Page 79 of Reasons We Break

While she’s reeling, he smiles bitterly. “Huh,” he says. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even the shrinks at juvie.”

Of course he didn’t. This is what it feels like to be pushed to your limit, desperate for an escape. You think things you’re not proud of. That you can hardly even admit to yourself in the dark.

She finds her voice. “I don’t think it’s bad to not want to watch someone you love die. But my mom isn’t...”Not yet, anyway.

“She’s suffering, though. And it’s hard to watch people you love suffer. You gotta pick. Either you and me arebothassholes, or we’re not.”

She doesn’t know how to respond, and thankfully, she doesn’t have to—the sound of conversation on the other side of the wall reminds her they’re not alone. She jerks away, and so does he.

Rajan slides his hand back into his hoodie pocket. “Let’s go home. You’ve done enough for them for one night.”

And Simran finds, for once, she can’t argue.

Surprisingly, Rajan agrees to let her give him a ride. It seems they’ve made a silent pact not to discuss their earlier argument, because the drive to Rajan’s place is largely spent in the type of conversation that reminds her of simpler times:

“Nice monster truck.”

“It’s not a monster truck.”

“Have you seen how high off the ground this thing is? You’re a glasses-wearing math nerd, you should drive a little sedan or something. Where’d you even get this?”

After she explains an auntie gifted it to her as a hand-me-down, Rajan flicks her pine-tree air freshener, sorts through the CDs in the glove box (“What decade is this again?”), and comments on the random junk and snacks accumulating in the back seat (“You planning a cross-country road trip?”). Although he’s making fun of her truck, she has a feeling he’s delighting in exploring it.

At least, until he holds something up. “What’s this?”

She glances over and her heart somersaults—Rajan’s got the printout of Dr. Maxfield’s email in his hand. She’d printed it ages ago, planning to show her parents. At least before everything went sideways.

She takes it from him and stuffs it in her driver’s-side door. “Nothing.”

But clearly, he’s read enough. “You were thinking of going to UBC Vancouver for this hotshot prof? And you didn’t?”

“I had to be here, Rajan. For my family.” He says nothing, looking troubled. She attempts a smile. “I don’t mind. I like it here. Either way, I get my degree. There was no need to go to Vancouver to pursue a few niche interests.”

“But you wanted to.”

Her gut twists. “Just tell me how to get to your house, please.”

Rajan takes the hint and doesn’t push her further, but he also doesn’t crack any jokes for the rest of the ride. She follows his directions to his neighbourhood. She’s never been here before; the houses seem to progressively shrink until they squat, almost indistinguishable from trailers at first glance. Rajan points at one.

“That’s it.”

It looks like it broke its hip and is leaning on its side. The white paint peels; the stairs to the front door have splintered edges. The lawn is more gravel than green. There’s a bike tossed to the side with slit tires, a rusted swing set in the overgrown grass beside the house. A tree fallen next to it.

“Shithole, isn’t it.” Rajan chuckles. “Well, thanks for the ride. I gotta make dinner before my brothers order takeout again.”

Simran watches him get out and thinks about her next move. Her father might be home from the hospital now, and if so, she’ll have to pull herself together and endure talking about her mom. Then she’ll have to face her growing apology tour and answer her messages.

She’s not ready.

“Rajan,” she blurts. “I could help.”

He turns. “With what?”

“Dinner. If you want.” She’s flustered. “I...”

He looks at her—reallylooks at her—and his expression softens. “Yeah, why not. I’m a shit cook anyway.”

So she hops out and follows him in.