Chapter 3
3
A jittery sensation buzzes beneath my skin, but I clamp down on the panic by engaging in the one activity that always calms me down: making a list. In order of priority, I need to make sure that I
1. inform my boss that I’m going to be in Houston longer than I had planned;
2. assist in whatever hurricane prep Nikhil thinks we need to do;and
3. survive the storm while keeping as far away from my ex-husband as possible.
Well, soon-to-be ex-husband. Once I can get him to sign off on these divorce papers. We still haven’t discussed the divorce in detail, which I suppose is understandable under the circumstances.
It’s strange. I’ve been trying to figure it out, but I don’t understand why Nikhil wouldn’t just respond to the papers in the first place. We haven’t been in touch in six years. Haven’t seen or talked to each other in all that time.
In the early days of our separation, I’d been so sure he’d comeafter me. That we’d reconcile. That it had all just been a misunderstanding. I’d imagined him flying up to D.C. and makingsome big grand gesture, apologizing, and trying to win me back.
But he never did.
He’s never once reached out. He obviously hasn’t wanted to and is obviously not interested in having a relationship with me at all. So, why won’t he sign off on this divorce? It wouldn’t change a thing between us. It would just make our separation official.
It’s the next item on my to-do list:
4. Figure out why Nikhil’s been holding out, get him to sign the papers, then leave and never come back here again.
Nikhil is rattling off instructions about the prep we need to do before the storm and I’m nodding along until he comes to asudden stop and tilts his head. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, yeah. I am.”
He crosses his arms. “Really,” he drawls, long and slow. “You weren’t just tuning me out and making some kind of pro/con list in your head?”
“No,” I say sharply, a bit unnerved by how close he got to the truth.
“Ah, a to-do list, then. Or maybe you’re mentally rearranging your work calendar. I’m sure all of this,” he says, waving a hand in the air, “really threw a wrench in your plans.”
He’s watching me with an all too knowing look on his face. As if after all these years, he still understands the way my mind works. As if he can still figure out exactly what I’m thinking. As if he still somehow has a right to.
The back of my neck grows hot, and I feel prickly. Irritated.
“It did,” I snap. “Trust me, I wasn’t planning on being here a second longer than I had to. I’m leaving as soon as this storm is done. As soon as you sign the papers.”
His expression darkens. “Well, if you’re hoping to make it out of here in one piece, you’re going to need to pay attention. I was saying that we’ll have to stay away from the windows.
“We’re going to board up the big ones, but I don’t know if we can get to all of them. And the boarding may not even help that much. The glass might shatter regardless.”
“Fine,” I say.
“And because we need to stay away from windows, we’re going to have to figure out what parts of the house we’ll stay in during the storm.”
“Makes sense.”
“The bedrooms are off-limits, obviously. The windows are supertall there. And most of the first floor won’t work either. The only room that has no external exposure is the closet upstairs. The pantry and the bathrooms don’t have any windows either, but it’s not like we could sleep there comfortably—”
I freeze.
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
His eyebrows jump, and my cheeks warm. I guess I could have phrased that differently.
“We’ll put sleeping bags in the closet,” Nikhil says, exaggerating the s in “bags,” hissing like a snake.
My stomach twists. He seems to be just as adamant as I am about not sleeping together, which is good. Great, even. Perfect. Nice to know we’re on the same page.
“I think it’s really the only option we have,” he continues.
A picture of the closet pops into my head. The floor space is limited. Even with separate sleeping bags, the bags will be touching. And how thick can sleeping bag material be? I don’t remember. I can’t remember the last time I slept in one. But I don’t think it’ll be thick enough to hide the outline of his body against mine.
The curve of his leg. His thighs, thick and firm. Those back muscles I accidentally glimpsed earlier.
No. Nope. This isn’t going to work. “I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom.”
“The guest bedroom,” he repeats flatly. “The one with that huge window facing the street.”
“Yes,” I snap. “Good to know you haven’t changed that part of the house at least.”
He lets out a sound of frustration, and I grit my teeth. I know that sound. It means he’s conceded the argument for now but will revisit it later.
It’s time to up my game. Time to be strategic.
Okay. So, a hurricane is bad. Bad news all around. But there’s a bit of a silver lining here. It’s not just that I’m trapped with Nikhil; Nikhil is now trapped with me. I can use this. Twist it to my advantage.
This hurricane is giving us time alone together. Time that I can use to get him to sign the divorce papers. No distractions. No outside world. I’ll wear him down. Pester him until he has no choice butto—
I jump. The phone I was so sure was dead has come back to life, vibrating loudly in my hand. The screen is still black, but I can hear some noise coming out of it. I lift it to my ear tentatively. “Hello?”
“Meena, thank god. I’ve been trying to reach you, but none of the calls were going through. I know what you said before, but everyone’s reporting that the storm’s going to hit Houston tonight. You need to get out of there. I was looking at flights and everything’s booked, but I’m going to call the firm’s travel agent next. They can usually swing something.”
Soon after we’d met, Shake had stopped working on the Hill. His ex-girlfriend had cheated on him, which would have been devastating enough on its own, but her infidelity hadn’t been a small, private indiscretion. She’d been sleeping with Shake’s boss. A high-level congressman. A high-level married congressman.
Shake had needed a fresh start, so he’d gotten out of politics andjoined a classic white-shoe law firm that could not be more different from mine, as evidenced by the fact that his firm keeps a travel agent on retainer. The midsize, boutique public interest firm I work for could never afford to do that. “Okay,” I say, risking a glance at Nikhil.
He’s watching me, his eyes steely. Sharp. Like flint. As if the smallest movement might spark something. Set everything aflame.
I half turn away. I don’t know if he can hear everything on the other end of the conversation, but I’m hoping Shake’s voice doesn’t carry.
“My phone’s not really working though,” I tell Shake. “Not reliably. So, if you do book something I may not find out about it.”
I guess I could give him Nikhil’s number. I could tell him to call me there if he’s able to book a flight, except…I’m not ready to tell Nikhil about Shake yet. I’m not sure why, but the idea of it makes me a little nauseous. Though, do I really need to tell him about Shake at all? I’m hoping Shake will want to get back together once all of this is done, but I don’t know that it’ll happen for sure. Besides, I don’t have to give Nikhil my reasons for the divorce. Actually, it’s probably better if I don’t. It’s better if he doesn’t find out why I need this divorce so badly.
No, telling Nikhil about Shake is not an option. I’ll stay. I’ll use this time to get the divorce, and then I’ll be done. A clean break. With Nikhil being none the wiser.
“Okay,” Shake responds. “But…are you going to be okay? I mean, besides the storm. Because he’s there, right? You’re going to be staying with him?”
My cheeks flare with heat, growing even hotter when I feel Nikhil’s gaze burning against the side of my face.
“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “Don’t worry about me.”
He pauses. “I’m sorry. About a lot of the things I said and how I…I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I know now’s not the best—”
“We’ll talk when I get back,” I say firmly. “Hopefully I’ll be back by Monday, but if not, could you call my office and tell them the situation?”
He says he will, telling me to be safe and that he’s still going to try to get me out, but we both know the odds are slim.
I hang up, letting out a sigh.
“Who was that?” Nikhil asks. He says it nonchalantly, but his tone is careful. Too even and measured to be casual.
“No one,” I say, and his eyes narrow. “Just my sister.”
Nikhil never met my sister. He once met my parents in passing, but I never formally introduced him to any of my family. Even though we were married— are married—they never knew about it. Or him.
His face hardens, as if he remembers that fact.
“Huh,” he says. “Her voice is deeper than I thought it would be.”
Damn it. So, he did overhear.
“Yeah, well…” I trail off, hoping he’ll just let it go. “So, the windows. Is that what we need to do next?”
He holds my gaze for a second, before scrubbing a hand across his face. “Yeah. Sure.”
He stalks back toward the garage door, grabbing a toolbox along the way. Then he leads us to a pile of plywood.
“I already measured everything and cut these to size,” he says. “I’m just going to need some help positioning them over the windows so I can drill them into place. And if we have time to do the second-story ones, I’ll need your help with the ladder.”
I nod. He grabs a few pieces of plywood, slinging them under his arm in one smooth movement. He’s strong. He’s always been strong. And this is his area of expertise. He used to work in construction. Still does, I think.
I get my hands around a piece of plywood, and half carry it, half drag it to the front. In the time it takes me to do that, he’s finished lugging the rest of them.
We start on window number one, and fortunately it’s not too difficult. I just have to hold the board in place while he does all the work. It’s not a bad arrangement. Though there’s tension between us. Something staticky. Prickly.
We settle into a rhythm. An uneasy temporary truce. The only words we exchange are related to our task.
When I lose my grip and the plywood slips slightly, he grunts out a “You got it?”
I get the board back into position and mutter back a “yeah.”
When he asks me to pass him the drill, I do it carefully. Delicately. Making sure our hands don’t accidentally touch again.
I follow his instructions, shifting the board whenever he asks me to, and when it comes to his part, he’s quick. Efficient. I try not to watch him as he works. Try not to notice the intense expression of concentration as he drills. The sweat that beads near his temples. The way he wipes it away with the back of his arm.
I used to love watching Nikhil at his job. He was always so serious. So focused. Sometimes it felt like a role reversal. Here, he was the rule follower and I got to be the fun one. Here, I got to feel free. I still remember how he’d looked the first time I’d shown up at one of his construction sites, back when we’d started dating. He’d had a bright yellow hard hat on top of his head, and a wary expression on his face as he’d handed me a hat of my own.
“If you’re going to visit me,” he’d said, “you’re going to have to follow the rules.”
“Rules, schmules,” I’d joked, teasing him just for the fun of it. Everything had been so new back then. Every smile I’d wrangled out of him had felt like a gift. He was generous with them, but I’d counted them up anyway, saved them like treasures, guarded them deep in my heart.
He’d slipped the hat over my head, fastening it under my chin.
“There,” he’d said. “Now you’re OSHA compliant.”
“I’m not an employee here so I’m pretty sure those regulations wouldn’t apply…”
“Law nerd,” he’d said affectionately.
“Safety nerd,” I’d shot back with a grin.
He’d laughed, leaning to give me a kiss, and laughed even harder when the hard plastic of our hats had collided instead.
I didn’t realize until later how much of a role reversal those moments had really been. That his job had made him as stressed and miserable as studying for the bar had made me. That it had twisted his natural light and joyful state of being into something else. Something sadder. Something he never quite let me see.
I shake my head, returning my focus to what we’re doing. And before I know it, we’ve finished the last first-story window.
We’re about to head back into the garage when a voice sounds behind us. “Boarding up the windows, huh?”
I turn around. A white man of medium height and build is watching us. A grin on his face.
“It’s a good idea,” the man says. “A very good idea. But I don’t think I’m going to do it. Not this time.” He swings that smile in my direction. “Nikhil knows, but the last storm we got I went all out. Moved all my furniture to the second floor. Boarded every window. Took every precaution. And how did that turn out?”
The mystery man booms out a laugh. “All we got was a light sprinkle. Could barely call it rain, really.”
“This one looks like it’s going to be worse,” Nikhil says.
The man shrugs. “That’s what they said about the last one too.” He extends a hand toward me. “I’m Alan. I live in that house over there.” He points to the house at the very center of the cul-de-sac, about four houses down from ours.
Ours? I mean Nikhil’s. Four houses down from Nikhil’s.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand. “I’m Meena and…” I look back at Nikhil. “I’m just visiting.”
Alan chortles. “Bad timing for a visit.”
Yeah. Thanks, Alan. I know.
The house Alan pointed out is a nice one, but I’m pretty sure it was empty the whole time I was here. I remember a perpetual For Sale sign hanging in the front yard.
“You’ll be in good hands with Nikhil,” Alan continues, slapping Nikhil on the back. “He’s a pro at this kind of thing. Though I think he’s a little too paranoid. He even installed a generator if you can believe that.”
Nikhil’s lips stretch. I guess it’s technically a smile, but the expression is grim. “I like to be prepared,” he says. “And a couple other people in the neighborhood have them too.”
“Right, right,” Alan says. “Fair enough. You know, I understand how important it is to be prepared. I am an astronaut after all.”
He…he is? I’ve never met an astronaut before. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Alan isn’t it.
Alan must register the surprise on my face. “Oh, did Nikhil not mention that?” he says. “I work for NASA. It’s not far from here. Just a couple minutes away. A nice, easy commute. I’ve worked there awhile. Been to the International Space Station a couple times.” He shifts his weight, his expression growing solemn, the pitch of his voice lowering. “You know, when you’ve been to space, when you’ve seen what I’ve seen…you learn a lot. So, if you two need anything, you just let me know. Issues with plumbing, electricity, feel free to call me. I’ve done it all.”
“Umm, thanks,” I say. I’m not sure how much plumbing and electricity work astronauts do in space, but what do I know?
Nikhil rubs his hand over his mouth. His classic move when he’s trying not to laugh.
Alan doesn’t seem to notice. He plants his hands on his hips, looking at the windows thoughtfully. “What kind of plywood did you use? A quarter-inch thick?”
“Five-eighths of an inch,” Nikhil responds. “Anything thinner and it won’t hold up.”
“Ahh, right. Smart. That’s smart. Good thinking. And the drill? You used a…a…” Alan blinks.
“A power drill,” Nikhil says. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Good, good,” Alan replies. “Exactly what I was going to say. Just couldn’t remember the word.”
“No worries,” Nikhil says. “We all space out from time to time.” This time Nikhil’s lips twitch and I’m the one fighting to hold back a laugh. Despite my best efforts, one escapes and I attempt to disguise it as a cough.
Nikhil’s eyes catch mine. And even though he’s not winking at me, it feels like he is. Like he’s saying, It’s fun sharing this moment with you . Or I’m happy you’re here . Or Isn’t this guy ridiculous?
But then his expression turns cold. All trace of amusement vanishing. Though it’s possible I just imagined the whole thing.
“I appreciate your offer to help, Alan,” Nikhil says. “And the same goes for you. If you need anything, just let me know. You still have the same radio as last time?”
“Yup. Set to the neighborhood frequency.”
“Great.” Nikhil wraps things up, explaining that we need to get going so we can board up the rest of the windows, and Alan saunters off on his way.
“Nice guy,” I offer, as Nikhil and I lug the ladder out of the garage.
Nikhil makes a low, noncommittal sound in response.
“Has he lived here long?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Kind of cool he’s an astronaut.”
Nikhil’s hands are full with the weight of the ladder, but he still somehow manages to lift his shoulders in something that resembles a shrug.
I take the hint. Whether it’s because we’re back in hurricane prep mode or because I’m the one attempting to jump-start the conversation, he doesn’t want to talk.
We set the ladder against the house, and I hold it steady, lookingstraight ahead. I’m definitely not stealing glances at the sight above me. Definitely not sneaking peeks at the way Nikhil climbs, at the way his muscled thighs and butt and everything move in those jeans.
We finish with the front of the house, and then the windows at the back. We bring in the remaining crates of water, and the potted plants and other small objects scattered in the yard.
After dragging the last one in, we trudge back inside. I collapse at the kitchen table, resting my head in my hands. I’m bone-tired. And it’s not just from all the lifting.
It’s like my body has forgotten how to cope with these temperatures. And though I know there’s a storm coming, the weather right now would fool anyone. It’s late August. The tail end of summer, but it feels like the peak. There’s hardly any cloud cover to block the sun. And the humidity. I’d forgotten about that too. It makes it so no matter how absurdly hot it gets, you can’t sweat any of it off. It sticks with you. Combining with the moisture in the air. As evidenced by the way my T-shirt clings to my skin, all damp and disgusting.
“I need to take a shower,” I announce.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Nikhil mutters.
I bristle. I know I’m not exactly smelling like roses, but he doesn’t have to jab at me like that. I open my mouth, fully intending to lob something sharp and harsh and barbed right back at him, but then he continues.
“We may lose running water once the storm hits. Doesn’t always happen, but we should probably use it while we still can.”
The anger that had been building within me deflates, and a prick of guilt takes its place.
I really have been assuming the worst from Nikhil. It never used to be like that between us. There was a time when we only brought out the best in each other. Nikhil knew exactly how to shake me out of my dark spells and make me laugh. He made things light when they felt heavy, and I added weight when it was needed.
“You ground me,” he’d told me once, his eyes bright and earnest. “Sometimes I feel…I feel untethered. You know how, with my mom, her job made it so that we had to move around a lot? And it’s just every time I started at a new school, every time I felt like I was just starting to fit in, we’d have to leave. I’d have to figure out a new city, a new school, and new friends, and then at the end of the year, I’d have to do it all over again.
“But you…you make me feel like I can…like it would be safe to put down some roots. You’re so determined. So sure about what you want out of your career and your life. You never hesitate. You never waver. And if you’re sure that…if what you want is me—”
“Of course it is,” I’d said, my hand on top of his, the pad of a finger traveling over his skin.
He’d swallowed. “But it’s okay if it’s not. I don’t want to assume. I know we got married under strange circumstances and it’s not something we’ve talked about since. It wouldn’t be wrong if you’ve changed your mind. It’s only been a few weeks and we can still—”
“I want you, Nikhil,” I’d told him. “I want you.”
Relief had flooded his face, but it had given me pause. Had he somehow doubted me? Had I done something to make him think I wasn’t in this with him? Did he not know how I felt? Did he not know that every day with him made me feel like I’d won the lottery? Something I’d never expected. Something I’d never believed could actually be mine.
I’d opened my mouth to tell him, to try to explain just how much I’d wanted him, but then his lips had met mine, and we’d just showed each other instead, with our mouths, our hands, our bodies.
He’d traced every part of me like it mattered, running his fingerover my sternum, placing his palm flat against the center of my chest. Sometimes he’d press his ear to that spot, listening to my heartbeat as he brushed his lips against my breast.
The weight of his body, the pressure of it, had soothed my every nerve. In those moments, he quieted my mind. Made me feel blissfully at peace, with no worries about the future, no worries about anything. Even now, at night, when I’m too tired to hold the memories at bay, I can feel him. A phantomlike sensation. The way he pressed against me. The way he moved against me. The way he brought me to heights I’d never experienced before, and the way he held me as I came back down. Liquid heat spreads through my body and I scoot back from the table, my chair emitting a loud screech as it scrapes against the floor. Nikhil flinches and I offer an apologetic grimace before fleeing up the stairs toward the guest bedroom.
I need a shower. Really what I need is to get out of here. To get away from this house. From him.
I shut the door behind me, my skin burning as I flip the shower handle all the way to the left, making the water as cold as I can get it.
We’re not the same people anymore. I’m not that person anymore. The Nikhil who lives in my suppressed memories is not the man sitting at the table downstairs. That man is a stranger to me, and he needs to stay that way.
Because I have a life waiting for me back in D.C. I have to go back and show Shake I’m serious. The two of us are going to build something together. Something stable and good. Together, we’re going to achieve everything we’ve always wanted.
I need to remember the plan. I need to stay focused. I need to get what I need and get out.
I can’t let Nikhil derail my future.
Not again.