The conversation among the four of them takes its usual route, which starts at small talk and ends at medicine. With the all-consuming nature of medical school, she can understand why many of their classmates broke up with their significant others. (When she went out with them after their first exam, Jigar provided her a very drunk explanation of his own breakup . . . and the mechanisms behind alcohol metabolism.)
Simran clears her throat, hoping that they’ll switch to a topic that she can contribute to. “So, what are you guys doing this summer?”
Jigar mentions something about the dean’s coveted sponsored Costa Rica trip being full and claims that Kunal is the “top choice” on the waiting list.
“You know you’ll get it,” Jigar says. “I bet your fiancée will even help you write the perfect follow-up letter to the dean that’ll convince him. Right, Simran? Of course, if you wrote the letter yourself, it would probably work, since the dean loves you.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“Of course she’ll help,” Rekha says. “She even packs Kunal’s lunch sometimes! I don’t know how he got a woman who is so much hotter and nicer than him.”
She pats Kunal’s shoulder. “You’re really out of your league, buddy.”
Kunal smiles. “I’ve always known that.”
If Simran met Rekha in any other setting, she’d want to be her friend.
Damn her.
Simran prays that her face isn’t flushed. “Wait, are you guys talking about the big dean’s trip? The one that’s for the whole summer?”
She thinks back and remembers that at some point in the last six months, Kunal mentioned the dean’s yearly medical mission trip. The med students are handpicked, usually only third- or fourth-years. The selected students are always eventually inducted into the school’s two honor societies—AOA and Gold Humanism—which then ensures they’ll match into their top-choice residency program. Kunal’s plan was to apply next year.
“But you’re going to go next year, after the wedding. We discussed us going on a mini-moon and then a real honeymoon later just to fit the trip in for you. Why are you talking about this now?”
She inhales deeply, waiting for Kunal to tell her that all of this just happened. They share big things with each other. They have to.
Jigar grabs her shoulder. “We made him apply for this summer.”
The bar becomes quiet and blurry. Thoughts burst in her mind, one after another.
She turns to Kunal. “You applied for a trip this summer? Are you serious?”
Kunal is buzzed and relaxed, which only irritates her more. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It all happened so randomly. Honestly, it was a joke because there was no way I thought I’d get in this year.”
“When were you going to tell me this?”
“I’m so sorry. I . . . forget to tell you.”
“You forgot?” She means to raise her voice but can only emit a whisper. “Seriously?”
“There was so much going on while I was there, and you and I barely spoke.” His face stiffens. “But of course I wanted to let you know. I really did. I promise you I didn’t think I had a chance for this at all.”
She struggles to keep her facial expression intact. “Kunal, can you help me with something?”
She guides them outside the bar. There’s a sign boasting one-dollar Jell-O shots in neon green chalk. People are being spit out of clubs and into twenty-four-hour pizza shops. A girl bends over a trash can as her boyfriend makes a frantic bun with her hair.
“Weren’t you going to apply for that trip next year?” She feels a stab of sadness, then worry. Is her fiancé really planning to be away again? And without telling her?
“I was. I am. I just thought I’d take a chance this year. Just to show interest.”
They stand by a filthy window. She pictures their acne-skinned, bright-eyed high school selves staring at them through it. What would they think of older Simran and Kunal?
“How could you apply for a trip like that without even talking to me? I don’t get it.”
I want to spend more time with you. I want to matter more, she wants to say but doesn’t. Can’t.
“I really didn’t mean to,” he says. “I told you I’m sorry I forgot. I really am.”
“That’s it? You just forgot to mention a trip that takes up an entire season? Not to mention, we’re supposed to be planning our wedding! I thought we would be doing it all together, as partners. I thought you cared about doing it that way, too.”
“I do care.” He shrugs and tilts his head down. “I’m sorry. Look, I love you, and I made a mistake by not telling you. Please, let’s just have fun and discuss this later.”
“Discuss what exactly? When did you submit the paperwork for this?”
She almost retracts her question. Maybe she doesn’t want to know. Maybe she cares about him too much to be angry about something that makes him happy.
“Simran, this is no—”
“WHEN?”
“In Africa.” Kunal refuses to look at her. “Around five weeks ago.”
She tells herself to take a deep breath, to remind herself that she loves him, and that’s what actually matters.
But she hears herself blurt, “Five weeks? Five weeks? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Kunal stays silent. He is not kidding.
“I can’t take this shit.” She raises her hands in the air.
A group of drunk college students saunter past them, unfazed. That’s the nice thing about New York: privacy in public.
“Can’t take what?” Kunal asks, as if to say, What now?
“There’s always something. I love you so much, but I don’t know. Is this how it’s going to be? You doing things without even considering telling me?”
She tries to tell herself she’s just had too many drinks. It’s not that she’s becoming the type of woman she swore she’d never be.
Kunal clenches his fists and paces toward the curb. “No, it isn’t always going to be like this. God, Simran, do you always have to make a problem out of everything? You always make me feel like I’m screwing up. Not doing enough. Whether it’s for you or the wedding, it never ends. I’m stressed enough right now. And you know I’d never want to hurt you. I. Just. Forgot.”
The rational part of her tells her to stop talking. Stop thinking. Because when she’s drunk, her anger takes on a magnetic quality and tends to attract all the frustrations she’s been storing inside. She thinks about how she’s been living out of a drawer in Kunal’s room since he’s come back from Africa. They order takeout and eat it in front of the television when he isn’t studying. They visit his family when he’s free. His life. His way. His time.