Chapter 9
9
Congresswoman Garcia, like so many Texas politicians, represents a thoroughly gerrymandered district. It’s a sliver of downtown Houston and a large chunk of a couple surrounding suburbs, but the area is all still firmly within Harris County. And like most of Harris County, the district consistently votes blue. Despite the occasional competitor, Garcia’s held the seat comfortably for years.
I met her once at some breakfast fundraiser a few years ago. She was an absolute powerhouse. Her exterior had been deceptive, a frail frame, with a light pink shawl draped over her slightly hunched shoulders. But when she spoke, the whole room snapped to attention. No one could resist the command in her voice. The fervor. A decade-long leader on immigration and refugee policy, she spoke about human rights abuses at the border and fighting to increase refugee admissions. By the end of her speech, I’d wanted to rise to my feet. I hadn’t heard anyone talk about public service like that in so long, and it had made me really think about what could be possible.
I want to talk to Shake about all of this. We’d planned on my running for an open state representative seat in Maryland—in conjunction with his state senate run—but this could change things. My long-term goal has always been to run for Congress, and Congresswoman Garcia’s seat is in my hometown. I have a connection here that I don’t have in Maryland, and I care deeply about the work she’s done. It’s a legacy I’d like to carry forward. Even if local hero Elizabeth Jeffries makes a play for the seat, these kinds of races can be unpredictable. When a long-term incumbent voluntarily steps aside, sometimes things break in favor of a wild-card pick. We could at least run it by our advisory group. See what they think. That is, if I can get Nikhil to sign off on this divorce. And if Shake still wants to get back together, wants to run together, once all of this is over.
As Nikhil and I tie off the canoe and follow Alan into his sister’s house, I remember that my phone is broken. That even though I want to talk with him, I won’t be able to share any of this news with Shake until I get home.
“Alan, is that you?” a woman calls, and Alan increases his pace.
“Betty, hi!” he says eagerly. “It’s me. And I’ve brought friends.”
“ Friends? ” Nikhil mouths at me behind Alan’s back, a teasing glint in his eyes, and I fight the urge to laugh.
A tall, middle-aged white woman with short brown hair comes out to greet us, and I recognize her immediately from all the times she came on local news when I was a kid.
She goes up to Nikhil first, her arms spread out wide as she wraps him in a hug.
“Thanks for getting him,” she says.
“Not a problem,” he replies.
Elizabeth steps back, clasping Nikhil’s upper arms. “You’re a good egg, you know? We’re lucky to have you on our street. And I hate to do it, but I’m going to be asking you for more help soon. With Building Better? I know you’ve already given us a ton of your time, but with the storm we’re going to be busier than ever. So many homes are going to need gutting and repairs, and we could use your expertise.”
Nikhil nods. “Of course. No need to ask. I’m happy to do it.”
She beams, then turns to me, taking my hand in hers and pumping it firmly. “And thank you too, Meena. I appreciate everything you both did for Alan.” She gestures toward Nikhil. “You’ve got a good friend over here. Even with how busy he is, with that huge project ofhis own, he still finds time to volunteer and help us out. I don’t know what we’d do without him. I mean, we get a lot of people who sign up, but most of them are only equipped to paint houses. Not a lot know how to do the real structural work, so he’s an incredible asset to our nonprofit.”
“Yeah,” I say, shooting a glance toward Nikhil. “It’s nice to meet you too.” Nikhil never mentioned that he actually knew Elizabeth Jeffries, but they must talk often. She sounds up to date on everything happening in his life. This huge project of his? All this volunteering? The Nikhil I knew was so bogged down in work he had very little free time for anything else.
It’s strange to think that she knows this new version of Nikhil better than I do.
The back of my neck prickles, and I rub the spot.
“Where’s Kim?” Nikhil asks, looking around the living room. “Is she working?”
Elizabeth invites us to sit down and grabs some water bottles and snacks from the kitchen. Alan reaches for a packet of pretzels and tears into them before I can blink.
“Yeah, she’s working.” Elizabeth looks in my direction. “My wife’s an ob-gyn,” she tells me. “She’s one of the more senior ones over there, so she always volunteers to be at the hospital during storms like this. She’s worked through a bunch of them, so she feels like she should be there, and I can’t blame her. I used to work through every storm too.”
“I know,” I say. “I remember.”
She inclines her head, and the gesture somehow conveys acknowledgment and humility at the same time. It’s clearly a practiced move from a career in politics, but it still manages to come across as sincere. I make a mental note to try it out sometime.
“I used to watch local news all the time as a kid,” I continue. “City council sessions and local policy votes. It’s what really got me interested in public service as a career.”
“Meena works in D.C.,” Nikhil adds.
“Oh.” Elizabeth’s eyes spark with interest. “On the Hill?”
I shake my head. “Public interest lobbying. I’m on the Hill a lot though. Just not working there myself.”
She watches me for a long second, then smiles. “But you want to,” she says.
“Oh, I…”
“You want to,” she says again, her voice clear, leaving no room for disagreement. “I see it in you too. Running for office, it draws the kind of people who crave what it can give. Power or recognition or influence. Or control. I’m not saying everyone starts that way necessarily, but even the people with good intentions…All of it can get warped after a while. I mean, just look at most of the people representing us.”
My skin grows itchy. Or maybe it’s just all the ant bites on my arms making their presence known. But Elizabeth’s words…they make me uncomfortable. I’ve been so sure about this plan, I’ve been trying to work toward it for so long, but is that all my desire to run for office is? A quest for recognition?
I’d thought running for office would allow me to advocate for the causes I believe matter most. I thought it would be an opportunity to make a difference, but is Elizabeth right? What she’s describing, I’ve watched it happen. I’ve watched people abandon their principles when they realize sticking with them might cause them to lose their seats. And Shake and I have been so busy strategizing, trying to figure out timing and the right races that would give us the best chances of success. We’ve talked about policy, but only in dry terms, making sure our platforms are compatible. I can’t rememberthe last time we spoke with the kind of sincerity and passion Congresswoman Garcia had that day.
“Meena’s not like that,” Nikhil says, and my head snaps in his direction. Elizabeth’s expression reveals that she’s just as surprised as I am, but as she watches Nikhil, her surprise morphs into something else.
“I didn’t say she was,” Elizabeth replies, a touch of amusement in her voice.
“To be fair, Betty,” Alan says around a mouthful of pretzels, “that is what you basically implied.”
Nikhil’s eyes meet mine, his expression slightly abashed. “I only meant that’s not how you used to talk about it,” he says, and something pinches in my chest.
“Yeah?” Elizabeth asks.
“Yeah,” Nikhil says, still watching me. “You talked about the local leaders you admired, the ones you grew up watching. People pushing for change, for policies that made people’s lives better. You said they inspired you, that they were the reason you went to law school, the reason you wanted to work in policy and be in D.C.”
That pinching sensation twists and grows as I remember the many conversations Nikhil and I used to have about this. The way he’d listen, retaining everything I said, and reminding me about it when I had a bad day with bar prep. Reminding me why I was doing this, what I was ultimately working toward.
Elizabeth smiles faintly. “See, I wasn’t done before. If you’d let me finish you’d have heard me say that there are also people who run for office because they’re hoping to subvert things. Hoping they can change things from the inside. Maybe it’s optimistic or just plain delusional to think it can be done, but I’m willing to admit I’m one of those people. And it sounds like you’re one of them too,” she says, looking at me.
My throat tightens. Younger me would have pushed back against Elizabeth a bit. I would have said it wasn’t delusional at all, that I really believed that the law, that the whole system could change. That we could make it change.
But years of working in D.C. have dulled some of that shiny, youthful enthusiasm. I’ve seen just how much harm the law can do. How inherently flawed the whole system is. How quickly fundamental rights can be stripped and how things can go from bad to even worse in an instant, making people throughout this country—and especially this state—suffer as a result.
“I like to think I am,” I finally respond.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nikhil frown, the corners of his lips pulling taut.
“It’s a hard road,” Elizabeth continues. “And it’s certainly not the only avenue by which to pursue change. But I feel like it’s work worth doing. Even here, where it feels like there’s a lot more losses than there are victories, where every day is an uphill battle, there’s nothing else I’d rather do. Texas is my home. My wife’s home. And we’re not going to give it up without a fight.” She reaches for a water bottle and takes a sip. “If you feel even a fraction of that, I hope you do run for office one day.”
“Thanks,” I say, my brain trying to catch up with how I feel. What Elizabeth’s said has ignited something in me, and it’s a rush of sensation. One that’s not entirely pleasant. It’s almost like pins and needles, as if something that’s been sleeping is slowly coming back to life. “I appreciate that,” I tell her. “I appreciate everything you’ve said.”
I reach for a water bottle of my own and catch Nikhil watching me, his face thoughtful and open. A mix of recognition and something else. Like he’s saying There you are and Who are you? all in one single glance.
And as I look back at him, our gazes locked, I know my eyes tell him the same things too.
—
“How many bites did you get?” Nikhil asks, after we’ve dropped off the canoe in the garage and entered the house. He’s twisting his arms, scanning both of them. The raised red bumps are clear even from a couple feet away.
“I can’t count them all. Feels like a thousand. You?”
“Same.”
My clothes, my shoes, my jacket—all fully soaked now—didn’t prevent any of the tiny ants from getting inside. My skin itches. Everywhere. My torso, my back, the spaces between my toes.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say. I walk toward the stairs but stop right at the foot of them. The idea of trudging up the steps zaps whatever remaining energy I’d had right out of me. I’ve been running on a cocktail of too little sleep, adrenaline, and a will to survive, and I’ve pushed my body past its limits over and over during these last few hours. Now it’s rebelling. Insisting that we get some rest and shut it all down.
“You want a piggyback ride?” Nikhil asks, standing next to me, a small, tired smile on his face.
Sudden memories flash through my mind. Nikhil carrying me on his back when I twisted my ankle on a walk. Hoisting me onto his shoulders for chicken fights in the pool. Cradling me in his arms and carrying me to bed whenever I fell asleep at my desk.
“No, no. I’ve got this.” I wrap a hand around the railing, and force myself forward. One step at a time.
He huffs, following my slow ascent up the stairs. “It’s not a crime to accept help, you know.”
I almost roll my eyes. “I know. I’m not the one who needs to learn that lesson.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The words gather on my tongue, but I stop, and shake my head.
Nikhil is an island. A self-sufficient little island. He was like that during our marriage and he’s like that now. I tried to get past his defenses once. Tried to get him to let me in. I tried over and over. And I’m done. It’s not my problem anymore. It hasn’t been my problem for a long time.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him breezily.
“You think I don’t ask for help?”
“I said don’t worry about it.” Trying to sound light and carefree takes a bit more effort this time.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
I pretend I don’t hear him even though I’m tempted to say that I agree. This whole situation is ridiculous, though not for the reasons he thinks. But it’s not worth getting into right now. My priorities are shower and sleep. And then whenever I wake up, food. And after I’ve achieved everything on the bottom level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, I can work my way to the highest point of my pyramid: the divorce papers.
We finally reach the top of the stairs, and I feel as if I’ve climbed a mountain. I’m slightly winded, but I keep my eyes on the prize, hurrying to the bedroom. I steal a clean shirt and some gym shorts out of Nikhil’s drawer and stroll confidently into the bathroom, claiming the shower first. But before I can close the door, Nikhil’s hand shoots out, stopping it.
“You’re the one who never accepted my help,” he says, his neutral tone betrayed by the fire in his eyes. “You’re the one who never needed me.”
I shake my head. I should just let this go, but the words escape me before I can help it. “I needed you, Nikhil. I did. That was the problem.”
A line forms between his eyebrows, and even though I’m feeling all kinds of things toward him at the moment, I’m tempted to run my finger down it. Tempted to know what that small groove would feel like against my skin.
Instead, I press on. “How do you think it felt to be the only one falling apart? The one who was always struggling. Always taking. Always needing something .” A rush of breath leaves my lungs, and my next words are quieter. Small and resigned. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed you to need me too.”
He takes a step back, and I barely register his thunderstruck expression before I push the bathroom door shut.
—
Our marriage lasted exactly one year. I guess legally it’s lasted about seven years, but we had only one real year of living together. One year of calling each other husband and wife. One year of trying to make it work.
It’s not hard to pinpoint the exact moment things went wrong. That conversation—that fight—was an explosion, razing everything in its path. Burning whatever love existed between us into ash.
In the time that followed, I blamed everything on that moment. I picked apart the words I’d used. The words he’d used. I imagined different phrases. Different tones. Even different locations for that conversation. I wondered for months if a different approach would have rendered a different result.
But with time and distance I’ve been able to examine that entire year under a microscope. I see the fault lines that existed before that moment. The tiny cracks that made the ultimate fracture inevitable. Nikhil and I were always doomed to fail.
There was the honeymoon phase, of course. But that wasn’t enough to sustain us. It wouldn’t be enough to sustain anyone. I was always supposed to move to D.C. And Nikhil’s job was here in Houston. I was supposed to be doing things, achieving things, and instead my failure forced me to stay still. Stay home and study. While Nikhil left the house every day and worked. From morning to evening. He took on extra shifts. Extra responsibilities. Working Saturdays and Sundays too. I knew he was miserable. It was clear he was miserable. But when I asked, he always hid it, covered it up with that pained smile I grew to hate, until I stopped asking. Even when the loneliness grew and grew and grew, and his expression grew darker and sadder and more withdrawn, I stopped pushing because I knew why he was doing it. Why he stayed at a job he clearly hated. I wasn’t bringing any money in. I had student debt and meager savings. I couldn’t help much with the rent. Or the bills. Or anything. Nikhil had to provide.
It felt so regressive. So backwards. So wrong.
I’d told him I’d find a part-time job. Find some way to contribute, but he’d refused. He knew how much time I’d spent studying for the bar exam the first time around. He knew it was basically a full-time gig. That I wouldn’t have the time for anything else. He’d reassured me. Told me that he understood.
He’d had dreams of his own, but nothing that he’d ever share in detail. He talked once about creating something of his own. Maybe opening an interior design company. Maybe branching into something else altogether. But whenever I tried to bring it up, he’d say that none of that mattered right now. That he didn’t mind putting that on hold.
But he’d said all of that with the assumption that this was a temporary phase. He’d been so sure that I’d pass the bar the next time. That I’d get my job offer back. That I’d get back on track and get everything I always wanted. And he’d said that he’d wait to pursue his dreams until I’d achieved mine.
At first it had been sweet. His faith in me. His belief that I could do it.
And then it had felt heavy. Suffocating. This expectation. This pressure. This weight. Pressing in on all sides.
I had to pass. I had to do this. I had to make this marriage work. I had to do it all.
I had no other option.
Because he was supportive, he was willing to put his dreams on hold for now, but what would happen in the future? I knew he loved me now, but I wasn’t sure if that love could withstand another failure.
I don’t know when the spiral began, but by the time I realized it was happening, I was too deep in it to know what to do. And it didn’t help that Nikhil was always…fine. Smiling through every setback. Working twice as hard to make sure we were okay. While I was just a crumpled mess, crying on the floor. I’d tried to tell him how I felt, and he’d comforted me, reassured me that everything would be fine, but my vulnerability was never reciprocated. He refused to lean on me, refused to look to me for support the same way I looked to him, and it made everything feel so unbalanced.
I was taking, and he was giving, and I didn’t want it to all build up. For him to resent me, or leave me, so, after some time, I stopped sharing. Started wiping my tears when I heard the garage door open. Started pretending things were okay as soon as he got home.
Just like I’m pretending now. I exit the bathroom, my chin lifted high. No hint of how I’m really feeling on my face. Not that my charade is even necessary. Nikhil doesn’t look at me as he passes by, barreling into the bathroom as soon as I exit. He doesn’t say a word. Though at the last moment he reaches in my direction quickly, discreetly tucking something in the palm of my hand.
I wait until the door shuts to examine it closely. It’s some kind of tube. I squint, angling my flashlight toward it.
1% Hydrocortisone Anti-Itch Cream. The generic Walgreens version.
I’m not sure why that part sticks out to me. Maybe because I’m almost positive I know the Walgreens Nikhil bought this from. It’s just up the road. It’s the same one where he bought all those reading glasses. And where we’d run if we needed just a little bit of milk. Or shampoo. Or something small that didn’t warrant a longer drive to the closest Target or H-E-B.
I squeeze a generous dollop on my finger and start rubbing it across my itchy skin. Relief floods through me within minutes.
I open the door to the closet, more than ready to finally get some rest, but the king-size bed in the middle of the bedroom catches my eye. It’s so tempting. Large and lush and inviting. It’s not the same bed frame we had when I lived here. This one’s a rich dark wood. Maybe something like mahogany. The comforter isn’t one of the bright chaotic patterns I’d picked out either. It’s all one solid color. Kind of between a blue and a gray. I run a hand over it and almost shiver. It’s so soft. I can just imagine how it would feel against my skin.
I shoot a wary glance toward the boarded-up windows. Outside it had seemed like the storm was moving on. Even from in here I can tell that the wind has lessened. That the rain’s lighter. There’s no more terrifying snap and crackle of branches breaking or trees hurtling to the ground.
But we’ve come this far. There’s no point taking any unnecessary chances now. My father’s voice echoes in my head. Something he taught me when I was learning how to drive: “Most accidents happen close to home.” He’d explained that when drivers start to get within five miles of their house, they let their guard down. They get too comfortable once they’re in the homestretch. Toward the end of their journey.
He’d drilled that into my brain. Along with a million other instructions about not taking unnecessary risks. About following the rules. About not deviating from the straight and narrow. Though he’d never said it directly, I’d always known what his lessons were actually about. The undercurrent of fear in his voice had made it abundantly clear.
My sister was a junior in college when she got pregnant with Ritu. I’d been only twelve at the time, but I vividly remember the fallout. My sister having to drop out of college, having to abandon her dreams of medical school. My parents being utterly distraught. Disillusioned. Dismayed. Ultimately, they supported my sister. When Ritu’s father made it clear he wouldn’t be involved, my parents stepped up. They were at every doctor’s appointment. They stayed with my sister at the hospital. And when Ritu was born, they showered so much love on their new granddaughter. But as loving as they were, there was always a lingering sense of sadness. And the community’s reaction certainly didn’t help. Snide comments and constant judgment and whispers about how my sister not only wasn’t married but also had no plans to get married, from the aunties and uncles who were supposed to be my parents’ friends. I’ve always suspected that part of the reason for my parents’ move up north was to escape some of that shame.
My parents were never really the same after that. And there’d been a new unspoken rule in our home. An unspoken expectation. You will not end up like your sister. You will not end up the same way.
I give the bed one last longing look before crawling into the closet and slipping into my sleeping bag. I must be truly exhausted—and possibly borderline delirious—because this bag feels ten times more comfortable than it did before.
I sink down into its warmth, my body relaxing, a delightful haze taking over my mind.
The bathroom door opens with a loud creak, the sound traveling all the way in here. I close my eyes, hoping Nikhil will think I’m asleep. Hoping he’ll switch off the lantern so we can put an end to this day and just start fresh tomorrow. I don’t open them, even when I hear the sleeping bag beside me rustle, even though I can feel the weight of his gaze on me.
“I needed you,” he says softly. So softly I’m not sure whether I heard him. So softly I’m not sure whether he wanted me to hear him. “I needed you,” he says again, even quieter. “And then you left.”
Oh no . No. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to pin all the blame on me.
I flip over, and watch as his eyes widen in surprise.
“I didn’t just leave,” I say. “I asked you to move with me.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did!” I’d not only asked him to move to D.C.; I’d practically begged him.
“You said it, but you didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, wow.” I sit up, my legs folding underneath me as I turn to face him fully. “So now you’re telling me you have some magical ability? You know my own thoughts better than I do? You think you can read my mind?”
He sits up as well, looking directly in my eyes. “I didn’t have to. Your face that day said it all. And if you’d really wanted me to move with you, you wouldn’t have shouted it at me in the heat of the moment. Like an afterthought. You’d have planned it. Methodically. That’s who you are, Meena.”
He’s right and he’s wrong. Normally I would have. I’d have presented a whole plan to him with a time line and ideas of places we could live. But all my carefully made plans tended to fly out the window when I was around Nikhil. And more than that, I’d been terrified to actually plan the move. It had felt like tempting fate. Tempting the powers that be. I hadn’t wanted to bank on passing the bar. On getting my job back. I hadn’t wanted to plan a move contingent on those things only for it to all fall apart. Again.
“You’re just making excuses now,” I say. “Bottom line is I asked you to come with me and you said no.”
“I didn’t say no.”
I scoff. “Oh, really?”
“You left before I could give you my answer.”
“Well, you didn’t move with me. You didn’t call me or text me or contact me at all after I left. So, I think it’s pretty clear what your answer would have been.”
“You’d be wrong.” Indecision flickers over his face for a moment, but then something hard and sure settles into place. “I came to D.C., you know?”
A cool wave of surprise washes over me, scattering every half-formed argument in my head. “What?”
“Stupid, right?” He lets out a sad, humorless laugh. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn’t thinking.”
My mind whirs. “When…when did you—”
“Three months after. After you left.”
Three months. At that point, I’d barely unpacked my new apartment. Barely found my footing at work. I’d been so new to the city. So new to everything. And so heartbroken.
“I didn’t know. You never came to see me.”
“I did.”
I shake my head. That’s not possible. I never saw him there. Not once.
“I went to your office,” he continues. “And they told me you were on the Hill.”
That sounds…probable. I was there more days than not. Lobbying for causes. Pushing for the votes my clients wanted. It had been exhilarating back then. Recently, it’s started to feel…limiting. We’re selective with our clients, so our values tend to be aligned, but I want to be able to advocate for the causes I care about, not just the ones my clients do. It’s why I thought about running for office.
“There was a vote that day,” Nikhil says. “Proposed budget cuts for WIC.”
And now my memory sharpens, the picture coming into focus. I remember that day. I remember being absolutely fueled by anger. This country already lacks a true social safety net, leaving so many to suffer, to fend for themselves. And instead of strengthening the few programs we have, these individuals were trying to cut them further. Cuts that would harm real people.
I couldn’t help but think of my sister. My sister, who may not have had the support of our community but had had the support of my parents, and thanks to them, some financial resources. But even with that, she had suffered so much. I was all too aware of the many people who didn’t have that kind of support to rely on. WIC doesn’t solve everything. It’s not perfect. There are still too many hurdles and hoops for people to jump through before receiving the benefits. But it’s one of the only federal programs aimed at supporting pregnant people and young children, and my interest that day wasn’t driven only by the fact that I had a job to do. It felt personal.
“I remember,” I tell Nikhil. “I remember that day. But you weren’t…”
“I was there,” he says. “And I saw you. You were wearing a blazer. Dark gray. I’d never seen you wear one before. And you were arguing with someone. I wasn’t close enough to hear what you were saying, but this guy must have been twice your age. Possibly more. And he was listening. And I could just see it. I could see the exact moment you had him. The subtle shift in his face. In his posture.
“I was so proud of you, Meena. I was bursting with it. I was going to come up to you. Going to tell you how amazing that was, and then you did it again. Confronting someone else. And then another person. And another.”
“They didn’t all change their minds,” I say.
“No, but he did. The first guy. I saw it. I watched the vote. You were probably there, seeing it in person, but I was sitting outside, watching it all on my phone. The C-Span feed was slow and buffering, but I saw his vote. And the end result. You won.”
“It wasn’t just me. There were a lot of people who worked on—”
“But you made a difference,” he says, a bit of wonder in his voice. “I…I’d never really understood it all before. The things you wanted to do. I mean, I’d heard you talk about it. I knew you were passionate. I knew it meant a lot to you. And I’d admired it, but still, I just…I had no clue.”
My reality is shifting. I can’t make sense of it all. That the narrative of us is different from what I’d thought it was. That Nikhil hadn’t just accepted it when I left. That he hadn’t just let me go. He’d tried to come after me. Except…
“Why didn’t I see you? Why would you come all that way and not talk to me?”
“Because I couldn’t.” His words are raw. Hoarse. “How could I? What could I say? What could I offer you?” He waves a hand around him. “This? A house in the suburbs? Far away from everything you wanted. Far away from the thing you were meant to do?”
“You could have come when I’d asked. You could have—”
“You didn’t want me there! And once I got there, once I saw what you were doing, I understood why. What could I, where would I— I wouldn’t have fit into any of that.”
“I wanted you there. I wanted you there with me. How could you think I wouldn’t—”
“You left . You asked me to move, gave me barely any time to decide, and then you left . You left for your job. You left for something better. You left because Plan A was finally an option. And you didn’t need Plan B anymore.”
“And what exactly was Plan B, Nikhil?”
He shakes his head. “Me. This. It was always temporary for you. Something to do. A way to bide your time until what you really wanted came along.”
I suck in a breath. He…he really thinks the worst of me. He really thinks of me as some heartless user who just took and took and took from him. Who disposed of him when I didn’t need him anymore.
“You’re wrong,” I say. “I never thought of any of it that way. Never. I left because you didn’t want to come with me.”
His mouth opens, but I quickly continue. “You didn’t, Nikhil. You knew my plan was always to move there, to work there, but every time I dropped hints about it…you shut down. You made it clear you didn’t want to talk about it. That day I asked you to move…that was me putting it all on the line. And I felt so guilty about it. You’d already sacrificed so much, done so much to support me, and I didn’t want you to have to leave Houston or this home—Iknew how much it meant to you. At one point…I even looked for work here. I tried to think about a way to stay, but nothing was close to the job in D.C.”
His eyes grow wide. “Meena—”
“But I still asked, I begged, because I was desperate. I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want to move without you. But…maybe it wasn’t right to ask you to come with me, to leave everything behind. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected that. Maybe…I asked for too much.”
“You didn’t,” he says immediately, his voice low and firm. “I would have come. If I’d known this was how you felt…” He swallows, looking down. “There was nothing here that was holding me back. My job, this house…None of it mattered to me the way you did. But I was…I was so convinced you didn’t want me. I thought you were looking for an excuse to end things. A way to let me down gently.”
My eyes prick, tears forming at the corners. “If I knew you were in D.C., if I’d known you’d come, if I’d just seen you—”
“I wanted to tell you I was there,” he says. “But when I saw you working…it suddenly seemed so selfish. I thought you wanted—that you needed —someone different, someone who would understand your life there and your work, someone who could help you with it.”
Someone like Shake .
I mentally flinch.
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” Nikhil continues. “And I didn’t want to try to change your mind. I didn’t want you to have to…settle for me when you could have something else.”
“It wouldn’t have been settling,” I say, my voice small. “You’re…you were everything I wanted. Back then.”
He inhales sharply, and the sound is so startling, so raw, that one of my tears escapes, sliding down my cheek.
His eyes follow the movement, and there’s something haunted about the way he looks at me.
“Me too,” he says. “You were everything I wanted too.”
My chest aches, my mind reels. The past may have been different than I thought, but my present is still the same. Shake and my career and everything I’ve planned for the future. I don’t know how to reconcile all of it. Don’t know how to make all these discordant pieces fit back together in my mind.
The silence between us is loud. Heavy. But neither of us breaks it. Nikhil turns down the lantern, and we both lie back on the floor.
After a little while, my tears dry up and I think Nikhil’s fallen asleep until I hear him release a shuddering breath, one he tries to muffle.
It breaks me.
In the dim light, I spy his arm outside his sleeping bag, lying in the tiny space between us. I don’t say anything, but I shift a tiny bit closer, slowly reaching toward him until we make the barest contact. One he might think is an accident, a movement made in my sleep.
Just the back of my hand lightly grazing his.