“Even if he was, he’s no longer interested in her. At the very least, he’s second-guessing his decision.”
“Because of jealousy?”
“He referred to himself as your fiancé after realizing you were with me.”
She bites the inside of her cheek, mulling it over. Another shake of her head as she shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“So, you wouldn’t take him back if he begged you for a second chance?”
“No,” she reveals with a resolute jut of her chin. “I will never be able to trust or believe him like I used to. His being jealous implies he thinks of me as his toy that he doesn’t want to share because someone else wants it.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
“You keep surprising me.” I lean back.
She leans forward, holding my gaze. “Why?”
“Most women will assume his jealousy means he still cares.”
“Then I guess I’m not most women.”
The little I’ve heard about Arya Chopra in passing over the years is through Iris, who is best friends with her older sister, Bianca. The sisters haven’t been on talking terms for more than two years, ever since Bianca married her husband, Dash Stern, and emancipated from her family. Apparently, Arya played a huge role in the emancipation.
What? I can’t remember.
They painted her as a spoiled and selfish girl who put her happiness over her sister’s.
The soft-spoken woman sitting in front of me seems nothing like it. I can’t imagine her hurting someone purposely, much less her own blood. Perhaps, at one point, she was those two things, but I’m not seeing it now.
The way she talks sounds like she’s wise.
Gorgeous, too.
Straight and shoulder-length brown hair frames a round face with big, beautiful eyes, plump and high cheekbones that curve into full, pouty lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow on top. A good girl next door with an air of innocence.
Why the fuck her average and nerdy-looking ex would dump her is a mystery scientists need to solve.
“What do you think?” she curiously questions. “Was there only jealousy on his face? Did it feel like more?”
“You sound like you’re second-guessing yourself.” Her shoulders bunch with tension. I soften my tone. “Don’t. When he comes to see you, which he will, don’t run and hide. Face him head-on and make it known that he made a terrible mistake.”
Her fingers reach for the glass of water, idly stroking the stem instead of picking it up. “Uh-uh. I am never seeing him again.”
“I bet you thought the same as you stepped out of your house this morning. Look what happened.”
“It was a coincidence.”
“Prepare for more,” I state, drumming my fingers on the table. “There’s no avoiding an ex when you live in the same city.”
“How are you dealing with it?”
“Pardon?”
“I heard about your broken engagement.”
She turns the tables, making me tense now. Seems I’m not safe from talking about my past with even strangers. There’s a bite to my voice as I quip, “Heard or looked up online after we met the last time?”
