Chapter 4
4
I switch off the water and wrap a towel around me, feeling incredibly grateful that I just happen to be the kind of paranoid person who travels with an extra pair of underwear no matter what.
I didn’t pack much more than that since I never planned on being here for more than a few hours. But still, I’m grateful. In this moment, clean underwear is enough.
I towel-dry my hair and attempt to finger-comb the tangles but give up after accidentally yanking a few too many snarls. I should put my old clothes back on, but I’m not ready for that gross, sweaty T-shirt to touch my skin again, so I delay. Huddling in my towel, I stalk around the guest bedroom.
Nikhil really hasn’t changed much about it. He’s replaced the beat-up futon with a real bed, which is a nice upgrade, but otherwise this room’s remained the same. Almost exactly the way it looked seven years ago. Back when I spent hours and hours in here. Back when I was using it as my study space.
I was sitting at that exact desk in the corner when I discovered I’d failed the bar exam. I’d pulled up the results, control-F’d to find my name, and had almost thrown up when I’d realized that my name was not on that list. My job in D.C. was contingent on my passing. Everything was contingent on my passing. I’d never felt like such a failure.
Nikhil was so sweet in those weeks. So supportive. He was there when I had to pick myself up off the ground. When I had to start bar prep all over again. Every time I felt like I couldn’t do it, he encouraged me. Held my hand. Believed in me.
We had been married only a few months at that time. He’d come home from work and find me here in this room, at that desk. He’d lean in the doorframe and ask me how studying was going, his voice bright and cheery, and I’d try to match his tone even though my brain always felt scrambled, my skin tight with electricity.
But slowly, around him, I’d start to feel better. He’d run his hands over the tense muscles in my shoulders and make me laugh, telling me something funny about his day. Sometimes, he’d insist on going on a walk around the neighborhood, which was good. It was often the only time I got some fresh air. He’d wave at some of the people we passed, exchange chitchat with others, and one day I’d been so curious.
“Do you know them?” I’d asked, our hands swinging, my fingers interlaced with his. We’d moved here only recently, and we hadn’t socialized much in our first few weeks. We’d been so wrapped up in each other, floating through a haze of early wedded bliss. We’d rarely left our bedroom, let alone the house. And then, once I’d gotten the results back, our free time had vanished. Mine consumed with bar prep, his consumed with work.
He’d shrugged, the gesture pulling at our joined hands. “Some of them. I’ve done work on a couple of these houses.” He’d gestured toward a place a few spots down from ours. “I did their roof a while back. Laura and Jody. They’re supernice. I’ve been meaning to go over there and say hi. Maybe invite them for dinner, but—” He’d glanced over at me, his expression a little unsure. “But maybe later would be better?”
I’d attempted a smile and nodded, because I’d understood exactly what he meant by later . He meant post bar exam. Post me being this version of myself. And I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t enjoy my own company these days. Why subject others to it as well?
“Yeah,” I’d said, a bit halfheartedly. “Later. Though we’ll be moving to D.C. around then, won’t we?”
“Right. Yeah,” he’d replied, the word an exact echo of the way I’d said it, and we’d both let the topic drop.
A soft thud sounds at the door, shaking me back to the present. Not quite a knock, but not an accidental noise either. I creep in that direction, open the door a crack, and see something lying on the ground. A white bundle. I snatch it and shake it out.
It’s a T-shirt. A clean white cotton T-shirt.
I could almost kiss it. In fact, I bring it to my face to do just that, when I catch a whiff of something woodsy and earthy.
Vetiver. Nikhil’s cologne.
I’d bought him a bottle of it for our six-month anniversary, but there’s no way that same bottle has lasted him till now. And I can’t imagine that he’d keep rebuying the scent. I know I wouldn’t want any reminders of that awful day.
I wave the T-shirt in the air, hoping some of the fragrance might drift out into the ether. But when I slip it around my neck, the scent envelops me. I can’t get away. And despite how much I want to hate it, it’s almost…comforting.
The shirt’s long enough on me that I technically could wear it without pants. But as nice as it sounds to skip putting on my tight, restricting jeans, there’s no way in hell I’m walking around like that. So I force my legs back into them, push my hair away from my face, and head downstairs.
The familiar, homey smell of garlic and onion immediately floods my nostrils. It could be the beginning of any dish, but because it’s Nikhil cooking, I’m almost positive he’s making pasta.
“Thanks for the shirt,” I call. During my shower, I decided on a new strategy: plan “kill ’em with kindness.” Snapping at him hasn’t been getting me anywhere, and I can at least try to be cordial. Try to find some common ground.
“No problem,” he replies. He’s facing away from me, stirring something together in a saucepan.
“What are you making?” I ask. My stomach chooses that exact second to grumble. Loudly.
He snorts. “Why? Are you hungry?” He turns around with a grin, and for a second I’m dumbstruck. Frozen in place. It’s not the wide smile he used to always wear, but it’s close.
I take it in. Savoring it. The crinkles near his eyes. The tiny, barely there dimple that you wouldn’t notice unless you already knew to look for it. This is the first unguarded look I’ve seen on Nikhil since I got here. Warmth creeps through my chest.
Then he swallows. Hard. Breaking the magic of the moment.
His eyes bounce around. To the hem of my shirt— his shirt—where I’ve bunched the excess length with a hair tie. To the sleeves that I’ve folded over a couple times. To the collar that’s a little too wide, dipping a bit low, exposing my collarbone.
I shift my weight, my skin heating under his gaze. Now I’m warm for an entirely different reason.
The saucepan bubbles noisily, and Nikhil spins in a hurry, lowering the flame. “I’ll just, uh, finish this up. Want to grab some glasses of water for the table?” He pauses. “Unless you want something else to drink. I don’t have much, but you can check the fridge…”
“Water’s fine.” I open the cabinet door to my right, only a little surprised to find the glassware right where I expect it. Right where we always kept it. I don’t comment on it though. I just grab the glasses, fill them up, and duck out of the kitchen to set them on the table.
It takes no time at all and then I’m back. Feeling awkward and uneasy. It’s strange to be in this house and feel as if I’m a guest. In this space I helped curate. Helped create.
“What else can I do?” I ask Nikhil as he finishes straining the pasta over the sink.
“Nothing.” He doesn’t look at me. “Unless you want something else to go with this. I have bread. If you want to heat that up. Or put it in the toaster.”
Finally. A task. I peek in the fridge and pull out some garlic and butter, along with the bread.
We work in silence. Like we have all afternoon. But this time I’m determined to find a way through the tension.
“So, what have you been up to?” I ask, my voice light and breezy.
Nikhil’s hand freezes, his wooden spoon halting midstir. “What do you mean?”
God, he sounds so suspicious. So untrusting. I slather the bread with my softened garlic butter and pop it in the toaster oven. “Nothing,” I say. “I’m just asking how you’ve been.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then he clicks off the flame. “Fine.” He sounds so curt. So harsh. But his next words are softer. “I’ve been fine.”
“Good,” I say. “Glad to hear it. The house looks great, by the way. You’ve done a really nice job with it.” Minus the painting over the brick, which I’ll never understand, I mean it. At first glance not much has changed, but the furniture’s been updated. And rearranged. A midcentury modern layout right off the pages of a magazine.
It’s exactly Nikhil’s taste. His style. It’s how he would have decorated it then, if we’d had the money to afford it.
He shoots a look my way, as if to make sure I’m not joking. Or being sarcastic. But he must realize I’m being sincere because he mutters a quiet “thanks” before scooping the pasta into a large bowl.
We make our way to the dining room table and it’s only then that I get a good look at what kind of pasta he made.
“This is all I had in the fridge,” he says quickly. “I just threw it together.”
I nod. Maybe he eats this all the time. Chicken and broccoli and pesto. Those are common enough. But the cavatappi? That weird corkscrew pasta shape? It was always my favorite. Still is. I don’t remember him liking it. Maybe he stocks up on all kinds of pasta, just in case he has guests with a particular craving.
My stomach churns at the idea of Nikhil making pasta for other people. For other guests .
I spear a piece of broccoli, stuffing it in my mouth. “It’s really good,” I say, a moment later.
Nikhil only grunts in acknowledgment.
My hopes start to plummet, but I have to remind myself that this is still heading in the right direction. We’re sharing a meal together. Peacefully. We’re not chatty. Or friendly exactly. But this is better than before. I need to keep it up.
Only I’ve run out of all possible topics of conversation. Asking how his work is going seems like too much of a loaded question. Though he’d always ask me about bar prep, he rarely told me what was going on with him, sharing only select things about work. Goofy antics, light moments, client reactions when they finished projects early or on time.
It was only when he came home with a slight limp that I’d recognized the pattern.
“What happened?” I’d asked immediately, reaching toward him.
He’d waved me off, his mouth stretching into a smile that looked a lot more like a grimace. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s clearly not nothing, Nikhil. You’re hurt.”
“Just a sprain,” he’d said, forced cheer in his voice. “It’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“But how did this happen? Did you get it checked out? Do you need to take some time off or—”
“It’s fine,” he’d said again. “How was your day?” He’d smiled wider, even as his forehead glistened with sweat, the pain he was feeling so obvious. “That rule against perpetuities still giving you a hard time?”
It had hurt. We were supposed to share everything. We had promised each other that we would share everything. But I’d learned that day that there was a whole world inside his mind I couldn’t access. The way I shared things with him, the way I leaned on him, was something he wouldn’t reciprocate. No matter how much I pushed or prodded for more, there were walls I couldn’t climb over, until finally, I just stopped trying. I reach for the garlic bread, biting off a large chunk of it. What’s a safe subject to talk about? What’s something I could ask that would—
A loud, deep laugh breaks my train of thought.
Nikhil is shaking his head, a hand over his mouth. I stare at him incredulously and he lets out another chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” he says, though his lips twitch, proving him a liar. “It’s just…you still eat your toast like that?”
I pause, looking down at my hand. The garlic bread is upside down, the garlicky-buttery side facing the floor. As it should be.
“Like what? The right way?” I respond.
He laughs again. “You are literally the only person who thinks that.”
I grin, shaking my head. “Then I’m the only person with common sense.” We’d talked about this once before. The first time I spent the night at his place, I think. He’d made breakfast in the morning and he’d laughed then too when he saw the way I’d eaten my toast, but my rationale makes perfect sense.
“The side with butter or jam or whatever has to face down so that more of it hits your tongue. That way you get the most flavor out of it. Otherwise, it’s just a waste.”
The right corner of his mouth tilts up. “A waste?”
“Yes. A waste. Why would you want to taste the dry, bland side first?”
He leans forward, his arms resting on the table. “But what if you have a lot on there? What if you put too much jelly? All of it would fall off.”
I huff. “Well, obviously I wouldn’t eat that kind of toast that way. Be serious.”
The slight tilt of his lips transforms into a full-blown grin. “I wouldn’t dare to be anything but serious about this.”
He takes a bite of his pasta, his smile muted, but still there, and for a moment, I’m pretty happy with how my new plan is working. We’re being pleasant. Amiable.
But then he strikes unexpectedly, throwing my earlier question back in my face. “So,” he says. “What have you been up to?”
Something icy and cold travels up my spine. The question feels so loaded. I hadn’t meant it to be that way when I’d asked it, but on the receiving end…I want to run. Retreat. Raise a white flag.
All of that would be better than giving him an honest answer. I’m trying to win back my ex. My wildest dreams for my career might finally be within reach. And you and this marriage are threatening all of it.
I sip my water, drawing out the moment for as long as possible. “Oh, you know,” I say lightly. “Same as usual.”
He stares. He’s waiting. Expecting me to say more. When I don’t, his eyes flicker. “And what is usual?” he asks.
I shrug, doing my best to hide my inner panic. I don’t know why this is getting to me. Why this simple question is burrowing under my skin. Making me sweat.
“Work,” I reply. I force a light laugh. “That probably sounds boring, but that’s what takes up most of my time.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good.” He looks away, but a few seconds later his gaze returns to me. “And it’s going well?” he asks. “Work, I mean. Is it everything you wanted it to be?”
I can tell he tried really hard to make that question sound neutral, but a bitter undertone still snuck its way through. It raises my hackles. “Yes,” I snap. “It is.”
He nods, looking down at his food. His fork aggressively scrapes across the plate and I wince.
“Is yours?” I ask, before I can help myself.
His brows furrow. “Is my…?” he repeats.
“Your work. Is it everything you wanted it to be?” It’s a bad move. My doubling down on this. On a topic that has always been a minefield for the two of us.
But to my surprise, his expression softens. The lines of his mouth relax. “Not yet,” he says. “But I think it will be.”
Surprise sparks through me, the tension within me fizzling away, leaving my chest buoyant. Light.
“Good,” I tell him. I open my mouth, then pause.
I want to know more. Is he still in construction? Is he doing something else? Starting his own business like he’d once wanted to? What exactly is he looking forward to?
And strangely, I want to tell him that I’m kind of…proud? ThatI’m happy for him. Happy he’s found some kind of joy in his work.
But those words belong to a different Meena. A younger Meena. I don’t have a right to say those things now. “That’s good,” I say instead.
We return to eating, the only sounds in the room the clinking of our silverware and the light rain that’s begun outside.
I squint, trying to look out the window, but it’s gotten too dark to see clearly. Still, I know what this rain means. The outer bands of the storm are here.
“Looks like it’s starting,” I say, gesturing toward the back door.
He casts a worried glance outside, then fishes his phone out of his pocket. He studies it for a few minutes before turning it around, showing me a storm map.
“It’ll take some time for the worst to get here,” he says. “Probably early morning. They’re projecting sometime around two or three.”
“Oh,” I reply. Sounds like neither of us will be getting any sleep tonight.
Silence descends again. Though it’s broken a few minutes later when Nikhil coughs.
My head snaps in his direction, and I’m shocked to find him staring at me. His eyes fixed on my left hand. On my fingers drumming against the table.
I go still. I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” he says hoarsely.
That sound, the sandpapery quality of his voice, sends shivers down my spine.
I clear my throat. I need to regain control of myself. I need to regain control of this conversation. I need to remind myself why I’m here. “Well,” I say. “Since we have some time, I was wondering if you maybe had a chance to look everything over. The papers, I mean. Though I understand if you haven’t had time yet. I’m sure you’ve been busy, but really the whole thing is pretty short, and the terms are superstandard. I promise. Though I’m not saying you just have to trust me. You can consult with whoever you want, assuming you haven’t already. Or you can ask me questions. I’m happy to discuss any of it and—”
“Meena,” he interrupts. His voice is still rough. Slightly ragged, but then his lips stretch into a smile I’m all too familiar with. I wonder if he knows how pained he looks. How that smile conveys just how miserable he actually is. “I don’t want to…Let’s not do this right now.”
I wait a beat, trying to be calm. Trying to be patient. Trying to show him how reasonable I can be, but then he rubs the side of his neck and averts his gaze, staring down at the table. And my temper flares.
He’s checking out. Retreating.
I hate it. Even after all these years, it still feels so familiar. An echo of so many conversations we had. Me trying to broach a sensitive topic, and him brushing it away instead of engaging. Trying to defuse the situation with a joke, a change in topic, or that sad attempt at a smile. Sitting right in front of me, but still making me feel so alone.
I snap. “Well, we have to talk about it sometime. And I don’t get it. I really don’t. Is there something else you want? Something not spelled out in this draft? Because these terms are open to negotiation. All of this is just a starting point. We can discuss it.”
“It’s not that,” he says, still looking away. Still not looking at me.
“Then what?” I ask, thoroughly exasperated. “Don’t you want this to be done? Don’t you want this to be over?”
His head moves back. Just the smallest movement. It’s not quite a wince, but as I struggle to figure out how to classify it and what it means, his eyes return to mine. He raises his glass to his mouth and god, I wish I could look away but I’m transfixed. By the way his lips part, the way his throat flexes as he swallows.
The shape of his mouth is still so familiar to me. If I closed my eyes, I’d still remember exactly how it looks. Exactly how it feels.
“I need to ask,” he finally says, but then he stops. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips. My pulse jumps in my throat.
“I need to ask you…”
Suddenly, his face disappears. I can’t see his mouth anymore. I can’t see anything. The room is pitch-black.
Nikhil whispers a curse under his breath, and only then do I realize what’s happened.
The power’s gone out.