthiswas her first thought. “You like it?” He flashes her a grin, loving the way she goes a little pink. Yeah, he’s still got it.

Simran dodges his question. “It’s just, I haven’t seen you in a long time. You...left.”

Nowthatsounds loaded. He dodges, too. “And you didn’t. Thought you’d be out of this town by now, Sahiba.”

She purses her lips, but before she can respond, a phone rings. Not his. Hers. She fishes it from her coat pocket. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

Rajan nods and that’s when a vehicle passes by, splashing slush onto the curb yet again. He jerks his head up to see the ice-cream truck driver looking at him once more before passing. This time, no music. No warning at all.

Rajan watches it disappear around the curb.

“What’s going on?” Simran asks, and he looks back to her, only to find she’s not talking to him. Her head is ducked, phone pressed to her ear. He realizes how close they’ve drifted, and he takes a large step back. Screw the bus. He’s getting out of herenow.

Simran doesn’t call after him when he takes off down the street. He turns a corner and cuts between two buildings. The narrow alley is littered with trash and storage containers and, at the end, a chain-link fence between buildings. He goes for it, jumping onto a storage container and scaling the fence. The metal bites into his palms, but the pain barely registers.

He’s just crossing the next street when the truck screeches into his path.Shit. He barely halts in time to avoid being run over. Either someone really wants to sell him a Popsicle, or he’s completely screwed.

A few pedestrians look up at the sound of the tires squealing. Rajan feels slightly reassured by their presence. He won’t be killed in front of a bunch of witnesses. Right?

That becomes his last concern once the back doors fling open.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s back from kiddie jail,” says a familiar voice. “Get in. We have a lot to talk about.”

IT’S NOT Asuggestion. Rajan knows this because he knows Nick Dewan.

He gets in, and Nick closes the doors. The truck lurches into motion; a quick glance confirms the driver is the same guy he saw earlier. He doesn’t even look Rajan’s way.

Rajan scans his surroundings. He’s never been in an ice-cream truck before, but he’s pretty sure the serving window wouldn’t normally be covered by aluminum foil. Also, the freezer next to him wouldn’t contain paper-covered bricks instead of ice cream.

“Popsicle?” Nick’s voice cuts through his thoughts. He’s rummaging through the freezer on his side of the truck, which, Rajan now notes, actually does contain frozen treats. Nick offers him one. Rajan’s gaze is drawn to his LS tattoo instead, very visible over the collar of his designer tee. Rajan’s is mostly hidden by his hoodie, and he likes it that way. But Nick is completely at ease with who he is. A piece of shit with a goatee, freshly faded hair, artfully ripped jeans, and blindingly white Air Jordans. The guy’s never been discreet about his wealth.