We’re not the same people anymore. I’m not that person anymore. The Nikhil who lives in my suppressed memories is not the man sitting at the table downstairs. That man is a stranger to me, and he needs to stay that way.
Because I have a life waiting for me back in D.C. I have to go back and show Shake I’m serious. The two of us are going to build something together. Something stable and good. Together, we’re going to achieve everything we’ve always wanted.
I need to remember the plan. I need to stay focused. I need to get what I need and get out.
I can’t let Nikhil derail my future.
Not again.
4
I switch off the water and wrap a towel around me, feeling incredibly grateful that I just happen to be the kind of paranoid person who travels with an extra pair of underwear no matter what.
I didn’t pack much more than that since I never planned on being here for more than a few hours. But still, I’m grateful. In this moment, clean underwear is enough.
I towel-dry my hair and attempt to finger-comb the tangles but give up after accidentally yanking a few too many snarls. I should put my old clothes back on, but I’m not ready for that gross, sweaty T-shirt to touch my skin again, so I delay. Huddling in my towel, I stalk around the guest bedroom.
Nikhil really hasn’t changed much about it. He’s replaced the beat-up futon with a real bed, which is a nice upgrade, but otherwise this room’s remained the same. Almost exactly the way it looked seven years ago. Back when I spent hours and hours in here. Back when I was using it as my study space.
I was sitting at that exact desk in the corner when I discoveredI’d failed the bar exam. I’d pulled up the results, control-F’d to find my name, and had almost thrown up when I’d realized that my name was not on that list. My job in D.C. was contingent on my passing. Everything was contingent on my passing. I’d never felt like such a failure.
Nikhil was so sweet in those weeks. So supportive. He was there when I had to pick myself up off the ground. When I had to start bar prep all over again. Every time I felt like I couldn’t do it, he encouraged me. Held my hand. Believed in me.
We had been married only a few months at that time. He’d come home from work and find me here in this room, at that desk. He’d lean in the doorframe and ask me how studying was going, his voice bright and cheery, and I’d try to match his tone even though my brain always felt scrambled, my skin tight with electricity.
But slowly, around him, I’d start to feel better. He’d run his hands over the tense muscles in my shoulders and make me laugh, telling me something funny about his day. Sometimes, he’d insist on going on a walk around the neighborhood, which was good. It was often the only time I got some fresh air. He’d wave at some of the people we passed, exchange chitchat with others, and one day I’d been so curious.
“Do you know them?” I’d asked, our hands swinging, my fingers interlaced with his. We’d moved here only recently, and we hadn’t socialized much in our first few weeks. We’d been so wrapped up in each other, floating through a haze of early wedded bliss. We’d rarely left our bedroom, let alone the house. And then, once I’d gotten the results back, our free time had vanished. Mine consumed with bar prep, his consumed with work.
He’d shrugged, the gesture pulling at our joined hands. “Some of them. I’ve done work on a couple of these houses.” He’d gestured toward a place a few spots down from ours. “I did their roof a whileback. Laura and Jody. They’re supernice. I’ve been meaning to go over there and say hi. Maybe invite them for dinner, but—” He’d glanced over at me, his expression a little unsure. “But maybe later would be better?”
I’d attempted a smile and nodded, because I’d understood exactly what he meant bylater. He meant post bar exam. Post me being this version of myself. And I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t enjoy my own company these days. Why subject others to it as well?
“Yeah,” I’d said, a bit halfheartedly. “Later. Though we’ll be moving to D.C. around then, won’t we?”
“Right. Yeah,” he’d replied, the word an exact echo of the way I’d said it, and we’d both let the topic drop.
A softthudsounds at the door, shaking me back to the present. Not quite a knock, but not an accidental noise either. I creep in that direction, open the door a crack, and see something lying on the ground. A white bundle. I snatch it and shake it out.
It’s a T-shirt. A clean white cotton T-shirt.
I could almost kiss it. In fact, I bring it to my face to do just that, when I catch a whiff of something woodsy and earthy.
Vetiver. Nikhil’s cologne.
I’d bought him a bottle of it for our six-month anniversary, but there’s no way that same bottle has lasted him till now. And I can’t imagine that he’d keep rebuying the scent. I know I wouldn’t want any reminders of that awful day.
I wave the T-shirt in the air, hoping some of the fragrance might drift out into the ether. But when I slip it around my neck, the scent envelops me. I can’t get away. And despite how much I want to hate it, it’s almost…comforting.
The shirt’s long enough on me that I technically could wear it without pants. But as nice as it sounds to skip putting on my tight, restricting jeans, there’s no way in hell I’m walking around like that.So I force my legs back into them, push my hair away from my face, and head downstairs.
The familiar, homey smell of garlic and onion immediately floods my nostrils. It could be the beginning of any dish, but because it’s Nikhil cooking, I’m almost positive he’s making pasta.
“Thanks for the shirt,” I call. During my shower, I decided on a new strategy: plan “kill ’em with kindness.” Snapping at him hasn’t been getting me anywhere, and I can at least try to be cordial. Try to find some common ground.
“No problem,” he replies. He’s facing away from me, stirring something together in a saucepan.
“What are you making?” I ask. My stomach chooses that exact second to grumble. Loudly.
