“I don’t really feel comfortable driving your car,” Teddy said.
“Honestly, I’m not really in the state to drive right now.” Cheryl leaned forward, the balls of her feet rising off the ground, and she gave Teddy a knowing look—or, as knowing a look as her bloodshot eyes could give. Teddy took the keys from her and headed to the driver’s seat. Harit, at a loss, got into the passenger seat, then looked in the visor mirror at Ranjana. Her forehead was against the window, and she was blowing circular mists against its cold surface. Her hair looked insane; she couldn’t stop smiling. Harit didn’t know what was making her so giddy, but he was happy if she was happy.
Teddy produced a CD from his blazer pocket and popped it into the car’s player. It was Taylor Swift. Harit was pleased with himself for knowing this; they played her music all the time at Harriman’s. Cheryl sang along to every word. At first, Teddy appeared annoyed, but the unrelenting brio with which Cheryl seconded these stories of heartbreak and resolve, these fairy tales and nascent adulthood, won him over. Soon, he was belting his head off.
In the backseat, Ranjana kept giggling. Harit looked over at Teddy, who was obviously singing to ignore what had happened earlier. Everyone around him was smiling, and he found that he was, too. The rest stops and fast-food signs and check-cashing shops and fat motels and odd churches that they had passed on the trip to the conference took on new appearances now, becoming a succession of cheerful places where people did their best to live lives of contentment and purpose. He could absorb this energy and fill his house with it. Taylor Swift’s voice—moving from coquettish to wizened—urged Harit on, told him that he was capable of being something other than doleful.
They didn’t hit traffic, and they pulled back into town right as the sun was settling down for the evening. Ranjana had fallen asleep, and Cheryl woke her with a tickle, which didn’t make Ranjana laugh but made her pop up and look horribly paranoid. Where were they? What time was it? She was babbling about how she and Mohanji needed to pick up their son from the airport, that she had entirely forgotten that he was coming into town. Teddy decided to drop her off first, and the car was soon empty of her, the silence settling as Cheryl joked about the clumsy way in which Ranjana approached her porch. Ranjana rang her doorbell and waited for a few moments. Then, snapping out of her daze, she popped up, realizing that she was at her own house and not a friend’s. She set her bag down, pulled out her keys, and let herself in.
“Exactly how much weed did you guys smoke?” Teddy asked, changing gears and squeaking the car forward.
“We didn’t smoke,” Cheryl said. “It was a pot brownie.”
Harit was so surprised that he started sneezing.
PRASHANT INSISTED ON FLYING HOME this time. No more bus rides full of quasi-homeless people, he thought. But when he got to the airport, people were lying around the terminal as if in some grown-up pajama party, pillows and blankets more plentiful than baggage. Somehow, though, Prashant proceeded without obstruction, right through security, ticket taken, the seat next to him left unoccupied even though the flight was otherwise full. Once they were in the air, he peered out of the window and saw the fiery stitches of the cities below. Down there were thousands of guys who were struggling just as he had struggled before Thanksgiving. He let his gaze fall back against the window, studied his reflection to see if he could detect the bloom of happiness that he felt inside. He was probably imagining this, but he liked to think that he saw a certain confidence, a firm jut of his chin and a face made narrower with calm. He was a straight-A student at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, and he had a smart, beautiful, and—though he would never say this outright to her—rich girlfriend.
Not that he planned to tell his parents about Clara just yet. She wasn’t Indian, for starters—though he had considered saying that she was and changing her name to Chitra.
Someone in the row behind him was speaking French, and as if a tall stack of books had just been set on his lap, he became instantly weighted with the idea of Kavita. He had not had this feeling in weeks—had, in fact, been so thorough in his scraping-off of her charm that he hadn’t replied to her last three e-mails, had managed to avoid seeing her at all in December. He knew why he was doing this, of course: beyond not wanting to see her and therefore compromise his ardor for Clara, he wanted his new relationship to reach her by word of mouth. Ideally, she would find out during some innocuous conversation and crumple, however slightly. She would understand that you couldn’t do this to someone; you couldn’t come along all brilliant and beautiful and gracious and funny and expect not to experience pain of your own. You couldn’t be impervious to knowing that other people had found love, nosiree.
Yet she probably wouldn’t care. She had scores of people who found her attractive and beguiling, and she didn’t need Prashant’s attention. If she found out about his relationship, she’d smile genuinely and feel happy for him, certain that she would find the man of her dreams just as easily. Then they could all double-date and be friends!
By the time the plane landed, he was glum. Aircraft in a holding pattern, stopgap at the cabin door, luggage delayed twenty minutes, Dad calling him every five minutes to see when he was coming out, bag arriving fifth from last, he stalked out of the airport and threw his bag into the trunk. He got into the backseat and muttered “Hey” to the backs of their heads.
“Hello, beta,” his dad said. They had spoken very little since his outburst, but he could tell from his father’s tone of voice that he was trying to be sweet. This softened Prashant a little. He turned to his mother and said, “It’s good to see you guys.”
“It’s great to see you, too, beta,” she said, reaching one hand behind her and toward him. “Want an orange?”
It was actually a trio of orange slices, and he took them even though he wasn’t particularly in the mood to eat them. He wanted pizza.
“How was the flight?” his father asked.
“Ugh. Sorry I was so late. We got caught on the runway.”
“See—I told you,” his mom said through a half-mouthful of orange.
“Arré, eat your orange, ji,” his dad said. Prashant couldn’t tell if his dad’s tone was mock-reproachful or legit-reproachful.
His mom pressed on. “Are you hungry, beta? I have rajma chawal at home.”
His dad snorted. “Oh, he doesn’t want rajma chawal. He wants McDonald’s. Right?”
“Pizza.”
“Pizza.” His father always said this word as if it referred to a made-up food that appeared only in fairy tales.