Page 98 of Reasons We Break

“Itgotdislocated,” she repeats. The passive voice is doing a lot of work in that sentence. “Spontaneously?”

He winks. “Exactly, Auntie.”

It’s clear he’s not planning to discuss it. Well, at least it’s back in place. Her eyes are again drawn to the black tattoo that crawls up his neck. It’s jagged and bold, partially obscured by his shirt.

“Can I see?” Her fingers hover over him.

He laughs softly. “You can do anything you want.” He turns his head into her pillow, baring his throat. The tattoo is a stylized crest: a lion’s head silhouette, laurel leaves flaring over his collarbone, wickedly sharp lines surrounding it that flow into the base of his throat, almost touching the furious pulse usually obscured by a hoodie.

She leans down, her hair falling in a curtain around them, and presses her lips to it. He jerks a little, but she keeps going, and eventually, he settles back. She kisses up his throat, jaw, cheek—everywhere she can reach. She’s wanted to do this longer than she can admit. When she pulls away, he’s staring at her wide-eyed, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Warmth fills her chest. How does he not realize how much she adores him? He must. Hemust. She kisses his mouth again. His arm circles her waist, and he moves up so they’re kissing against the headboard. The only way she can think to describe it is drunk; she feels absolutely drunk, and she’s certain of this despite never having been drunk before. Her thoughts are foggy, her body out of control, and she is acting on every impulse that fires through her brain.

The door downstairs opens.

It does not sound at all like a warning bell. Just a chirp—of the security alarm system.

But they move like it was a gunshot. Suddenly they’re on opposite sides of her bedroom. Rajan’s flattened himself against the closet door. Simran’s scrambling to hook her bra. She doesn’t even know when it came undone. Her hands are shaking too much, so she gives up after wasting precious seconds.

Neither of them has to voice the obvious: They’re not alone anymore. Rajan grabs his shoes and moves toward the window. Simran stops him.

“You can’t go from here,” she whispers, frantic. “There’s nowhere to fall. Go from my sister’s room. She always snuck out from there.”

“Show me.” His voice is urgent. No trace of anything but business. Like earlier tonight, when they were fighting for their lives.

Her knees buckle a little when she stands. She feels his hands in places he didn’t even touch. He doesn’t comment, just follows her to Kiran’s room. Her sister’s window overlooks a patch of gently sloping roof. Perfect for Kiran’s midnight getaways.

Rajan slips through the door without another word. Simran leaves him and walks down the hall just as her father calls, “Simran putt?”

She leans over the staircase. “You’re home early.” She’s amazed at how steady her voice sounds.

“We brought some dinner from the gurdwara. We’re going back soon, so come eat.”

“Coming.” She hurries to the bathroom to look into the mirror first. The first thing she notes is how red her lips look. Then her hair; now mussed every which way, the neat middle part gone. Her eyes glitter and her skin glows as if with fever. The cut on the side of her nose is glaringly apparent. And her cheek is starting to swell.

She parts her hair in the middle with her comb and fixes her bra. After yanking on a cardigan to hide her cut-up arms, she heads downstairs.

Her parents are in the kitchen, setting plastic food containers on the table. They look up when she enters. Before they can react, she says, “I fell today. My glasses broke.”

Her father tuts and comes closer, as does her mother. They force her into a chair. Her mother scolds her for being clumsy, tilting Simran’s head toward the light, her fingers gentler than her words. Her father takes a bag of ice from the freezer.

“It looks worse than it is,” Simran tries to say, but they won’t have it. They debate whether she should go to the ER. They tell her to be more careful. Eventually, her protests ebb. It feels...good, to have her mother prod her face looking for soreness. It feels good to have her father wiping at the cut on her nose with a wet cloth. It feels good to be cared for. She missed her mom. She missed her dad. Andgod, she missed being a child.

Without meaning to, a tear slips out of her eye. Her father instantly wipes it away. Her mother notices, too. “Did it hurt when I pressed here?” She pokes Simran’s chin.

“Or are you upset over your glasses breaking?” her father asks.

“Yes,” Simran whispers, letting another tear slip out. And another. “It’s my glasses.” A shuddering breath ripples through her.

Her mother sighs. “Don’t make a fuss, Simmi. We’ll get you new ones. Why are you crying over glasses?”

“Eat, nikka putt,” her dad encourages. “You’ll feel better. You’ve been working too hard lately.”

They think she’s working on a Hillway proposal. They came back because they wanted to make sure she ate something tonight.That’swhy she was almost caught kissing a boy in her room. Because they love her, and believe her, and all she does is lie to them.

Silent tears stream down Simran’s face while she eats the food. Soft, chewy bhaturé, thick cholé, crispy pakoré. Her dad strokes her hair, probably thinking she’s still upset over her glasses. She lets him. As long as they think she’s crying over something silly, it won’t hurt them to watch.

Her mother announces she’s going to find Simran’s old glasses.