Page 18 of Reasons We Break

She’s heard the rumours about his incarceration. But the thing about Rajan is that it’s very difficult to reconcile those rumours with the boy who gossiped with her in school and pretends to bow at her feet when she walks by. “It’s not my business.”

Rupi Auntie scoffs. “Itis, because he told me.”

“I don’t know anything about this boy,” another auntie complains. “Who is he?”

And then it’s a flurry of voices.

“Arshdeep’s eldest son.”

“Arshdeep Gill?”

“Randhawa. She died last year.”

Everyone makes sympathetictut-tut-tutsounds.

“She moved to Surrey last summer with her eldest,” Rupi Auntie explains. “To be closer to her family and the specialist doctors. They said it was her kidneys, but in the end it was her heart.”

“Those poor boys of hers,” says Kamaljot Uncle. “Her sons were so sweet, so cute.”

“Notthe oldest,” Rupi Auntie says with a huff. “I taught in his school. He was involved in the gang stuff. Always doing drugs or in detention. And the other day! I saw him in the government building. He told me—no shame—that he went to jail for killing someone. Like he wasproud.”

All eyes swivel to Simran for her reaction.

She forces stillness into her expression. “Everyone at Hillway has made mistakes.”

“Putting your shirt on backward is amistake,” Kamaljot Uncle says. “This ismurder. Don’t you know what men in gangs do?”

“My in-law’s friend’s son went that way in Surrey,” adds another. “Apparently, he always carried a gun. Beat people for money. Now he’s in prison. Simran, you’re a sweet girl, but you can’t give everyone the benefit of the doubt.”

Neetu’s grandma, who’s been sitting quietly on the couch in the corner, speaks up. “Are we sure about all this? I spoke to him this morning. He was very well-mannered. And he added some beautiful designs to the table plates. Far better at it than that fool you brought me to help later.”

“Look, he’s even charmedyou,” Kamaljot Uncle scoffs, and turns back to Simran. “Simran, you must request a new mentee. We’ll worry about you otherwise.”

Everyone makes noises of agreement. Simran bites her lip, overwhelmed at their concern for her. She wonders if something’s wrong with her that she’s not concerned herself.

Just then, Neetu pokes her head inside. “Simran, I need a hand.”

Relieved, Simran follows her out with an abashed shrug at the others.

“They were absolutely going in on you in there,” Neetu comments once they’re out of earshot. “Was it about Rajan?”

From the way she says his name, Simran can tell Neetu shares the admin team’s opinion. “He wasn’t being violent. Someone came in trying to get a rise out of him.”

“If they succeeded, that means he hasn’t gotten ahold of his anger,” Neetu says matter-of-factly. “So he’s not well suited to working here. Hey, you’re still coming for the catering testing for the engagement party, right? It’s in two weeks.”

Simran’s relieved for the change in topic. “Wouldn’t miss it.” Neetu, who’s seven years Simran’s senior, is getting married this summer in Abbotsford. But they’re throwing an engagement party in Kelowna first, in early July, before she moves away with her soon-to-be husband. Simran tries not to dwell on that part. Neetu’s the one who taught Simran the harmonium growing up; Simran can’t imagine the gurdwara without her. Ever since high school ended, it feels like all her friends are slowly leaving Kelowna. Eventually she’ll be the only one left.

Unless, of course, she accepts that UBC transfer offer. The deadline is today. Not that she’s thinking about it or anything.

Good, because you aren’t taking it,she reminds herself firmly, and busies herself filling Rajan’s position in the serving line.

Two hours later, when breakfast’s done, the dishes washed, floors swept, and volunteers filtering out, Kamaljot Uncle shoos her out despite her protests, insisting he’ll lock up. Simran finally relents and gets in her truck. She does, after all, have a student association meeting at the university to get to. But she doesn’t leave just yet.

Instead, she studies the sponsor card she plucked off one of the tables. Itisbeautifully decorated—neat cursive, with detailed, geometric designs around the edges one might think were printed professionally. At least until she flips it over, to see that ink has bled through the cardstock. She runs her thumb over the stain.

When Kamaljot Uncle finally exits the building, Simran pretends to be texting. It’s only when he drives away that she hops out and lets herself back in using her own spare key.

She goes to the management office, where the Hillway reports are in the outbox, ready to be sent off tomorrow morning. She plucks out the complaint against Rajan.