He snorts. “Why? Are you hungry?” He turns around with a grin, and for a second I’m dumbstruck. Frozen in place. It’s not the wide smile he used to always wear, but it’s close.
I take it in. Savoring it. The crinkles near his eyes. The tiny, barely there dimple that you wouldn’t notice unless you already knew to look for it. This is the first unguarded look I’ve seen on Nikhil since I got here. Warmth creeps through my chest.
Then he swallows. Hard. Breaking the magic of the moment.
His eyes bounce around. To the hem of my shirt—hisshirt—where I’ve bunched the excess length with a hair tie. To the sleeves that I’ve folded over a couple times. To the collar that’s a little too wide, dipping a bit low, exposing my collarbone.
I shift my weight, my skin heating under his gaze. Now I’m warm for an entirely different reason.
The saucepan bubbles noisily, and Nikhil spins in a hurry, lowering the flame. “I’ll just, uh, finish this up. Want to grab some glasses of water for the table?” He pauses. “Unless you want something else to drink. I don’t have much, but you can check the fridge…”
“Water’s fine.” I open the cabinet door to my right, only a little surprised to find the glassware right where I expect it. Right where we always kept it. I don’t comment on it though. I just grab the glasses, fill them up, and duck out of the kitchen to set them on the table.
It takes no time at all and then I’m back. Feeling awkward and uneasy. It’s strange to be in this house and feel as if I’m a guest. In this space I helped curate. Helped create.
“What else can I do?” I ask Nikhil as he finishes straining the pasta over the sink.
“Nothing.” He doesn’t look at me. “Unless you want something else to go with this. I have bread. If you want to heat that up. Or put it in the toaster.”
Finally. A task. I peek in the fridge and pull out some garlic and butter, along with the bread.
We work in silence. Like we have all afternoon. But this time I’m determined to find a way through the tension.
“So, what have you been up to?” I ask, my voice light and breezy.
Nikhil’s hand freezes, his wooden spoon halting midstir. “What do you mean?”
God, he sounds so suspicious. So untrusting. I slather the bread with my softened garlic butter and pop it in the toaster oven. “Nothing,” I say. “I’m just asking how you’ve been.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then he clicks off the flame. “Fine.” He sounds so curt. So harsh. But his next words are softer. “I’ve been fine.”
“Good,” I say. “Glad to hear it. The house looks great, by the way. You’ve done a really nice job with it.” Minus the painting over the brick, which I’ll never understand, I mean it. At first glance not much has changed, but the furniture’s been updated. And rearranged. A midcentury modern layout right off the pages of a magazine.
It’s exactly Nikhil’s taste. His style. It’s how he would have decorated it then, if we’d had the money to afford it.
He shoots a look my way, as if to make sure I’m not joking. Or being sarcastic. But he must realize I’m being sincere because he mutters a quiet “thanks” before scooping the pasta into a large bowl.
We make our way to the dining room table and it’s only then that I get a good look at what kind of pasta he made.
“This is all I had in the fridge,” he says quickly. “I just threw it together.”
I nod. Maybe he eats this all the time. Chicken and broccoli and pesto. Those are common enough. But the cavatappi? That weird corkscrew pasta shape? It was always my favorite. Still is. I don’t remember him liking it. Maybe he stocks up on all kinds of pasta, just in case he has guests with a particular craving.
My stomach churns at the idea of Nikhil making pasta for other people. For otherguests.
I spear a piece of broccoli, stuffing it in my mouth. “It’s really good,” I say, a moment later.
Nikhil only grunts in acknowledgment.
My hopes start to plummet, but I have to remind myself that this is still heading in the right direction. We’re sharing a meal together. Peacefully. We’re not chatty. Or friendly exactly. But this is better than before. I need to keep it up.
Only I’ve run out of all possible topics of conversation. Asking how his work is going seems like too much of a loaded question. Though he’d always ask me about bar prep, he rarely told me what was going on with him, sharing only select things about work. Goofy antics, light moments, client reactions when they finished projects early or on time.
It was only when he came home with a slight limp that I’d recognized the pattern.
“What happened?” I’d asked immediately, reaching toward him.
He’d waved me off, his mouth stretching into a smile that looked a lot more like a grimace. “It’s nothing.”
