The Love (De)Bug

Chapter One

Khushi

When my parents call me on the phone just days after celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary in Paris, I don’t expect the first words out of their mouths to be “Khushi, we’re getting a divorce.”

And they probably don’t expect me to yell, “Finally! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Mom sucks in a harsh breath. “Beta, you can’t say things like that.”

I balance the phone between my shoulder and ear and continue shoving folded clothes into my suitcase in preparation for my return home from tech camp at Penn State. “I wouldn’t have predicted this, considering you two are Indian parents, but come on!” I exhale. “You’ll be so much happier.”

“Well,” Dad says, chuckling, as I knew he would, “at least you took the news well. As for your sister . . .”

I zip up my packed suitcase and lie down on the rickety bed, staring at the glow-­in-­the-­dark hearts I pasted to the dorm room ceiling on my first day here, two weeks ago. “Let me guess,” I say. “Simran has shut herself in her room and is blasting Olivia Rodrigo loud enough for the neighbors to complain.”

My mother hesitates, then says, “Do you think you could talk to her? She’s miserable.”

I try not to roll my eyes. My being the eldest daughter doesn’t come with just the requirement to be a good role model for Simran but also the expectation that I’ll be the responsible third parent who puts their own shit aside to fix every conflict in the family.

And yet, people pleaser that I am, I force myself to smile, although Mom and Dad can’t see it. “Of course. I’ll take her to Levain when I’m back. Until then, let’s give her some space to process.”

Dad sighs in relief. “We can always count on you, beta. See you tomorrow.”

I say bye and end the call, then give my lock screen a glance. It’s a photo of Mom, Dad, Simran, and me in the Dominican Republic last summer with sweaty, fake smiles plastered on our faces. The sweltering weather was nowhere near as hot as the blazing fights between my parents, or the anguish in my mother’s eyes when she pulled me aside and recounted every horrible thing Dad had said to her. The next day, Dad ranted out his frustrations to me while Mom and Simran went sightseeing. Between being their unofficial couples therapist and listening to my sister argue with her boyfriend, Neel, on the phone late into the night, it’s a wonder I made it through the trip without a meltdown of my own.

Simran probably had no clue how bad things were between our parents until they told her about the divorce. Shielding her from family conflicts is another responsibility I’ve taken on un­prompted. That’s what being the big sister entails. No complaints, no demands—­just be the one who can be counted on, twenty-­four seven.

The door swings open, and my camp roommate and closest friend, Gracie, walks in, carrying her own load of clothes, fresh from the dryer. She kicks her suitcase open and shoves her unfolded clothes inside, mumbling about how packing is the worst chore in the world.

“So, my parents are getting a divorce,” I say from my bed.

Gracie whirls around, her eyes bright. “Good. We should celebrate.”

Her mom and my mom are besties, and we’ve basically grown up together. Of course she knows all about my family drama. “Definitely,” I say, laughing. “Movie night before our train back to New York?”

She gives me an odd look, her hands on her hips. “Did you forget about the going-­away party tonight?”

“Isn’t it an unofficial thing at one of the sophomores’ off-­campus houses?” I knead my thumbs into my knuckles. “I don’t know how safe that is.”

“It’s a college party! We have to go,” she says, dragging me out of bed. Then she kneels down and unzips my suitcase all the way. “Besides”—­she holds up a short red dress that Sim­ran forced me to pack—­“we can find you a hot guy to make out with.”

I pull a face. “So I’m supposed to celebrate my parents finally breaking up by . . . kissing a random dude?”

“Isn’t that how the saying goes?” Gracie teases. “When one couple breaks up, another gets together.”

“Pretty sure it goes like ‘When one door closes, another—­’ ”

Gracie puts her hand on my mouth, shushing me. “We’re going,” she says decisively. “Get dressed and put on some smudge-­proof red lipstick to match your fit.”

“I don’t have—­”

“Borrow mine,” she insists, throwing her makeup bag at me. I barely catch it before it smacks me in the face.

“Fine,” I say begrudgingly. “But I’m not kissing anyone.”

True to my word, I spend the first half hour of the party sulking in a corner, swirling the beer around in my half-­full red Solo cup, while Gracie chats up college boys. Half the kids attending tech camp here are from our high school: Perrin-­Copps High in Manhattan. Gracie is steering clear of them, which is fair, because the Venn diagram of guys from our school and hot guys at tech camp is two separate circles.

Except for . . .

My eyes sweep over the Indian American boy in the center of the room, surrounded by a gaggle of nerdy high schoolers. He’s dressed in blue jeans and an olive-­green collared shirt that shows off his toned forearms when he lifts his hand and runs it along his short, wavy dark hair. I raise a brow and finally take another sip of my beer.

I’ve seen him walk past my locker in school, his laptop bag always slung over his shoulder. We were in math together last semester. Abhay Khurana.

As if he’s read my thoughts, he looks up mid-­conversation and meets my gaze across the room. I nearly spit the beer out. Shit. Did he catch me staring?

I turn around, pretending to admire the art hanging on the wall behind me, though I can’t make any sense of the blue splotches on the white background. Oh crap, is Abhay going to come over here? What do I even say to him? My first and last kiss was during Spin the Bottle in middle school—­around the time Mom and Dad’s problems started, after which I gave up thinking about boys and took on the position of a stay-­at-­home, on-­demand therapist for my parents.

Probably why I never really thought of Abhay as a hot guy before. I drink some more beer, my hand trembling as the cup touches my lips. When somebody taps me on the shoulder, I take a deep breath and turn around. “Hi,” I say, then roll my eyes. It’s only Gracie. Of course Abhay wouldn’t leave a conversation to talk to some random girl gawking at him.

Gracie notices my expression and grins. “Who were you hoping I’d be?” Her eyes scan the room, and when I do the same, I frown.

Abhay’s gone. The group of teens still stands by the bookshelf, chatting away about whatever it is nerdy boys talk about, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“I don’t see anyone you’d be into,” Gracie says, pursing her lips. Having been best friends with me for over a decade now, ever since our moms met at Central Park and made us play together, she knows my type, although I’ve never dated anyone.

“I guess he left,” I say with a sigh. “He saw me looking, so of course he left. Fantastic for my ego.” I drain the last of my beer and add, “I’m heading back to our room. Are you gonna stay?”

She casts a forlorn look at one of the college boys playing Beer Pong. “I might, but I don’t want you to walk back alone.”

I hold up my phone screen and laugh. It’s only 9:04 p.m. “I think I’ll be fine, Grace.”

“Fine,” Gracie says, pulling me in for a hug. “We’ll debrief about the boy tomorrow.”

“The boys,” I correct her as the college guy walks over, his eyes fixed on Gracie. Grinning, I put on my jacket and head outside, my breath fogging in the chilly January air. Two weeks of tech camp at Penn State are now over, and tomorrow I’ll go back home to finish my final semester of high school, then head to MIT in the fall. Maybe I’ll meet a nice guy with Indian roots like me, who wants the same things as me, whose career goals match mine—­unlike my parents, who are different in every single way. Dad’s an artist, Mom’s kicking ass on Wall Street, and the only thing they have in common is their love for me and Simran.

Maybe, unlike them, I’ll actually have a shot at happily-ever-­after.