Sarina pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head.
Piper shrugs. “Nothing clears the air like a good dicking. Believe me, it’s a tried-and-true method.”
I groan but can’t help laughing. This conversation has clearly devolved, but if there’s anyone who can get a laugh out of me, it’s my crazy pants best friend. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So, you’ll tell him?” she asks.
“Has he been trying to get in touch with you?” Sarina adds.
“Yes,” I say, recalling his multiple texts, asking if everything is okay since I haven’t opened my door to him whenever he’s come by. “He’s even left French toast at my door every morning like some sort of breakfast fairy.”
They both say “aww” like we’re back in high school.
“Fine!” I raise my hands, letting them fall on my lap. “I’ll tell him soon. Let me just talk to my doctor and confirm everything. It’s not like I was planning to have a secret baby situation where he’d run into his kid twelve years later and recognize her as his because they have the same mole on their face. I was always going to tell him. I just . . . needed a little nudge to do it sooner. And I will."
“That’s our girl,” Sarina says, walking over to me.
The girls embrace me once more, and I’m just about to tell them that I have another client coming in soon—some Silicon Valley hotshot by the name of Alex Fleming, whom I haven’t met before—when there’s a knock at the door. That must be him.
I walk over to answer, the girls in tow behind me. Usually, our receptionist, Joshua, guides clients to the suites, but he must be helping someone else.
Except when I swing the door open, I’m greeted by a very different guest.
My brows knit as I step out of my suite. “Micah? What brings you here?”
Sarina and Piper excuse themselves—Snatch following Sarina out—slipping past Micah with a polite wave beforeheading to their respective suites. Though I don’t miss the way Sarina lifts a brow at me over her shoulder before disappearing into her room. She’s clearly curious about why Micah is here.
Me, too.
Micah’s hands slide into his pockets as he examines me like one would an abandoned suitcase at the airport, looking for signs of threat.
“You texted thedojanggroup chat and said you wouldn’t be coming in anymore,” he says, articulating the vowels with the kind of precision only the British seem genetically programmed for. “No reason, no date for when you’d return. Nothing.”
I tilt my chin up, rubbing my lips together. “That’s right.”
His face tilts like he thinks I’ve lost my marbles, and honestly, he’s not far off. I did lose my lunch earlier, a perfect egg salad sandwich with mustard. Turns out this baby has quite a list of opinions, and mustard is an act of violence.
It’s going to be a real doozy when I tell my sister, because the woman treats spicy Dijon like it’s a food group. No joke, I recently saw her drizzle it over pita and hummus like it was chocolate syrup on a sundae.
Yup, gross. I’m still baffled that we shared a womb.
“Nisha, what do you mean,‘that’s right’? Why won’t you be coming to thedojanganymore? You’re an essential part of the instructing team.”
I shift my weight from one foot to another, aware that I’m blocking the doorway. “I’ve just . . . had something come up.”Not untrue.“I can tell you more about it later, once things are a bit more . . . settled. But for now, I need to take a leave from teaching.”
I know my text caught him off guard. I’ve been a part of thedojangfor years and have rarely taken days off. I’m close to our students, too, especially Sydney. I’d texted her separately to sayI’d explain more soon, and she’d taken it well. Micah, however, not so much.
“A leave?” he repeats, baffled. “But you love teaching. Oh, my God. Are you—” His hand cups my shoulder gently as he bends to meet my eyes with his concerned ones. “Are you sick?”
“What—”
But before I can say more, his hands cradle my face, gently, reverently. Like we’re lovers about to say a lengthy goodbye at the train station in a black-and-white film set in 1942. I can practically hear the violin swell and see the flock of doves being released into the sky in slow motion.
But I’m too startled to move. It’s not like he’s being handsy—just tragically wrong.
Perfect timing for my best friends to have disappeared.
“God, Nisha. I’m so sorry. I had no clue.”
