Flirting With Disaster

Chapter 6

6

“You are not sleeping in the guest bedroom.” Nikhil’s brows are sharp, drawn together. He’s not angry exactly. More like bewildered. Confused.

But we’ve already had this conversation. The romantic energy between us may be dead, but there’s all kinds of other energy between us. At least on my part. Though maybe he doesn’t sense it. Maybe he doesn’t feel it the way I do. Maybe that’s why he thinks his plan is so perfect.

“Well, I’m not sleeping in the closet,” I shoot back. “The guest bedroom is perfectly fine. And we boarded the windows, so I don’t think that’s a…”

“It’s not foolproof, Meena. The thing can still break. It’s not safe for you to be…”

“It’s fine.” I march up the stairs, cutting him off before he can say anything more. I head straight toward the guest bedroom, because no matter what he says, I know Nikhil. He won’t force things. He’ll state his point, but he won’t actually do anything about it. He won’t follow after me once I’m in the bedroom. He won’t pick me up out of bed and carry me with him. He won’t cradle me in his arms and…

My mental walls slam shut, firmly stopping the direction of those thoughts.

His voice carries after me, explaining all the ways the window can still break. Something about wind and force and pressure and how plywood can only do so much, but when I cross the threshold of my room, mutter a quick “good night,” and close the door, his voice grows softer. Muffled as it travels through the wall between us.

I turn, leaning my back against the hard surface of the door, and close my eyes. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. Not sure why I’m standing here instead of climbing under the covers and getting the sleep my body so desperately needs.

But then I hear it. The loud sigh Nikhil exhales from out in the hallway. Just a few inches away. And then he retreats, his footsteps growing softer and softer until I can’t hear them anymore.

This is what I wanted. I didn’t want to share the closet with him. Didn’t want to sleep next to him. Didn’t want him to fight me too hard. I didn’t want any of that.

But as I pull back the covers, as I lie down and close my eyes, there’s the tiniest voice in my head. I try not to listen to it, even as it calls me what I know I am: Liar .

—

When I first met Nikhil Chopra-Wright, I was fresh out of law school and stressed out of my mind. I had moved back into my parents’ house in Houston, fully intending to do nothing for the next two and a half months but study for the bar exam. Thanks to hard work, determination, and sheer fear of failure, I’d made stellar grades in law school, and at the beginning of my third year, I’d gotten the permanent job offer I’d been hoping for. A first-year associate position at the public interest law firm that had launched dozens of political careers. The place so many of my idols had started as baby lawyers.

The position was contingent on my passing the bar exam, which of course I would do. There was no reason to think that I wouldn’t. I’d never failed anything before.

And then, I met Nikhil. Really, it was more like I saw Nikhil. Because the distraction he caused started weeks before I technically met him.

My parents had been expanding the first floor of their house, adding on a new bedroom for my grandparents since they were finally moving in with us from India after years of my parents begging them to. Construction had started a couple weeks before I’d moved back home, and I’d been frustrated, concerned that the noise would prevent me from concentrating on bar prep. I hadn’t anticipated that the real distraction would come from another source altogether: one of the men working on the project.

I heard him before I ever saw him. I’d been knee-deep in contract law and parole evidence when a deep, warm laugh from outside had floated up toward my bedroom. I’d been irritated at first, upset that my concentration had been broken, and then I’d seen him and nearly fallen right out my window. It’s not an exaggeration. I truly was seconds away from self-defenestration. My fault, really, for leaning so far forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the tall, handsome man walking up our driveway.

He’d been joking with a co-worker, and fortunately hadn’t noticed me or the way I was staring, but I hadn’t been able to look away. His smile had captured me, wide and beaming and…secure. Like he was sure of himself. Comfortable in his own skin. That smile, his clear and apparent joy, had sparked something within me. It’d made me greedy. I’d wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile. I’d wanted to bask in it. I’d wanted to understand that joy and be a part of it. I’d wanted more .

These memories must have somehow infiltrated my dreams because I’m sitting in that childhood bedroom right now. I’m in that strange space where I know what’s happening, where I know this is all a dream, but as much as I try, I still can’t control any of it. There are bar prep books stacked on my desk, but when I pick one up, the words begin to blur. Letters jumble together, forming words that don’t mean anything.

Panic floods through me. I have to make sense of this. It’s important. I have to figure it out. If I can’t…if I can’t…I can’t remember what will happen. I can’t remember anything. My anxiety increases, my breaths grow shallow.

The gravel outside crunches, and I glance out the window to see Nikhil walking right toward the house, just as he did back then, but he’s not the young, smooth-faced version I remember. He looks older. Gruffer. The way he looks now. And this time he notices me.

He raises a hand, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. The same smile I’d seen that day. One I haven’t seen in years.

Something within me eases at the sight and I’m leaning. Leaning toward him. Waving back at him from the window. But then his smile transforms into something else. Worry. Concern. He cries out, and suddenly, I understand why. I’m falling. I’ve leaned too far, and I’m falling and falling and can’t stop. I’m Alice down the rabbit hole. The distance between the window and the ground seems endless, and—

Thunder booms and my eyes fly open. My heart thuds, the soles of my feet tingling as if I’m still flying through the air. I place a hand over my chest, trying to force my heartbeat to slow down, and take deep breaths, holding each inhale for a few seconds before letting itout.

I haven’t had a nightmare in years. I’m not even sure this qualifies as one. Not in the traditional sense, but I’d felt so out of control. Stuck in a free fall I couldn’t escape.

The rain’s gotten louder now. Heavy. Pelting. And the wind has blown past a whistle into a full-on howl, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. The sound isn’t haunting; it’s harsh. Angry. Like something outside is trying to rattle us. A giant that wants to pick up the entire house, turn us upside down, and shake all the contents out.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the room for a half second, but before I can peer out the window, before I can fully process, before my mind can catch up and realize that if light from the outside is permeating the room, something’s gone wrong, a loud crash sounds.

Pebbles of glass stream toward me and I scream.

I’m unable to move. Unable to understand what’s happening. It’s so loud. Wind roaring in my ears. Water spraying through the air. And my skin stings. Along my arms. And the side of my face.

Instinctively, my hands rise in front of me, my body forming some kind of protective crouch, trying to safeguard my face from the onslaught of glass and rain. Whatever spell had been on me before is broken, and I’m ready to leap from the bed, ready to make a run for it, when a pair of arms comes around me. One beneath my knees, the other behind my back.

I tense, pulling away in surprise, until a familiar voice screams over the sound of the storm, directly in my ear, “Meena, it’s me.”

He moves before I can respond, carrying me to the hallway in three large strides, then slamming the door behind us. He sets me down on my feet and his face is thunderous. Furious. I’m bracing for an I told you so when his gaze shifts. Scanning over my features, stopping at my right cheek. He stares, and it’s almost like I can feel something there.

I lift a hand, brushing that spot, the backs of my fingers sliding against my rain-soaked skin. I’d forgotten about the stinging from before, but now it’s worse. The pressure of my fingers adds to the pain. I flinch.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Nikhil’s expression grows even darker. He takes a half step toward me but stops when I instinctively take a step back.

“I thought the window was—” I start, attempting to explain that I’d thought the boarding would have been sufficient. That I hadn’t really thought it would break. That I hadn’t really thought period, other than hoping to escape sharing tight quarters with Nikhil. But he doesn’t let me finish.

“You’re hurt,” he says. He’s looking elsewhere now. The light of his flashlight following the tilt of his head. I glance down, tracking the movement, slightly surprised to see little lines of red running across the back of my hand.

When I look up at him again, my head rears back. I blink, not quite sure what I’m seeing. I’d thought he was holding a flashlight before, but now…

“Are you…You’re wearing a…What is that?”

He flushes. At least, I think he does. The light and shadows are hitting his face at odd angles.

A laugh climbs up my throat, because really, it’s ridiculous. Whatever he’s wearing. And the exhaustion, the nightmare, the window, the fear, all of it has taken a toll on me. Everything has been so heavy, and I’m desperate for something light.

“It’s a headlamp,” Nikhil says, and I have to hold back another inappropriate giggle at the absolute misery, the embarrassment, in his voice.

“You look like you just came back from a hard day at the mines.”

“It’s practical,” he says. “It’s hands-free.”

“When did you even—” I stop, as the laugh I’d been trying to suppress a few moments ago finally escapes. “When did you even buy that?”

“I told you I’d prepped for this season. I bought everything months ago.”

“Right,” I say. “Standard hurricane season prep. Canned goods. Bottled water. Flashlights. All makes sense. But a headlamp?”

He stares a moment, then his shoulders droop in resignation. “It came free with the radio,” he mutters. “I’d thrown it on my dresser. I hadn’t planned on actually using it.”

I grin. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

He shoots me a skeptical glance. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, look at how useful it ended up being. Besides, it suits you. You should wear it more often. Out on walks or while running errands. Soon everyone will be copying you. You’ll be a trendsetter.”

“Oh yeah?” A corner of his mouth creeps up, and I have this strange, brief sensation of victory. “Then I’ll have to get you one as well,” he continues. “We can’t have you missing out on the latest fashion statement.”

“Oh, no.” I laugh. “I don’t think so. I’d never be able to pull itoff.”

“Huh.” He watches me for a long second, and when his eyes light up with mischief, I’m struck by how familiar that expression is. How familiar this all feels. The lightness and teasing and pure fun of being around him. With a click, he unbuckles the headlamp, and it’s only then that I realize I might be in trouble.

“Nikhil—” I say in warning, but he only smiles wider, slowly advancing in my direction.

“Don’t you think you need to try it on? Just to be sure?”

“No, that’s okay. We don’t have to—”

“C’mon. Since you love it so much, let’s just see how good this thing looks on you.” He reaches for me, and I dodge, letting out something between a squeak and a laugh as he catches me. He slides the lamp around my hair, his hands coming to the back of my skull. But right when I think he’s going to fasten it, he stops moving, his whole body growing still.

He takes the lamp back, slipping it onto his head, then he raises his thumb to my chin. Slowly, he turns my head to the side, and I watch all of that mischief, all of that levity, drain from his face.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” he says, his voice flat and gray.

“Okay.” My arms prickle with goosebumps, the hallway suddenly feeling cold.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight for a second before meeting my gaze. “Why would you— Do you know what could have— Seriously, what were you thinking?” He speaks quietly, but that doesn’t make his words sound any less hot and acidic.

A spray just as stinging and harsh as the wind and pebbles of glass.

I know I’m in the wrong here. He’d warned me plenty, but I didn’t take his warnings seriously. I probably should have listened to him, but hell if I’m going to admit that.

“Meenakshi,” he says, and I go still. He doesn’t add anything else. He doesn’t have to. Because Nikhil doesn’t use my full name. Ever. It’s happened only twice in my life, and neither of those moments is one I want to relive.

So I don’t respond. I don’t say anything. The silence lingers for a few seconds, and then he tries again.

“Meena,” he says, as if the last slip hadn’t happened. “You can’t just—” But he doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence. He only shakes his head, and turns and walks away.

“Come on,” he calls over his shoulder. The beam of light bounces slightly with each step he takes, and I follow him, the path to the primary bedroom somehow feeling both familiar and foreign.

In the bathroom, he’s pulling open cabinets and drawers, searching for something, and I perch on the edge of the bathtub. Waiting. I idly track the scrapes and cuts on my arms, alarmed at the glinting I see when the light catches just right. There are specks of glass there. That makes sense. That’s what’s caused the stinging and the light trails of red. Though now they look almost pink, diluted by the water coating my skin.

Nikhil returns with a large brown bottle, cotton balls, and tweezers. He squats in front of me, pulling my arm across his knee. With the light shining from his head and the tweezers in his right hand, he looks a bit like a surgeon preparing to cut.

He turns my arm, studying it for a bit. And then he squints.

He needs his glasses, I think. I scan the counter, looking for them. He always left them lying around. By the sink or on the kitchen table or right by the bed. Wherever he happened to be reading. I almost crushed them once. He’d left them lying on a cushion on the couch, and I’d nearly plopped right down without looking. He’d bought some extra reading glasses that day.

“I didn’t break them,” I’d said, absolutely incredulous as he’d pulled four pairs, all in different colors, out of a plastic Walgreens bag.

“But you could have,” he’d said. “So I got backups. Just in case.”

After that, instead of one pair of glasses scattered around the house, there were four. At least he said there were only four. I could have sworn there were a lot more. It felt like the number just kept growing. Like they were multiplying. Spreading through the house like a plague.

But I haven’t seen any today. I twist, trying to scan the rest of the bathroom, but his grip on my hand tenses, holding me in place.

“Where are your glasses?” I ask.

The lines on his forehead crease. He lifts the tweezers. “You need to hold still,” he says. He places the slanted edges around a small piece of glass, and I force myself not to move, not to wince, as he lifts it away. But after it’s over, I realize it wasn’t too bad. I’ve had splinters that hurt worse.

“Where are your glasses?” I ask again. Because though I’m thankful he’s helping me get rid of these shards of glass, I’d prefer that he see clearly while he does it.

His mouth goes flat and thin. “I don’t need them.”

“You don’t need them?” I don’t understand. The man couldn’t read anything without them. He’d kept a pair in the kitchen because he couldn’t even read the labels on the spices. He’d once accidentally swapped cumin with cinnamon, and to date that black bean chili is the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.

“I got a procedure,” he says, using my distraction to weasel out another piece. And then another.

“What kind of procedure?”

He fishes out another bit of glass. He’s moving at lightning speed and I can’t help but appreciate the efficiency. “It’s similar to LASIK but has better results for people who need correction for their near vision.”

“Was it safe?”

He slants me a look, as if he wonders why I care. Or why I’m asking. And honestly, I’m not sure why I am either. It’s just…I never knew he wanted his vision corrected. The reading glasses had been cute. And each color had been a surprise. Dark green frames. And blue. And tortoiseshell. Though his red ones had been my favorite. I’d loved the way he’d looked in them. So intellectual. All wise and sophisticated.

He’d been wearing frames like that the first day we met. Even though it had been blazing hot that summer, I’d started taking daily mental health walks around lunchtime. Not because it was when the crew took their break or because I always spotted Nikhil from my window around that time, going to his car to grab his lunch and a book, then retreating to a shaded spot under the tree in our side yard.

I’d just needed some fresh air. Some time to stretch my legs and get out of my room. If I happened to leave out the back door so I could cut through the side yard and pass by Nikhil, well, that was just a coincidence. Not that I actually ever planned on talking to him. I was in full, awkward do-not-approach-me mode, with my clunky headphones clamped over my ears and my phone tucked into the embarrassing cousin of the now-trendy belt bag: a fanny pack.

For the first few days, he’d just dip his head when he saw me. A friendly nod. But then he started waving. The first time it happened I’d had a mini panic attack and nearly sprinted away, but I soon began to respond like a normal person and not a child with a schoolyard crush. About a week later, he’d spoken to me for the first time.

“What are you listening to?” he’d asked, sitting at the base of the tree, book open on his lap. I’d stopped right in my tracks. Then cringed.

I hadn’t wanted to confess that I was listening to an audio recording of a BARbrI course on property law at 1.6x speed, so I’d lied and just said, “Music.”

The right corner of his mouth had kicked up, and my stomach had swooped like I was on a roller coaster.

“What kind?”

I’d tried to come up with a generic singer, but finally gave in and told him the truth, explaining that it wasn’t music exactly. That I waslistening to lectures because I had a big exam at the end of the summer.

He’d stood up, dusted some dirt off his pants, then leaned against the side of the tree. It was criminal really. That lean. No one had a right to be that tall and handsome and devastating and somehow become even more attractive with just a lean .

He’d asked me about my exam, and I’d told him about law school and the bar, and even though I’d worried that I was boring him several minutes in, he’d seemed genuinely interested, asking more questions whenever I paused. Slowly, my anxiety around him had faded.

I’d asked about his book and he’d shown me the cover: Turning Your House into a Home . It wasn’t what I’d been expecting.

“Why interior design?” I’d asked, and his face had lit up.

“I’m renting, but there’s still something nice about designing a space. Even if it’s only somewhere I’ll be for a little while, there are things you can do to make it feel more permanent. To make it feel more like home.”

“Like what?” I’d asked, genuinely interested, and he’d explained. Telling me about color theory, space planning, even the shape and size of furniture. He’d described pieces he’d made for his space—chairs and bookcases and floating shelves—and his passion had captivated me. He told me it was all just a hobby. That it had nothing to do with work. That it was just something he did for himself, and I found it fascinating. To see someone so moved by something they were doing just for fun. I didn’t quite understand it, but I wanted to.

After a couple more run-ins and discussions about design and law and everything under the sun, he’d asked me out. We’d gotten ice cream one day after he’d finished working, and I’d fallen hard.

I’d joked about all of this with him once. Told him that it was his glasses that had first caught my eye. That I’d really been digging his whole professorial vibe. But instead of laughing in response, he’d just looked at me strangely. He hadn’t worn that pair as often after that.

“Yeah,” he finally says, responding to my earlier question. “It was fine. The procedure worked.”

He switches to my other arm, but there aren’t as many scratches here.

“I got LASIK,” I offer, and his eyes shoot up to mine. “Got it a few years ago. I was kind of nervous about it, but it ended up being a breeze.” He nods, but he’s quiet, still watching me. As if he’s examining my eyes, looking for some kind of change. Any difference between then and now.

I look away, staring at the white tile lining the floor.

“So, no more contacts,” he says.

“Right,” I respond. “No more contacts.”

He releases my arm and picks up a cotton ball, holding it to the opening of the brown bottle, then flipping the bottle upside down.

“This is going to sting,” he says, and before I can even take a full inhale, he wipes the hydrogen-peroxide-soaked cotton ball up my arm in one swift movement. I curse, the burning quick and unexpected, but try not to do more than that.

He’s only trying to help. Not torture me. Though maybe he is getting a bit of pleasure out of my pain. It’s not like I would know. His face doesn’t reveal anything, but he always was a pro at keeping things hidden. Keeping his true feelings buried deep down.

He sets aside the used cotton ball, and now that my arm has been cleaned, I can see the cuts were tiny. And not that many had been bleeding. The few that were have stopped now. Aside from the slight burning and a bit of tenderness, it doesn’t hurt that bad at all.

I expect Nikhil to move on to my other arm, and I mentally prepare for that area to hurt as well. So I’m shocked when he lowers his head instead. His mouth moves toward the back of my hand, like he’s a courtly knight trying to earn the favor of a princess.

But instead of a kiss, his mouth forms a perfect “O.” And then…he’s blowing. A steady stream of cool air. My arm goes tense, my hand clenching into a fist, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Or stop. He just goes higher, that breath traveling up and down my arm. It’s over in a matter of seconds, and only once he’s moved on to the other arm do I fully understand what he was doing: he was trying to ease the sting.

That realization hits at the same time he streaks a new cotton ball across my other arm and a shocked sound escapes me. He gave me no warning this time, and I’m not sure if that was better or worse.

“Sorry,” he mutters, before blowing against the few tiny wounds on this arm. He’s faster now, but even though it’s fleeting, the sensation of his breath against my skin short-circuits my brain.

I try to stand up as soon as he’s done. I need to get some distance. Need to look at something else besides him. I need a break from…all of this, but then his hand taps my knee.

“Wait.” His fingers lightly come beneath my chin. “There’s a little left.” He tilts my head, studying it in the light. “Looks like the glass just grazed you here, so it’s only a scratch.”

He dabs another cotton ball in the solution, and then his left hand comes back to my face, his palm cradling my uninjured cheek, holding me secure. It burns, just like all the others, but this time I don’t have the luxury of watching his expression. My face is turned to the side, away from his. Though after the last few minutes, I can picture him clearly. See it all in my head. The way his mouth purses as he concentrates. The way his brows crease in sympathy when I tense and do my best not to jerk away. I can picture the shape of his lips as he blows cool air, just as he’s doing right now, only a few millimeters away from my skin.

Finally, he’s done, the cotton ball discarded, joining the pile of used ones beside me. But he hasn’t dropped his hand. It’s still there, spanning the side of my face. His thumb tucked beneath my chin. His fingertips threading into my hair. He holds still for a beat, and then his thumb inches up, rising from my chin, coming to a stop right below the curve of my bottom lip.

His pupils are large, and they grow larger as I suck in a breath. The movement makes my mouth part, bringing my lip into direct contact with the pad of his thumb.

And slowly, he tilts my face down.

He’s going to kiss me, I think as he rises toward me, bridging the space between us.

My eyes instinctively slide shut, and the scent of him fills my lungs. Sawdust and warmth and earth. I lean farther into it, wanting more.

Now . His fingers tighten in my hair. I feel him exhale against my lips. It’s going to happen now.

But then, his arm retracts. My eyes pop open to see his hand fall loosely to his side, his fingers flexing once, then forming into a fist, while I’m left with slightly stinging wounds and the residual warmth from his palm against my cheek.

He stands back up, and I spring up as well.

“Thanks,” I say. “I…I appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” he responds. And then his eyes flit down to my shirt. Really, his shirt. The fabric is pretty damp, not completely drenched, but it definitely shows the aftereffects of the ministorm that happened in my room, making the shirt mold to my body, clinging to my curves. His headlamp follows his gaze, and it’s as if a spotlight is shining right there, highlighting my chest. A second later, he seems to realize his error. Seems to realize that the headlamp has given him away, because he snaps to attention, his head swinging up fast.

“I’ll get you another shirt,” he says. He retreats to the bedroom, coming back a moment later with a twin of the shirt I’m wearing: another plain white cotton tee. I take it from his outstretched hand, and for a split second I’m tempted to sniff it, to see if it carries the same vetiver scent, but Nikhil’s watching me.

“Thank you,” I say. I raise the new shirt, waving it slightly. “I’m just going to…uhh, change, so if you could…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nikhil says. He backs away quickly. “Sure.”

He exits the bathroom and closes the door behind him, but with the absence of his headlamp, the room is sent into sudden darkness.

“Nikhil,” I call. The door opens up a crack. “Could you leave the light? Or actually, do you have another flashlight?”

He lets out a puff of breath, something between an exhale and a laugh. “Why? Don’t you want to wear the headlamp?”

“Umm, not particularly.”

He huffs again, though a second later he’s handing a slim flashlight to me.

“Thanks.” I flick it on and change quickly. Obviously, I misread the moment. Maybe it was just muscle memory or the remnants of the attraction that used to be there, but I doubt Nikhil actually wanted to kiss me. He’s probably still furious with me about the guest bedroom. To his credit, he hasn’t done that much I-told-you-so - ing, but he absolutely could have.

Shame prickles the back of my neck. I owe him an apology. Maybe I can offer to make it up to him. There has to be a way I can repay him for getting me out of there. Maybe I could cover the cost of repairing the guest room?

I go out to present my offer to Nikhil but stop when I see him wrestling with some kind of blanket in his arms. The material’s shiny. Reflective. Which I can see clearly because he’s still got on that headlamp.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Nikhil fumbles a second, then lets out a sound of relief. He yanks on something and a zipper comes undone.

“The thing was stuck,” he says. “For a second I thought we might only have one sleeping bag.”

Right. The closet. The sleeping bag s . The plan Nikhil had all along. “But we don’t, right? You have another one?”

“Yeah, mine’s already set up in there.” He nods in the direction of the closet. “I knew I had an extra, but it took me a minute to find it. And then I couldn’t get it open. But it’s fine now.”

He opens the closet, bending down and placing the sleeping bag on the floor.

The closet space is just as tight as I remember it. Though it’slarger than the coat closet downstairs. That thing wouldn’t fit one sleeping bag, let alone two. But these sleeping bags take up allthe floor space. There’s not going to be a whole lot of wiggle room.

And with the two bags next to each other and the lantern-radio on the floor in between, this setup is…cozy. Like some intimate couple’s camping trip. The back of my arm itches. The stress must be breaking me out into hives.

I scratch absently, then hiss.

Nikhil turns around, his eyes wide. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Ignore me. I forgot about the…” I gesture toward my arm, waving at the tiny scrapes there.

He frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s nothing.” I clear my throat. “Actually, I wanted to tell you that I’m—”

A loud crack sounds, and I almost jump out of my skin. I cast a wary glance toward the bedroom window, which I’m thankful to see is still boarded up.

“Probably just a branch,” Nikhil says calmly, but his forehead is creased. He’s worried. “Still, we should both get inside.”

I step into the closet and don’t say anything when Nikhil closes the door behind us. I don’t point out that the noise outside sounded a lot more like an entire tree toppling than a branch snapping. I don’t continue my apology from before. I don’t even breathe.

Unlike the sharp beam of light protruding from Nikhil’s forehead, the lantern on the floor is soft, emitting a warm, almost golden glow. But that’s not what gives me pause. It’s the fact that my back is pressed against something hard and firm. Nikhil’s chest. I can feel it rise and fall as he lets out a breath. Somehow both hot and cool as it settles on my skin, moving through my hair. I hold back a shiver.

His hands come to the tops of my shoulders. “Meena,” he says, and the shiver I’ve been suppressing climbs up my spine.

He presses lightly, using the pressure to maneuver me a step forward. “You’re blocking the way,” he says curtly. He takes a tiny step around me before dropping to the floor and sliding into his sleeping bag.

I mirror his movements, mechanically, getting into my bag and zipping it around me. I’m frazzled and out of sorts, but that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Nikhil. I haven’t gotten much sleep. I’m stuck in this house I’d never thought I would visit again. And there’s a literal hurricane going on outside right now. I’m allowed to be frazzled. It’s understandable under the circumstances. Any rational person going through this would be.

I turn onto my side, facing away from him, and blow out a breath.

“You good?” he asks, the pitch of his voice sounding lower than usual. Or maybe it’s the acoustics in this tiny room.

“Yeah. Fine.”

He waits a beat. “You were going to tell me something,” he says. “Before.”

“Oh. Right.” I shift. The sleeping bag provides more cushion than I thought, but I can’t remember the last time I slept on the ground. It’s not exactly comfortable. “I was going to say that I’m…well, I’m sorry.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but fortunately I’m still turned away. Really, it should be socially acceptable to do all apologies this way. With our backs toward the wronged party. Though I’m still embarrassed, though I still hate having to do this, not having to see him or gauge his reaction is making it all easier.

“I should have listened to you,” I continue. “About the guest bedroom. About not sleeping there.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Probably because he’s so unfamiliar with the concept of an apology. He’d never reached out after the fight, never told me he was sorry for any of it.

“It’s fine,” he finally says.

“No. No, it’s not. Actually, I wanted to, uh, offer to pay you back. You know, just let me know how much damage there is to the room, and if there are any repairs, you can send me the bill. I’ll take care of it and—”

“I don’t need your money, Meena.”

“Oh. Yeah. I know that, but I want to—”

“I don’t want your money, Meena. Keep it.” The words are strained, as if they’re barely escaping through clenched teeth.

“I’m just trying to say sorry.” Though to be honest, it’s more than that. He helped me, and I’m not going to leave here with a debt unpaid. With my owing anything to him.

“You got hurt,” he grumbles. “And the window would have blown in even if you weren’t there. There’s nothing you need to payfor.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood. “Maybe the plywood would have stayed in place if I wasn’t here. You’d probably have had a better assistant helping you than me.”

“I wouldn’t have had an assistant. I would have done it myself.”

His serious reply sinks my attempt at levity. “Right,” I say. “That makes sense.”

The closet reverts to silence, broken only by the rustle of the synthetic sleeping bag material next to me. He’s probably rolling over. I wonder which way he’s facing, but I don’t give in to the temptation to sneak a peek over my shoulder.

“Actually,” he says, “I should have boarded the windows up earlier in the day. I ended up having to do them faster than normal. It’s possible I missed something.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” I say. I don’t know why I’m trying to console him, but I don’t want him thinking I blame him. At least not for this. “And it’s not like you had a ton of notice.”

He pauses. “I had enough time. It’s just…as soon as I heard the news I…I had another property I had to board up first.”

“Oh.” For a second I think Nikhil is saying he owns another house, but then I realize he’s talking about work. “Well, that’s important,” I say. “I understand why you’d prioritize that.”

“You…you do?”

“Yeah. It’s not like you can just tell the boss you’re not going to show up.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I feel the need to clarify.

“I just mean that if you had a site you had to prep first, then that makes sense. It’s what you had to do.”

“A site,” he repeats slowly, like he’s unable to understand what I’m saying.

“A construction site?” I try, the words unintentionally coming out like a question. Is that not a commonly used term? I swear I’ve heard him say it before.

A few seconds pass. “Right,” he says. “Sorry. Yes, that property is under construction.” He moves again, the material crinkling. “We should get some sleep.”

As soon as he says it, I register how heavy my eyelids are. How exhausted my body is. Whatever adrenaline has been fueling me, it’s completely gone now. “Good night,” I tell him, closing my eyes.

I’m asleep before I hear any kind of response.