Chapter 11
11
When I wake up in the morning, the TV is off. And the space beside me is cold. Empty.
I stretch, my fingers gliding absently over the sheets and the spare pillow. In this hazy moment between sleep and waking, I almost roll my face into it, almost allow myself to follow the faint hint of vetiver lingering. The faint hint of Nikhil lingering.
But I quickly snap to my senses, and when I spring out of bed, I’m happy to see that the extra rest helped. I don’t wobble or sway like I did before. My body almost feels back to normal. I wash my face, then search the house for Nikhil, eventually finding him downstairs, crouched on the ground, rooting around under the kitchen sink.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He startles, his head ducking out of the space, bumping up against something with a loud thunk .
I move instinctively toward him, my hand reaching out to rub the top of his head. “Oh gosh. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he says. “I’m fine. You just surprised me.” His eyes widen slightly as he looks up at me. “How did you get down the stairs?”
“I was feeling up to it,” I say, my hand continuing to rub circles against his scalp.
He frowns. “You shouldn’t push yourself. You should get back to bed.”
“Maybe you should get back to bed. You’re the one with a head injury.”
“And whose fault is that?” he says lightly, without any real bite. And maybe I imagine it, but I think he’s leaning just the tiniest bit, pressing his head more firmly into my palm.
It’s only then that I register the position we’re in. Him kneeling on the floor in front of me. My fingers intertwined in his hair.
Heat spikes through me as I remember other times we were just like this. And for a brief second, my mind gets carried away. I imagine yanking him up and pressing my lips against his. I imagine his hands finding my waist, lifting me up onto the counter. His thumbs tracing circles on my thighs, his jaw nuzzling the curve of my neck.
“I’ve missed this,” he’d say, and I’d tell him the same.
I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you.
The thought pings through me, and I pull back immediately, retracting my hand as if I’m reacting to an electric shock.
Nikhil watches me from the floor, a crease forming between his brows. Then, he scrambles to his feet.
“You feeling okay?” he asks. “Do you need to sit down?”
“Nope. No, I’m fine,” I say, even as my mind buzzes. The rational side of my brain tells me I’m just being nostalgic, and I try to listen, but that sensible voice fades away as Nikhil steps toward me. The back of his hand comes to my forehead, and his mouth flattens, growing grim with concern.
I close my eyes at his touch, trying to shut myself off from all of it. From the sensation of his skin on mine, from the tenderness and care I feel radiating off of him, from the fantasies running wild in my mind.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Really.”
His fingers travel down from my forehead, coasting over my cheek, where the glass of the guest bedroom window had scraped me. “Is this any better?” he asks.
And it’s not. He’s still touching me, and I need it to end. Because I don’t trust myself. I don’t know what I’ll do—what I’ll ask for—if he doesn’t stop.
I step away. “Yes, it’s much better. I’m doing much better.” I clear my throat. “So, what were you looking for in here?”
His eyes linger on my face, stopping for a moment at my mouth.
Does he feel this too? This pull between us? The one I’ve been trying to deny ever since I got here?
My pulse increases, and for a moment the air in this kitchen feels charged. There’s potential swirling, gathering. I watch as something builds in his eyes, something dark and intense, but then he blinks, and it all vanishes as he bends back down.
“I was grabbing some cleaning supplies so I could get started on the guest bedroom,” he says, his voice carrying up from under the sink. He pops back out with bottles and rags, and I take some from him.
“I’ll come help you,” I offer.
He looks as if he’s going to disagree. I brace myself for it as he opens his mouth, but he closes it almost immediately, as if he’s swallowing the words down. “Okay,” he says.
He stops to grab a broom from the closet, and we head upstairs.
The gaping hole where the glass used to be gives us a clear view of the street. Unlike the last time we were outside, it’s bright now. Midday. But the water’s still high, the sun glinting off the brown, murky surface.
Without the rain and the wind—and ignoring a felled tree or two—it almost looks peaceful out there. Nothing like the disaster in here. Shards of glass litter the floor, the carpet and mattress are still damp to the touch, and there are water stains splattered on the wood furniture.
I pour some polish onto one of the rags, reaching for the desk in the corner first. I don’t want these stains to set in. I don’t know about the other furniture in this room. We didn’t have the rest of it when I lived here, but Nikhil made this desk, and I don’t want to see it ruined.
Nikhil pauses in the doorway for a second, then begins sweeping, gathering the broken glass into a pile.
We work in silence for some time. The only sounds in the room are the swish of his broom, the glide of my rag against the desk, and I realize I like this, us working together. It feels like it did when we were back in the canoe. At first, it had been hell, neither of us understanding the other, pushing when the other pulled, but after some time, after some give-and-take, we’d found the right rhythm. We’d trusted each other, and our journey back home had been so much easier than that first stretch on the water.
I finish my task, turning to start on the bed. “We’ll need to get this mattress out of here, right?”
Nikhil’s bent over, gathering the glass into a dustpan. “Eventually, yeah. Mold will set in if we don’t do anything, but I don’t know how we’d dry it. We can’t stick it outside in the sun with all the water still around. I may just have to toss it.”
“We could lift it together,” I say. “Whenever you need to do that.” Trust me, let me help. He didn’t see me as a teammate, as a partner, back when we were together, but I want to know if the way we’d canoed back home was just a fluke. I want to know if it’s possible he could see me that way now.
“That’s all right,” he says. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it, and Nikhil’s gaze snaps to meet mine.
“Meena, what—”
A crackly voice breaks through the room. “Ten-four, ten-four. Do you read me?”
Nikhil straightens. He leans his broom against the wall and reaches for the radio. “Alan, the power’s back now. You can just text me.”
“Negative,” Alan replies. “My phone’s dead. Betty’s only got one charger and she’s not letting me use it.”
Nikhil looks over at me and playfully rolls his eyes. The familiarity in that gesture infuses every corner of my body. The warmth melts my insides, making me feel all sloshy.
“You all doing okay?” Nikhil asks.
Alan heaves a loud sigh. “Still fighting like cats and dogs, but you know, I think we might be on the verge of a breakthrough. See, it was really our parents who pitted us against each other. Who made us feel like we had to compete for their time and attention, and even their love, and I think if I can just make her realize that, she’ll see—”
“That’s great, Alan,” Nikhil says. “But everything else is okay? No flooding at Betty’s house or anything?”
“Oh. Nope. All good here.”
“Great.”
“How are you two? You and your…friend?”
Nikhil pivots slightly, half turning to face the wall. “We’re fine. We didn’t get any water on the first floor, but we did have a window break—”
“She seems really familiar, but I don’t think we ever met before.”
“No, you wouldn’t have met her.”
“And I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
“I’m not,” Nikhil says sharply.
I feel a weird sort of pleasure-pain at the words. A sensation I don’t want to examine too closely.
Alan’s quiet for a second. And then a sharp noise travels through the radio, as if he’s snapped his fingers. “Oh. Wait. I know where I’ve seen her. I know who she is. You never mentioned her name before, but I can’t believe it took me this long to put it together. She looks just like the girl in that—”
“Thanks for checking in,” Nikhil interjects. “But we’ve got to run. We’ll talk to you later.” Nikhil flips a switch, then sets the radio on the nightstand. He picks his broom back up and starts sweeping again, as if nothing happened. As if Alan hadn’t just said something strange about me.
“What was that about?” I ask moments later, when it’s clear Nikhil doesn’t plan on addressing it.
“What was what?”
“What Alan said. About knowing me from somewhere. That I look a lot like…”
“I don’t know,” Nikhil says. “I mean, you’ve met the guy. He’s not exactly the most…the best…” He waves a hand. “Who knows what that guy is thinking?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you’re on TV every now and then. Maybe that’s where he recognizes you from.”
TV? I’m never on…Oh. “I occasionally appear in the background of C-Span 3, Nikhil. I’m not exactly a television star. I don’t even make the cut for C-Span 2.”
“That’s still TV.”
“Okay. Technically. But I doubt Alan’s a big C-Span fan.”
Nikhil’s eyes are fixed on the floor, his concentration on the glass he’s gathering into the dustpan. “You don’t know that,” he says. “Maybe he likes C-Span.”
“No one likes C-Span.”
“You used to watch it.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the same. I was a huge policy nerd.”
“Still are,” he says, but it’s like he’s testing it out, not quite sure if he’s right about that or not.
“Still am,” I say, and he nods.
“Well, maybe Alan is too.”
I blow out a breath, trying to keep my frustration at bay. There’s something Nikhil’s not telling me. Something he doesn’t want me to know.
Most people don’t react well to being needled. They need to be coaxed. Cajoled. Lulled into a false sense of security. I know this. I just seem to forget it when I’m around Nikhil.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, rubbing the polishing cloth against the headboard a little harder than necessary.
A bewildered expression crosses his face, as if he can’t believe I’m letting this go. And I am about to let it go. Really, I am. Until something clicks.
“How did you know I was on C-Span?”
Nikhil’s cheeks flush red. His skin’s a bit paler than mine, and though my face gets hot when I’m embarrassed, I’ve got enough melanin that it never really shows. But not Nikhil. He blushes. Full-on blushes. I’d forgotten that about him.
“Oh. Uhh…”
“I’m not even actually on it,” I say. “Not like on one of those talk shows or anything. You can’t find it if you search my name. I’m just in the background sometimes walking around.”
“Right. Yeah. Well, sometimes I put on C-Span.”
I snort. “You do not.”
“I do. Just to have something playing. Background noise. While I’m doing something else.”
“Like what?”
“Cooking. Cleaning. Working on a project.” He shrugs. “I like leaving it on. It’s soothing.”
“But you never used to like watching it with me.”
“I know.” The tips of his ears are turning red now. “I didn’t really get it then. But now…it’s just nice to have it on.”
“Why?”
“Because it…” He closes his mouth abruptly. Then, clears his throat. I give him some time, but seconds of silence pass and he doesn’t complete his thought.
“Because it what?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
Curiosity burns inside me. “Because it’s free? Because you’re interested in policy now? Because you enjoy watching paint dry? Because—”
“Because it reminds me of you,” he snaps.
My heartbeat thrums loudly in my ears. I stare at him, absolutely stunned. He’s no longer looking down at the broken glass on the floor. He’s looking right at me.
“I watch HGTV,” I blurt out.
His brows knit, creases forming in his forehead. “What?”
“For the sounds. The woodworking sounds. Like the sounds you used to make in the garage while I was studying. I used to…I found it soothing back then. So, whenever I’m working on something and need to concentrate, I turn on HGTV.”
He blinks, confusion still on his face, and then comprehension dawns. His eyes soften. “Really?” he asks. Quietly. Tentatively. Like he’s unsure if he heard me correctly. Or like he’s worried I’m going to take it back.
“Really,” I say. I’m not sure if I’d fully understood why I’d been doing it or if I was just in deep denial until this moment, but everything I’m saying is the truth.
Nikhil shifts his weight, still watching me. And then he resumes his sweeping. “So, what’s your poison? Property Brothers or that couple that flips—”
“Oh god,” I say with a laugh. “Might be an unpopular opinion, but I can’t stand that couple.”
He looks up with a grin. “Me either.”
The threads of tension in the air unravel. “They’re annoying, right? And do they really need a line of merchandise at every single store? It’s like no matter what I do, no matter where I go, I can’t escape them.”
“Not to mention their advice on house flipping is usually dead wrong. They strip all these beautiful wood finishings, paint everything white—”
“Ha!”
His shoulders jump in surprise. “What?”
“Ha!” I say again, my finger pointed at him. “J’accuse!”
“ What? ” He’s looking at me like I’ve lost all my marbles, but I’ve never felt more alert.
“You hate all the white paint on the house too. Admit it!”
His confusion melts away, and something else takes its place. Surprise and…maybe embarrassment?
“I do,” he finally says.
“So, why do it?” I ask. “Why paint all the brick white? It looks so wrong. It looks so…so…” I grasp for words, but the only one that comes to mind is not a word at all: Un-Nikhil. The whole thing is so Un-Nikhil. Because Nikhil is old school. He’s warm red brick that’s stood for ages. He’s midcentury furniture made by hand. He’s a house that somehow survives the winds and rains and floods of a hurricane. He’s not shiplap and white paint slapped on top, covering up what was there before. He’s steady and stable and firm and…
“Resale value,” Nikhil says.
I jump. “What?”
“I painted it for the resale value. My realtor suggested it. She said the fresh coat of paint has really helped some of her older homes sell.”
“Your realtor,” I repeat blandly. “You’re…you’re selling the house?”
He rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “I’m just looking at options.”
“Options for selling. For selling the house.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He swallows, the muscles in his throat flexing. “I’m doing some work on another property. Some repairs. And I could use the funds.”
Nikhil needs money. The thought lances through me, accompanied by a sharp pinprick of guilt. I hate that my mind turned in this direction first. Coldly analyzing his words, finding the weak point. Finding the one thing I’ve been searching for all along: leverage.
I don’t want to be this way. I don’t want to see everything through the lens of negotiation. Not with him.
“What kind of property?”
He’s quiet a moment. “An older building. Really old. It needs a lot of work.”
I nod, an idea growing. “I’m only asking because there are certain kinds of loans out there. The normal building and construction ones, sure, but if there’s any chance the property’s old enough to be considered historic, there are special grants you could apply for. Some of them are true grants. You don’t even have to pay them back.”
He clears his throat. “Elizabeth mentioned something like that, but she’s so busy, and I didn’t want to take up more of her time or ask—” He stops, but I know what he means. He didn’t want to ask her for help.
“This is the project she mentioned, right? The one you’re working on?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“I could help you with it,” I say. “I’d be happy to do the research and put the grant proposal together. I’m sure someone I know has ties to the local preservation board or committee. I’m sure Elizabeth does. We could start there.” My wheels are really turning now. “There might even be some community development grants available. If it has some kind of commercial purpose, we could argue it benefits the community in some way. I’ve got a friend at HUD who could walk us through a lot of this. I could set up a call for the three of us, or even just do it myself and get the information first. But what’s the project exactly?”
“It’s an inn,” he says. “Or it will be once the repairs are done. That’s the hope anyway.”
“An inn,” I repeat. He was serious before, then.
“Yeah. You know I’ve…I’ve always loved design and for a while now I’ve been wanting to design a place from the ground up, and when I saw this place…” He fidgets. “That’s actually where I was earlier, before the storm. I had to board it up, and it took more prep than I thought. I’d stripped some of the roof a couple weeks ago, so it’s pretty exposed.” His forehead creases, worry creeping into his eyes. “I don’t know if I did enough. It’s closer to the coast than we are, so it probably got more of a storm surge. It may not even have made it, so maybe it doesn’t even matter anymore, but—”
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “Even if there’s damage, you’ll be able to fix it. I’m sure of it.”
He looks at me now, a carefully neutral expression on his face. “If you wouldn’t mind sharing more about, you know, any grants or loans the property could be eligible for, I’d…I’d appreciate that. I could use the help.” He swallows, his hands growing tight around the broom handle, his knuckles turning pale. “I need your help.”
My mouth grows dry.
“And maybe…maybe it would be helpful for you to see it. After the storm, we could stop by there. It still needs a lot of work and it’s nowhere close to being done, but it could give you a better sense of the place,” he says. “Not that we have to. I don’t know what your plans are or when you’ll go—”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Yeah?” he asks, a hint of vulnerability in that word.
“Yeah. I can’t wait.”
He smiles then, his teeth flashing. It’s beautiful and wonderful and disarming, and I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t pretend that I’m helping him just to have leverage, to have the upper hand in negotiations. I can’t pretend that I’m doing this for any reason other than I want to. I want Nikhil to be happy. And this project, it’s making him come alive in a way I’ve never seen before.
Even more, he’s telling me he needs me. I’ve wanted to hear those words from him for so long. I’ve wanted to know that he felteven a fraction of the wild, desperate need I’d always felt for him.
A breeze travels in through the broken window and a nearby branch rattles, drawing my gaze outside.
Nikhil leaves, grabbing a blue-green tarp from the hallway, the fabric waving behind him like a banner. He moves toward the window and tries to stretch the material over the open space but isn’t able to do it fully. His arms, as long and impressive as they are, can’t cover the distance.
I rush over, grabbing a corner of the tarp, and he steps back to let me in.
I pull it to the part of the window frame he’d been aiming for and feel him staring at the side of my face when he asks, “So, you’re thinking about running for office?”
“Uhhh.” I secure the blue-green material in the upper right-hand corner, unsure how to go about answering. Everything about this is tied up in Shake. The two of us have been talking about wanting to run for office for years, but we only recently started exploring it seriously. Shake’s probably had that meeting with the political advisory team during the time I was here. I wonder what they talked about. I wonder if I’ll ever meet with them. I wonder what Shake’s thinking after the breakup, or if the news about the Texas seat would change anything for us. For me.
“It’s a little complicated,” I tell him.
I move to the lower corner, but the tarp snaps back, the area I’d just secured unraveling.
“Whoa,” Nikhil says, his arm sliding behind me, grabbing hold of the tarp before it unfurls all the way.
His chest presses against my back, and his thighs bracket mine as he leans forward, taping the material down.
“There,” he says, turning toward me, his face only an inch away. “Close call.” He smiles, soft and easy, but that smile fades as he registers that his body is flush against mine.
He could move. I could ask him to move. But I don’t.
He exhales, and I can feel the hot breath traveling over my ear.
“Why is it complicated?” he asks, his voice slightly hoarse, and I close my eyes.
“I don’t know which race I’m running for.” The words slip out of my mouth, plain and honest. “I thought I did. There’s a state race in Maryland, and it’s what I’ve been planning and thinking about for a while, but—” I stop. Is it even worth getting into all of this with Nikhil? This idea of mine is barely half-baked. Basically still raw dough.
“But?” Nikhil prompts, his hand coming to my shoulder, clasping my upper arm. He presses lightly, until I’ve turned around. Until I’m facing him.
We’re so close. His face hovers right above mine, and our breaths are shallow, our chests rising and falling against each other. I lean back the tiniest amount, needing some air, some distance, some space to think, but Nikhil’s hand slides to my lower back, bringing me toward him.
“Careful,” he says roughly. “The tarp.”
I swallow, my heart pounding.
I’m scared. I’m scared to move an inch, and not just because of the open window behind me. I’m scared by how much I want this. How much I want to be close to him. And I’m terrified by his earlier question, terrified to put words to this idea. But when he asks again, his voice soft and gentle as he says, “But what, Meena?” I realize I want to tell Nikhil what I’m thinking. After spending so much time hoping and waiting, he finally let me in, sharing about his project and his dreams. I want to do the same.
“But I can’t stop thinking about what Alan mentioned,” I tell him. “That Elizabeth might run for that open congressional seat. That there’s going to be an open congressional seat.”
“You’re talking about the seat here ? Congresswoman Garcia’s seat?”
I chew on my bottom lip. “Yeah,” I reply.
Nikhil’s eyes zero in on my mouth, and I involuntarily mirror the movement, my gaze drawn to his in return. His lips, the shape of them is so familiar, though that stubble lining his jaw is new. I wonder again how it would all feel. The soft pull of his mouth coupled with the rough slide of his skin.
A shiver travels through me, and I rise on my toes, moving closer to him, not quite sure what I’m doing until his head lowers to meet mine.
“You’d move to Texas,” he murmurs.
“I don’t know,” I say, my words escaping on a breath even as my lips brush against his. “I don’t know.”
Then his mouth captures mine, and I truly don’t know anything. I don’t know anything beyond this room, beyond this place, beyond right now. There’s only the slide of his hands down my back, and the way he pulls me tight against him. The way his mouth opens mine, the taste of him flooding my senses.
Spearmint.
When we’d first met, he’d always chewed cinnamon gum. Spicy and hot. After our first kiss, I’d told him I hadn’t liked the taste of it. He’d switched flavors then, and I guess he never switched back.
I reach for the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he gasps, ceding control in an instant. I run my hand along his jaw, shivering at the way his stubble pricks against my palm. I tilt his head, moving him exactly how I want him, claiming him the only way I can. I take, and take, and take, hoarding as much of him as possible, but it’s not enough.
Because this…It’s familiar, but different from all the memories I replay in my mind. It’s real. And somehow it feels new. I’m not satisfied with just a taste. I want more .
Slowly, he pulls away, and for a second my mouth chases after his, not ready for this to end. Not ready to let go of him.
“Meena,” Nikhil breathes. “I need…” He lowers his head, resting his forehead against mine. “Tell me there’s no reason that we shouldn’t…tell me there’s no reason we have to stop. Tell me that there’s no one…that there’s nothing—”
A rough, jagged sound escapes him, and my heart beats wildly.
Shake and I aren’t together anymore. I came here wanting to change that. I came here with a plan, but right now, I can’t think. There’s nothing I care about except this .
“Nikhil,” I say, leaning back, letting him see all the want in my eyes. Letting him see all of me. “Take me to bed.”
Joy, bright like the sun, flashes across his face, and he bends down, lifting me, wrapping my legs around him. And just like he’s done so many times before, he carries me out of the guest bedroom and into our room.