Chapter 22 Aisha Kapoor
Aisha Kapoor
We don’t speak much after that. In fact, we don’t say a word except good night. Sleep is far away from reach, but I don’t need to talk to him more. Not right now, at least, or I will word vomit all over him about my feelings, and I don’t really feel comfortable doing that with him at the moment.
And that says a lot about our relationship, considering he was the only person I could talk about my feelings with without feeling like a burden.
I know his reason was genuine. Even though I hate to say it, work does come first sometimes.
Especially when you have worked hard for it.
Especially when it was a lifelong dream for you.
This client wasn’t only important for him but for his entire firm, and I can’t risk that.
If I were in his place, I would have done the same.
The only thing I would never do is keep him guessing about my whereabouts. I would let him know if I would be able to show up or not, and that little message says a lot about priorities. And Reyansh hasn’t particularly made me feel like I am one in a really long time.
I can tell he isn’t asleep by the way he is lying behind me in a stiff position.
I try to not think about him too much. I need to stop worrying about him and putting his needs above mine.
I need to let him suffer for once, no matter how much it pains me.
For the entirety of our relationship, I have put him above myself.
I guess that comes from always being the one who takes care of everyone around you.
The only difference was that I didn’t mind thinking about him before myself. I didn’t mind taking care of him because most of the time, he was doing the same for me.
He took the weight of the world off of my shoulders before casually dumping it on me again, unintentionally.
Now I am so used to being on my own that his presence feels like an invasion of my peace. And I am not ready to let go of that.
I feel him inching towards me, which prompts me to close my eyes shut and slow down my breathing.
“I love you, Aisha,” he whispers, so low that I barely catch it.
My heart picks up speed, the words affecting me in ways I would rather not let him know.
“I am not worthy of you; I know that. I don’t think I have ever been.
But I am an incredibly selfish man when it comes to you.
I will become better for you, become the man who deserves your love.
I just hope you can find a sliver of love in your heart for me still and keep it alive till I do that. ”
A tear slips down my closed eye without my knowledge. His words are a slander against my mind that shouts at the top of its lungs to not believe a word out of his mouth. But my heart is different.
My heart says he deserves a second chance. My foolish, idiotic heart says to believe him for the last time.
Most of all, it lets me know that I don’t stand a chance against him this time too.
* * *
My mother is annoying. Correction—she is pushing me past my limits, which is making me annoyed.
This morning, she woke me up at the same time as Reyansh, forcing me to go work out with him at the same time. I don’t even work out.
I think the whole idea of exercising and working out is overrated. Doing push-ups, dumbbells, and all of that stuff is just stressful. And unhygienic, in my opinion. But she said, and I quote, that “I am out of shape and need to keep up with my husband.”
Yes, I am offended.
I don’t think I am out of shape. I think I have a great shape, and that comment was just not needed. Despite my love for my body, now I feel slightly insecure.
It is not like I didn’t think about that when things started to feel distant between us.
I love how I look, but I knew there was a vast difference between me and the women he had dated in the past. They were all…
British. And I am far from that British etiquette and elegance and all of that stuff.
So, it is not like I didn’t question our relationship.
But I can also snap out of my insecurities quickly, and after going through his phone once and checking everything, I could positively confirm that he wasn’t losing interest in me.
Now, I am standing with my arms crossed in front of my chest in front of my hopefully soon-to-be ex-husband, who is busy doing pull-ups.
I won’t lie, I am slightly glad that she pushed me to do this because otherwise I would have definitely missed this pretty sight.
Pretty and hot. Sexy too.
Reyansh chose to wear a tight gym shirt made out of I don’t know what material, but it hugs his body better than I do. Plus it’s black.
His biceps bulge as he pulls his body up swiftly, and I am left there salivating and ovulating. Even though I should not be.
When I decided that I needed a divorce from my husband, I had mentally evaluated every single thing that could possibly happen after my demand. Fights, confrontations, heart-to-heart conversations, drunk calls or texts, and vomiting out my feelings were all on the cards.
What I hadn’t expected was us being pushed together. The more I try to avoid being in the same vicinity as him, the less I am able to do that.
The more I try not to feel for him the way I did before, the less I’m able to stop myself from feeling exactly the same.
“Keep looking at me like I am your favorite sweet dish, baby,” he says, breaking me out of my trance. “I like having your eyes on me.”
I roll my eyes. What I still don’t like about him is his cocky attitude. Man thinks he can seduce anyone with his voice that is thick as hell, walking in that suit that is tailored to fit him and his hair that is never out of line.
Except during sex and workouts, of course.
“Shut up,” I say. “I am just trying to figure out what to do here. I so hate my mom right now for putting me through this.”
I fiddle with the hem of my pink leggings. If I wasn’t looking cute, I couldn’t feel cute. This is why I chose to wear a pink gym set with a cropped spaghetti top.
“You are such a baby when it comes to exercise.” He shakes his head, walking towards me. Sweat drips from his messed-up hair, and I have to close my mouth to not straight-up drool in front of my husband. These hormones, I swear.
“Well, I don’t need to exercise when I look this good,” I flaunt and figure out how that is such a stupid thing to do because he makes a show of looking at me from top to bottom, his gaze stopping at every inch of my skin.
“We agree for once,” he says, clicking his tongue. “Tell you what, let’s get you to do some pull-ups.”
“Nuh uh.” I pull away from him, not only to show my distaste for that idiotic idea but also to maintain some space from him. The less close I get to him during my ovulation phase, the better. “I am walking out of this door with not a single drop of sweat on my body.”
“And that will convince your mom that you worked out?” He smirks, and I feel this urge to punch him in the face.
“You are a pain in the butt,” I tell him, walking ahead of him to do these dreaded pull-ups.
He chuckles and follows swiftly, and I wonder why I always find myself in situations like this. I stare at the ugly rod, and he stays behind me—too close for my liking—as I contemplate what to do.
“You know it won’t pull you towards itself,” he mumbles, and I grumble. “You will actually have to touch it like this.”
He takes hold of my arms, swiftly raising them to touch that rod. His hands are too warm for my liking and envelop mine like a glove. I try not to show it, but even the sliver of his skin touching me affects me. I think more than it used to in the past.
“Lift yourself up,” he adds, giving me support by the waist, and I gulp, doing as he says, and God damn it hurts. People find pleasure in doing this? Are they out of their not-so-sane mind?
“God damn it,” I whisper, a groan slipping out of me. “What the fuck, Rey? This is painful.”
He laughs, and that sound goes straight through my rib cage towards the nestled corners of my heart. He hasn’t laughed fully in a long while, and that sparks a realization in my mind that maybe even he has been as miserable as me for a long time.
“You can do it,” he pushes me, his hands slowly drifting down to my butt, and I have to stop myself from making this a huge thing.
But suddenly I am that twenty-year-old Aisha who just got to know that the hot, videshi guy who looked like a direct replica of my favorite Bollywood hero—Sidharth Malhotra—has a crush on me.
His hands are warm on my ass, and how bad would it be if he actually touched it like he did in the past?
I visibly stop breathing for a second before choosing to ignore this and not make it as awkward as I possibly can and pull myself upwards, which, honestly, is just him doing.
“Are you sure this is how I am supposed to do pull-ups?” I ask, a teasing tone in my voice.
“I don’t know, but do you mind it?” He questions in retort, and I zip my lips tight.
I don’t want to validate his delusions. It has just been too long since he has touched me, since we have been close. I am not someone who puts physical needs above my morals or feelings. But I cannot resist my husband.
He just has that kind of effect on me. He has this otherworldly pull on me. I go towards him like he is a magnet and I am an iron block.
He takes my silence as a no, and for once I am grateful that he chooses to be nonchalant about our situation. The pull-ups seem less threatening and painful now, and I am sure I have sweated off all the calories from yesterday’s family night.
“I am done,” I say, out of breath. I let go of the rods abruptly. My arms hurt. My fingers ache, and I just want to go back to bed.
Thankfully, he maintains his hold on me, and I fall right into his arms. This close I am able to see the warmth in his eyes—one I was too familiar with in the past. One that was missing for a long time. I don’t know what has changed, what switch I flipped in him when I said I wanted a divorce.
But it does make me wonder whether he would have done the same had I not said that I wanted a divorce. Would he still have changed his ways? Would he still re-examine his behavior? I guess I will never know.
“Are you okay, Aisha?” My name rolls around his tongue easily the way he says it, and I nod.
That’s all I can manage to do.
“Yes,” I say. “You can put me down.”
His eyes that roam all over my face as if he were trying to memorize every inch of it finally meet my eyes, and I can’t help the sly smile that takes over my lips.
We stay silent for a while, trying to figure out how to ease the awkwardness that has suddenly fallen on us.
“Now you look like you have worked out,” he says, and I chuckle.
“Yes,” I say, scrunching at the amount of sweat on my body. “I am going to get ready for the office. I have a long day ahead.”
He nods before gathering our belongings in his hand and walking ahead of me.
“And Aisha?” He calls me out as I go over the past five minutes over and over again in my mind.
“Yes, Reyansh?”
“I am dropping you off at your office today.”
* * *
To rile up Reyansh, I choose to take my sweet time getting ready.
Instead of my usual office attire, I chose to wear a brown saree that clings to my skin perfectly with a matching blouse.
I am lucky enough that my colleagues are used to me showing up in Indian attire.
Most even love it, and I have gotten a few Indian outfits for my female colleagues.
The only reason why I am taking so long to get ready is so that he will get fed up and leave.
I won’t be surprised if he did. I don’t want to spend more time alone with him.
I lose my sense of rational thinking when it is just me and him.
I forget everything, everyone, and every single one of my promises to myself.
Everyone, including my own thoughts, becomes background music.
“Aisha,” Maa calls my name loudly. “Reyansh is waiting. Aren’t you getting late?”
“Coming,” I say, gathering courage to go out and face the situation.
You can do it. He is only your husband.
When I walk out, I am well aware of the eyes on me. Not only of my husband but also of our mothers. Maa has a proud smile on her face, and I can just feel the heat in my husband’s eyes.
I am not so nonchalant, but my poker face is strong and doesn’t give away the way I am smirking inside.
Tit for tat.
“I am ready,” I say, and he finally looks back at my face. Was he just ogling me in front of our mothers? Shameless
“I can see,” he says, coughing loudly, and I smile. I can’t even help it.
If he wants to stay close to me, then he will have to pay a small price of his sanity. I won’t let him touch me. But it doesn’t hurt to tease him now, does it?
“You look beautiful, Aisha.” Mom comes to kiss me on the cheek, and I smile so hard that my cheeks hurt.
“Thank you, Mom.” I look at Maa, who looks as if she can cry anytime soon. She always says I look like a big girl in Indian attire, and it makes her emotional thinking her baby girl is now an adult.
“I might be late tonight, but I’ll let you know how late so you guys don’t wait up for me,” I said, grabbing my purse and phone.
Before I can make a move to leave, he grabs my saree pallu, which was mopping the floor all this while, in his hand, and that makes my heart skip a beat.
Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him get to you.
I repeat these words in my mind as an affirmation because his small actions affect me so much. More than they should.
Before I can say another word, he tucks the saree pallu in my waist, and my cheeks heat up.
God damn it, can he not embarrass me in front of our mothers? They look away, and I just want to dig a hole and bury myself in it, and he seems completely unfazed by that. Instead the jerk smirks.
“Let’s go,” he says after he is satisfied with his handiwork, taking my hand in his grasp, and I just pray to God that this plan doesn’t backfire on me.
Because I can picture it to.