Flirting With Disaster

Chapter 14

14

We sleep in separate rooms that night. We don’t discuss it. We both just gravitate to our respective areas. I grab a pillow and blanket and head for the couch. Nikhil heads upstairs.

“I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom,” he says from the top of the stairs. He doesn’t turn back to look at me. “You can take the primary.”

“What about the broken window?” I call, but the only response I hear is the soft snick of a door closing.

The two of us cleaned that room up earlier, but I can’t imagine that it’d be comfortable to sleep there with the open window. It may not be raining anymore, but it’s still pretty warm outside, and I doubt that piece of tarp will do much to help with that. But if that’s where he wants to sleep, I guess that’s his prerogative.

I go upstairs, fully intending to go to bed, but a few moments later, I find myself standing in front of the guest bedroom, my hand hesitating above the doorknob. It’s late, and there’s not much left for Nikhil and me to talk about. Still, I don’t want us to go to sleep like this. I don’t want us to end the night on such a bitter note. It’s far too late for us to consider following trite marriage advice, but forsome reason it seems important that neither of us goes to bed angry.

I gather the courage to finally twist the doorknob, but my heart sinks when it barely moves.

It’s locked. He’s locked the door.

I could call his name. Or knock. But he’s clearly not in the mood to speak to me.

I walk the short distance to the primary bedroom, following his lead and locking the door behind me.

Ten minutes later, after staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, I climb out of bed. I quietly unlock the bedroom door, then slide back under the covers.

—

“We’re finally starting to hear some good news,” the woman on the television says. “Though it might look like the flooding’s at the same level it was yesterday, there are reports that it will soon start to go down. We expect that many streets will be clear by the end of the day, and almost all areas of Houston should be clear by tomorrow morning. Of course, a number of people are still without power, and others are contending with serious damage from the storm, but if the reports are correct, this is the last day Houstonians will be stuck in their homes. If you’re seeking shelter or need assistance, please contact the hotline at the bottom of the screen. We’re also showing a list of shelters that are offering temporary housing and aid. We’ll continue to keep you updated, but as of now, it seems like the end might be in sight.”

The reporter continues talking as I enter the bathroom. I can hear her voice while I wash my face and brush my teeth, but I’m not listening to what she’s saying. I’m still thinking about the information she just shared.

I can go home. By this time tomorrow, I could be on my way home.

I should be overjoyed at that news. I should be ready to get out of this house. I should be thrilled to finally be able to leave this place filled with nothing but painful memories, but nothing’s feeling the way it should.

The last time I left this house for good, I’d been in a hurry. It had been an impulsive decision. A few weeks prior I’d been in a completely different mindset, having just found out that I’d passed my second attempt at the bar. The relief I’d felt in that moment had been overwhelming. I’d texted the results to Nikhil and he’d somehow managed to leave work early. I’d broken down into tears the moment I saw him, and he’d just hurried toward me, wrapping me in his arms. He hadn’t asked me why I was crying or why I was upset. He’d just held me, telling me that it was okay, that I’d been through a lot, that however I felt, it was normal to feel that way.

“I passed,” I’d whispered to him, after I’d calmed down. “I passed.”

He’d kissed my forehead, and his lips had curved into a smile against my skin. “I know.”

We’d celebrated that night, just the two of us at home. And I’d never felt lighter. Like all the weight holding me down had been lifted. Nikhil had put on music and spun me in circles, and I’d laughed until I was breathless. Dizzy and joyful and for the first time, so full of hope.

But it hadn’t taken long for reality to rear its ugly head. For my brain to start reminding me of all the practicalities I’d been ignoring for too long. I hadn’t wanted to think about moving to D.C. before. I hadn’t wanted to think about anything that came after passing the bar exam. Really, I don’t know if I would have been able to at the time. I was in such a fragile spot back then. I was truly just taking it one day at a time.

But suddenly, there was so much to do. I’d need to notify the firm that I’d passed. I’d need to fill out the paperwork to waive into the D.C. bar. And eventually, I’d need to move.

I’d always known that. Nikhil had always known that. He knew moving to D.C. had always been my plan. But the two of us rarely talked about it.

He’d mentioned moving with me to D.C. once, but it had sounded like such a faraway thing then. We’d talked about maybe trying long distance, about us visiting back and forth for a while, and him maybe moving up to be with me at some indeterminate date in the future.

But we hadn’t talked like that since Vegas. So much had changed since then. After getting married, after living with him for months, I’d realized how important this city was to him. How it was the first place he’d ever been able to call home. I knew how much that meant to him after he’d moved so often as a kid, and I knew how hard leaving all that behind would be for him.

When the firm had gotten back to me, congratulating me and officially offering me the job again, I’d told Nikhil. He’d been over the moon for me, insisting that we celebrate all over again, but he didn’t bring up what the job would mean. He didn’t bring up D.C., and out of fear, I didn’t either.

Days went by, and though I started dropping hints, he never took the bait, and my fear only grew. If he was open to moving with me, if he was excited about it, wouldn’t he have mentioned it by now? Wouldn’t he have asked what our plans were? Wouldn’t he want to talk about it with me?

The more time passed, the more I became convinced that Nikhil didn’t want to move. That he wanted to stay here.

So while I waited to hear back about my waiver for the D.C. bar, I casually began looking for jobs in Texas. After all, there was good work to do here. Policies that needed to be fought, advocacy that needed to be done. But nothing I found excited me quite like my original job offer.

I was constantly browsing real estate listings and rental properties in D.C. back then. Just to get an idea. I hadn’t completely ruled out staying in Texas, but I wanted a better sense of my options. I’d had pictures of apartments and row houses near Capitol Hill on my computer screen that day, not realizing that Nikhil had been standing right behind me.

I hadn’t known it then, but that had been the beginning of the end.

He hadn’t pushed too hard about it at first. He’d tried to make his initial questions about it sound casual, but things had quickly gotten out of hand. Our emotions and voices had been high. We’d picked at each other’s deepest wounds, knowing the right places to hit, knowing exactly what to say to draw blood.

“You never ask me anything, ” he’d said. “You just plow ahead. You just decide. You don’t ask me for help or my thoughts, you just…You steamroll over everything.”

“You think I want to be that way?” I’d shot back. “I’ve tried to talk to you so many times, but you never want to talk about the hard things. And someone has to make plans. Someone has to figure things out. Otherwise, we’ll just end up making impulsive, irresponsible decisions. We can’t do that again. We need to—”

“So, you regret it? That’s what this is all about? You regret getting married?”

“No, god.” I’d felt like tearing my hair out. “Why does it always come back to that? I’m trying to plan a path forward for both of us. I want you with me. Beside me. I want to make these decisions together. Why can’t you understand that?”

The fight had gone in circles. Both of us revisiting the same topics over and over again. Both of us saying the same things. Neither of us budging an inch. Until I’d finally had it.

“I’m moving,” I’d told him. I’d been at my breaking point and the answer he gave me would tell me how he really felt. If he wanted to move. If he wanted to stay. If he thought our marriage was worth fighting for. “I’m moving,” I’d said. “And I need you to come with me. I want you to come with me.”

His mouth had fallen open in surprise. “What?”

“You say I never ask you for anything? Well, I’m asking you now. Move with me to D.C. Move with me, Nikhil. Please .”

He’d been speechless a moment, the muscles in his throat working. “You can’t ask me like this, Meenakshi. I haven’t…I don’t—”

“Then how am I supposed to ask you?”

“I don’t know. But not like this. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

I’d thrown my hands up. “How’s it supposed to be then? You want things to stay the way they are? Me living here? Stuck all day in this house? Always waiting for you ?”

His head had reared back. But instead of responding, instead of telling me that he’d move with me, or that he wouldn’t, or that he wanted to one day but wasn’t ready yet, he’d just left. And that had told me everything I needed to know.

I’d packed that night, checked into a hotel, and made my plans. I did exactly what I’d said I was always going to do. I moved to D.C.

And Nikhil didn’t call. He didn’t text. He didn’t come after me.

Except…now I know that he did. He came to D.C. He saw me. But he didn’t tell me he was there. Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he ever tell me anything? He was always so closed off. About work, about his family, about key pieces of his life.

Though I suppose I was hiding things too. I was hiding him . From my family and friends. From everyone who knew me. I thought I’d been so open. Confiding in him about my career aspirations, about my parents and my sister and my niece, about the bar exam and how scared I was. But I’d kept him a secret, and I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t really considered how that might make him feel.

Though I still can’t believe that Nikhil could ever have thought that I was embarrassed by him . He was the one with a job. The one supporting us. The one holding me and everything together. I was the one bringing nothing to the relationship. The one who’d failed. If anything, he should have been embarrassed by me .

But of course, he hadn’t been, because he’s Nikhil. Kind and steadfast and patient. He has a caretaker personality through and through. Sometimes to a fault. Sometimes at the expense of his own needs. Though I have more than my share of flaws too. It’s taken some time for me to realize it, but it’s clear that we both played a role in the demise of this marriage. We both bear some of the blame. And now, all that’s left is for us to make it official.

I go downstairs, enter the living room, and flip Nikhil’s laptop open. I would have asked his permission to use it again, but I haven’t seen him around, which is a little strange. He’s usually an early riser. Or at least, he used to be. But with everything that’s happened I wouldn’t be surprised if his sleep schedule is a little out of whack.

The airline’s sent me a message that anyone who had a flight canceled due to the storm can rebook anything in the next two weeks, regardless of price difference. Their website is already showing options out of Houston tomorrow, including an early afternoon flight to D.C. that has only a handful of seats remaining. I grab it quickly, breathing a sigh of relief when it goes through, the confirmation screen flashing like a victory flag.

I email the itinerary to Shake, so he knows not to book something, or even worse, take his client up on that offer of using the jet. I’m doing a quick scan of the news I’ve missed over the last few days when an email from Shake pops up in my inbox. I’m able to take inonly the subject line (“Rescheduled Strategy Meeting—MUST READ”) before the screen goes black.

I frantically tap the touch pad and the power key, but nothing helps. Nikhil’s computer is dead. I scan the room and the outlets but don’t see a charger anywhere.

I wish I could let it go, but that “MUST READ” is tempting me. Part of me wonders if Shake thought about what I’d said. Maybe he was able to confirm the news about Garcia’s retirement. Maybe he ran my idea by the group. Maybe they have thoughts on the Texas seat. I’m desperate to know, and it’s that desperation that forces me off the couch.

I have to ask Nikhil for the charger, and though he’s likely still asleep, there’s a possibility he’s in the garage. Sure, I haven’t heard any noises coming from in there, but maybe he’s working very, very quietly. It couldn’t hurt to check.

I rap my knuckles against the garage door, and even though I don’t hear any response, I step inside just to make sure. I’m disappointed, but not surprised, when I don’t find him in there.

Nikhil hasn’t hung the canoe back on the wall. It’s lying in the center of the garage on top of a large towel, its green paint shiny and glistening. I sidestep around it.

There are a couple objects covered by sheets and I bet those are the other projects he’s working on. They’re all different sizes, but they look like smaller pieces. At least they’re all much smaller than the canoe. A piece of wood juts out from the edge of one of the sheets, and I’m pretty sure it’s the sign he’d shown me earlier. I inch closer, trying to get a better view, to see if he ended up working on it any more, and that’s when I notice something propped up against the wall.

The size and shape of it triggers a memory in my subconscious. And the brown backing and black spring clips confirm my suspicions. It’s a picture frame. The image inside is facing the wall, but I’m almost positive it’s the one I’m thinking of. Though it’s possible he kept the frame and changed the picture inside. Or left it empty.

There’s only one way to find out. I grab the top two corners and turn the frame around, unable to hold back a gasp at what I see.

The glass is cracked. Lines running in every direction. Not unlike the screen on my broken phone.

The broken glass doesn’t completely distort the image behind it, though, and after a while I don’t even notice the cracks anymore.

Two faces stare back at me. Such young faces. These two don’t have crow’s-feet when they smile or strands of gray hair. These two don’t know the heartbreak that awaits them. These two aren’t even aware of what’s going on around them at the moment.

Nikhil and I had laughed the entire time we sat for our portrait, the artist constantly admonishing us to sit still, which had only made us laugh more. I don’t remember what was so funny. I don’t think it was anything in particular. I just remember that the world had seemed so alive. It had been golden hour on the strip, and every casino and billboard and sign had been lit in this beautiful, magical glow.

Nikhil had been glowing too. Bubbly like a glass of champagne. Joyful and effervescent in a way that felt contagious. He was sunshine incarnate, and any stress or anxiety or worry I should have had about our reckless decision, about our impetuous wedding, vanished under his rays.

I stare at my younger self and hardly recognize the girl I see. She’s pure adoration, her eyes fixed on the man beside her. And he’s watching her in return, his expression so soft. So gentle. So full of hope.

It makes me want to cry.

These two people trapped behind the broken glass look just like us, but they’re strangers to me. I’d told myself before that this sketch was a lie. That it hadn’t captured a couple in love. That it had just captured infatuation and foolishness and lust. But looking at it now, I know that’s not the truth.

I loved Nikhil. And he loved me. We loved each other.

He saw me. He knew me. Until I chose to hide him away, hiding pieces of myself as I did.

And I knew him. Even as he kept parts of himself buried and out of reach, I knew him. At the time I’d thought he’d intentionally drawn a line around his heart. Intentionally raised a wall that I could never get past. But I think he was scared. He might have revealed those parts to me one day. If he’d felt safe. If he’d felt like I was really in this marriage. If he hadn’t felt like he was a second choice.

My chest constricts, my vision growing blurry.

How could he think that? How could I have let him think that?

I want to go back in time. I want to find young Meena and tell her to wake up. Tell her that there’s a man who loves her and she needs to make sure that he knows she loves him back. That she needs to tell him what he means to her. That she needs to show him, show everyone, instead of hiding him under a rock.

What had I been so scared about? Judgment and disappointment from my parents? From the community? Being on the receiving end of that same shame my parents and sister had been subjected to all those years ago? It had felt like the worst thing imaginable then, but it seems so small now.

I cared too much about the wrong things, and in doing so I lost the man I love. Love, not loved. Because as much as I’ve been trying to convince myself otherwise, I love Nikhil. I don’t think there’s been a day that’s gone by where I haven’t loved Nikhil. I loved him when we got married, and I loved him when I left him. I loved him in those early days, when I first moved to D.C., when I spent every sleepless night staring at his name on my phone. I loved him when Igoogled him every few months to find out what he’d been up to. I loved him even when I tried to make things work with Shake. And I loved him when I sent him the divorce papers.

I have spent every moment of the past seven years loving this man. It’s been an ache inside me that I haven’t acknowledged until now, and now that I’ve put a name to it, now that I’ve called it what it is, it’s like a dam has broken. Emotions flood in, barreling through every corner of my body.

I sink to the floor, my eyes transfixed by this picture of us. This impossibly perfect picture of the two of us in love.

I don’t know what to do with this brand-new, but not-quite-new, information. I don’t know how it changes things. Or if it changes things. We’re so different now. But I know that the feelings I have aren’t just for the Nikhil I once knew. The youthful, grinning, barefaced man staring back at me. I have feelings for the man who remembered I like chicken noodle soup with stars in it. The man who ran out to help his neighbor even though we were in the middle of a hurricane. The man who’s been searching for a place to call his own and dreams about opening an inn, a place others can feel at home. The man who makes me feel known. Like I can tell him anything and be immediately understood.

That thought spurs me into motion. I pick myself up, taking a moment to compose myself before leaving the garage.

I have to talk to Nikhil. I’m not sure what I’ll tell him exactly. Even though I have newfound clarity on how I feel, I’m not sure what this means. For me. For him. For my career. For this marriage. For Shake. For us.

But I can start with the piece I know without a doubt. That I love him. That I’ve always loved him. I can start with that and let the rest fall into place. I can start with that and find out whether there’s any chance he feels that way too.

I rush through the house, my eyes searching for a glimpse of Nikhil. I come to a sudden halt when I find him sitting at the dining room table.

He looks good. He always looks good, but he looks different this morning. His hair a bit sleep-rumpled. His stubble a little more grown-in. He looks like the worn-in leather couch in the living room. He looks like the beat-up desk in the guest bedroom. The one he made for me. The one that didn’t wobble no matter how many textbooks I dropped on it, how many tears I spilled on it, how many hours I spent studying late into the night. He looks like woodworking in the garage and cooking in the kitchen and sleeping bags in a closet.

He looks like home.

Nikhil glances up, and when our eyes meet, his lips curve into a smile. But it’s not the smile I love. This one is strained. He’s trying to hide it, but his mouth is tight. The muscles in his face tense.

My stomach twists.

He has a cup of coffee in his right hand, the steam twisting and curling above it. There’s a matching mug on the place mat opposite his. And a stack of papers on the table, lying right between the two seats.

This sight is so familiar to me. It’s the layout of every mediation and settlement conference I’ve ever attended. It’s the pretense of peace between the parties before the negotiations begin in earnest. It’s the exact scenario I’ve been wanting to happen since I arrived here, but now it’s a nightmare come to life.

“Good morning,” he says.

Emotion clogs my throat. I swallow, trying to clear it. “Good morning,” I say.

“Sleep okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.” He extends an arm, as if asking me to take a seat, but I choose to stay standing.

“I was up early,” I say, “just exploring the house. Taking a look around.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I was trying to find you. To let you know that I have a flight back home tomorrow. In the afternoon.”

His strained smile falls slightly before bouncing back into place. “Good,” he says. “That’s good news.”

“Right?” I say, the word tasting bitter. There’s nothing right about this. Everything, all of this, it feels so wrong. “I checked for you in the garage but got a bit distracted. I, uhh, found that picture of us.”

Embarrassment, and maybe a touch of guilt, travels over his features.

I come around to stand across from him, my hands gripping the top of my chair. “I hadn’t seen it in a long time and it was…it was nice to see it. Though it looks like the glass is broken? Did it fall or did something happen or—”

“It was an accident,” Nikhil says. “I knocked it over, but it was byaccident.” Hesitation flits across his face. A second later, he continues. “It was up for a long time. Years, actually. It’s probably why Alan thought he recognized you. I never took it down from the mantel.”

My pulse jumps. Dangerous and desperate hope grows within me, but it dies the moment he continues.

“Not until I got the papers.” His gaze shoots toward the stack of papers on the table, and then back to me. “But the glass only broke later. I took the picture down and moved it to the garage and propped it up against the wall, and…one day I didn’t look where I was going, and my foot caught the edge of it. It fell before I could grab it.

“I probably should have taken it down sooner. I probably left it up too long.” He rubs the back of his neck, his expression growing uneasy. “That’s what I wanted to talk about, actually. I think I’ve…I’ve been holding on to the past too long. Holding on to us too long. And I think you’re right. We both need to let this go. We both need to move on.”

My gut constricts, bile rising in my throat.

“I printed the papers out,” he says. “It felt wrong to do it the electronic way. To click and have our…And have everything wiped away. It felt better to have something physical. Tangible. It felt more real.”

The ground shifts beneath my feet, and I finally sit, not sure if I can stand upright much longer.

“I didn’t delay on purpose, Meena. Really. I’d always planned on mailing these back. I don’t want to stand in the way of your happiness. I’ve never wanted that. I just…wasn’t ready. I needed a little time to adjust.”

My mouth is dry. I take a sip of my coffee, thinking it might help, but the heat and acidity only make it worse. I’m quiet for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. “It’s not all you, Nikhil,” I finally say. “I could have sent these earlier. I could have tried to make it official years ago. But I’ve…I’ve been holding on to us too.”

The corners of his mouth soften slightly, some of the earlier strain lifting.

I want to tell him that we weren’t wrong to hold on. That the love between us never died. That we’ve both grown and changed, but in good ways, I think. That if we wanted to, we could do things better this time. We could at least try.

But then, he clears his throat. “I don’t have a lawyer, but I made some changes.” He nods toward the papers. “So, you’ll probably want to take a look at that. And here.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and places it on the table, sliding it to me. “You can use my phone in case you need to call your lawyer. Though I guess you don’t have to. You probably understand all of this legalese just fine.”

“What if…” I lick my dry lips. “What if I stayed?”

He goes still.

“What if I stayed for a few days so we could—” Could what ? I’m not even sure what I’m suggesting. So we could date? Go to therapy? See if there’s any way for us to come back together? To try to make things work? It all sounds so outlandish.

Nikhil must read all of that on my face, because his expression is gentle but resigned when he says, “What would we figure out in a few days that we haven’t figured out already?” He pauses. “You made the right call, Meena,” he says. “I was wrong earlier. It wasn’t right to ask you to stay like that.” He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I went to D.C…. I should have tried to see you. I should have talked to you, but I was just so convinced, so scared that I wasn’t good enough for you. I wanted to wait until I could prove myself, until I had something to show for myself, something to show you . Something to show your family.”

“Nikhil, you never needed to—”

He raises a hand to stop me. “It’s fine. I…I realize now that I let that fear keep us apart. Even before you left, I was so scared of losing you, of not being enough, that I think I actually ended up pushing you away, and, well, if I could go back in time, I’d do that differently. I’d do so many things differently, but that’s not really an option for us, is it?” His mouth curves in a sad smile. “I don’t know. Maybe the writing was on the wall for us from the very beginning. Maybe you were right not to bring me home to your parents from the very start.”

His words cut through me, painful and quick. “I wish I could have done things differently too,” I say. “I wish I had done a lot of it differently. I just— I’m sorry.”

He lifts a shoulder, the gesture too deliberate and careful to be casual. “It’s all right, really. Those things are in the past, and you were right before. We can’t change any of that now. We should have made all of this official a long time ago, but I’m glad we’re finally doing it.” He stands up, and the finality of that movement coupled with the certainty in his voice is like the banging of a gavel. It signals that I’m too late. That Nikhil meant what he said. He wants this to be over. He wants to move on.

I grab the document, scanning the first page. There are notes scrawled in black ink in the margins, but I can’t make sense of them. I’m just reading the words at the top over and over.

Dissolution of Marriage. Dissolution of Marriage.

“I’m going to make breakfast. Eggs okay?”

I’m not sure if I respond, but I must, because he leaves, giving me privacy so I can read through everything.

This is what I’d told myself I’d wanted. A painless, straightforward discussion of terms. A handshake at the end. And me walking out of here with his signature on the page.

I can do this. I can pretend that I want this again. I can get lost in these words and turn everything else off. I’ve had enough practice doing it. And maybe that’s for the best. I don’t need distractions right now. I don’t need inconvenient feelings that take me off track, that steer me away from my plans. I’ll pretend like this is work. Like it has nothing to do with me. This is a negotiation like any other and I’m going to do my job.

This mindset slips over me like a plate of armor. And soon, I’m flipping through the pages. Making notes, questions, striking things out and replacing them with proposals of my own.

A plate of eggs and toast appears at my elbow, and I mechanically take a bite and continue.

Nikhil hasn’t made any big changes. He asked questions about some things and made notes that he wants to discuss about others, but there’s nothing that makes me concerned.

I take another bite of my breakfast and slowly come out of my haze, realizing Nikhil’s not in the room. I call his name and he steps out of the kitchen.

“I’m done,” I say. “Do you want a moment alone to look through it or…”

He sits down, taking the document from me. “No. I’ll just read them now.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Deep in thought. When he turns a page, a wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. He’s so intense. So focused. I shouldn’t be staring at him. I should look away. But I can’t.

“Thanks for this,” I say, unable to take the silence much longer. “For breakfast. It was really good.”

“You’re welcome,” he says distractedly. He frowns, picking up his pen and crossing through something.

“But I feel bad,” I say. “You’ve been making all the meals. I should make something.”

His gaze stays fixed on the papers, but the right corner of his mouth tips up. “You want to make something?”

“Yeah. I can cook.”

This time his eyes flit to mine, humor flashing for a brief second. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I took a cooking class. Learned a bunch of new recipes.”

“Hmm.” He goes back to the document, but a small smile stays on his face.

I conveniently leave out the remaining details. That I attended a grand total of three classes before giving up entirely. That I went to these classes four years ago and barely remember anything about them. And that they taught us ridiculously complicated dishes that I would be able to replicate only if I was suddenly possessed by the soul of Gordon Ramsay, and honestly, maybe not even then.

“What kinds of recipes?” he asks.

“Oh, uhh, it’ll be a surprise.” For him and me both. I have no idea what I’m going to make.

He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t mind cooking,” he says. “I’ve always liked it.”

And he had. When we’d lived together, he’d never made anything superfancy, but he’d always done the bulk of the cooking. I’d help with meal prep and stick things in the oven, but anything involving an actual stove was all Nikhil.

“I know,” I say. “But really, I can make dinner.” I don’t know howto explain, but his cooking for both of us, it’s always been a way he’s shown care, and I want to do the same for him before I leave. I want him to see that same care reciprocated. I want him to know that he’s deserving and worthy of receiving it, that he can allow himself to receive it. If not from me, then from someone else in the future.

My insides revolt at the thought, but I force the sensation down. I want Nikhil to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.

He looks at me skeptically, then returns his pen to the paper.

“It’ll be our last meal together,” I say, trying to convince him. “We should do it in style.”

His hand slips, his pen shooting across the page in a jagged line. Then, he nods. “Okay. Sounds good.”

The room returns to its earlier silence, until finally Nikhil is done. He pushes the document over to me and settles back in his chair.

“I think we’re almost there,” he says.

I nod. I make a few tiny changes, and when it’s all done, he grabs his computer. We input our edits together, and then he goes off to print it. Minutes later, he drops the shiny new version onto the table, the pages still warm from the printer.

We both read through them one last time. The air around us, between us, is still and heavy. Without saying a word, he signs his name on the last page. And then I sign mine.

It’s technically not official until we get this filed with the court, but it feels official right now.

Nikhil and I are done.