Page 80 of Reasons We Break

The inside is nicer, with a lived-in charm. Worn carpet, walls yellowed with age, a wooden coatrack overflowing with jackets and hats. Various shoes are haphazardly scattered across the welcome mat. She toes out of hers and follows Rajan around the corner. The first thing she sees is a multiplayer shooter game on the TV. Two boys sit on the squashy salmon-coloured couch facing it; the taller one turns his head and stills upon seeing them. Simran pauses, too. This boy is almost the spitting image of scowling, fourteen-year-old Rajan.

The younger boy shoots the other’s character. Rajan’s lookalike whips back around.

“That’s not fair.”

“I won,” the younger one gloats, but then he sees them, too.

“Sukha, Yash,” Rajan introduces them, pointing first at his lookalike, then the younger one. “This is Simran Bhenji. Friend from school. Be nice or I’ll drop you into the lake and let the Ogopogo eat you.”

Sukha rolls his eyes and tosses his controller on the table. “I’m done.”

“Wejuststarted,” Yash protests, but Sukha’s already brushed past them. A door slams somewhere down the hall. Yash says, to the air, “The Ogopogo’s not real.”

Rajan glares at the hallway Sukha disappeared down. “Guess we’ll find out. What do you want for dinner?”

“Not hungry,” Yash mumbles.

“Because what, you’re filling up on Oreos again?” Rajan leans over the couch back and holds up the open box. “This is junk, dude.” He stuffs one in his mouth, then offers the box to Simran.

Simran accepts one before heading to the fridge. There’s not a whole lot inside. A bag of bell peppers; two have already gone significantly moldy. A block of paneer, with one corner also moldy.

She looks at Rajan. He nods. She nods. “Cut the mold off?”

“Obviously,” Rajan says. “What kind of operation do you think we’re running here?”

Rajan, despite his comments, isn’t a bad cook; of course his creativity translates here, too. He expertly shaves the moldy parts off the peppers over the trash can. Dusts salt over the cubed paneer. Starts the tardka while Simran’s peeling potatoes. They debate the ratios of each ingredient, since they’ve grown up using different proportions. He says they need more mirch. She says more haldi. Once they’ve agreed on a compromise, he puts the lid on. Then they’re just standing there, watching it cook.

She doesn’t want it to be over. “Do you have flour? For roti?”

“Haven’t made roti in years, but all right, all right.” He opens a cabinet and hauls out a bag of flour. “Let’s make it a fuckin’ occasion.”

So Simran watches the pot, adding the last few spices and cilantro, while he kneads the dough. He’s gotten rid of his hat and rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, his muscular forearms getting dusted with flour. However, it appears he finally hits his Achilles’ heel when rolling out rotis.

“Creative shapes you’ve got there,” she comments.

“You find this funny?” He’s grinning, though. She takes the rolling pin from him and rolls out a perfectly circular roti.

“Well,Idon’t make circle rotis,” Rajan says, playfully shoving her aside. “Cuz I’m not a fucking cop. You flip them, I’ll roll them out.”

Simran obliges, hopping on the counter next to the stovetop and flipping, taking care to inflate the rotis completely. She doesn’t normally enjoy the tedious task, but with him, it’s fun.

Rajan throws the last one on the tawa with a great flourish. It looks suspiciously heart shaped. She looks up, and he winks.

“I thought you were supposed to be smooth, not corny,” she tells him. “Is this what works for people?”

Rajan abandons the rolling pin and comes close, nearly slotting between her knees. “Seems to be working foryou, dude. You’re looking pretty hot and bothered.”

Sheisoverheating. “That’s the stove.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say.”

She can feel her lips pulling into a smile as well. Some part of her notes how this is skirting into dangerous territory, him saying things like this, his hands braced on the counter on either side of her hips. They’re not at school, or volunteering, or with the Lions. They’re in a kitchen with the blinds drawn on every window, and they have been alone for the past hour.

His smile fades slightly, and he glances down, as if realizing where he is for the first time. Then—he looks back up, and their eyes meet. She has an electric, funny feeling in her stomach that they’re both thinking the same thing.

They could do anything right now. And no one would ever have to know.

Rajan pushes away, back to the stove. “You’re right. It’s hot in here.”