“Is yours?” I ask, before I can help myself.
His brows furrow. “Is my…?” he repeats.
“Your work. Is it everything you wanted it to be?” It’s a bad move. My doubling down on this. On a topic that has always been a minefield for the two of us.
But to my surprise, his expression softens. The lines of his mouth relax. “Not yet,” he says. “But I think it will be.”
Surprise sparks through me, the tension within me fizzling away, leaving my chest buoyant. Light.
“Good,” I tell him. I open my mouth, then pause.
I want to know more. Is he still in construction? Is he doing something else? Starting his own business like he’d once wanted to? What exactly is he looking forward to?
And strangely, I want to tell him that I’m kind of…proud?ThatI’m happy for him. Happy he’s found some kind of joy in his work.
But those words belong to a different Meena. A younger Meena. I don’t have a right to say those things now. “That’s good,” I say instead.
We return to eating, the only sounds in the room the clinking of our silverware and the light rain that’s begun outside.
I squint, trying to look out the window, but it’s gotten too dark to see clearly. Still, I know what this rain means. The outer bands of the storm are here.
“Looks like it’s starting,” I say, gesturing toward the back door.
He casts a worried glance outside, then fishes his phone out of his pocket. He studies it for a few minutes before turning it around, showing me a storm map.
“It’ll take some time for the worst to get here,” he says. “Probably early morning. They’re projecting sometime around two or three.”
“Oh,” I reply. Sounds like neither of us will be getting any sleep tonight.
Silence descends again. Though it’s broken a few minutes later when Nikhil coughs.
My head snaps in his direction, and I’m shocked to find him staring at me. His eyes fixed on my left hand. On my fingers drumming against the table.
I go still. I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” he says hoarsely.
That sound, the sandpapery quality of his voice, sends shivers down my spine.
I clear my throat. I need to regain control of myself. I need to regain control of this conversation. I need to remind myself why I’m here. “Well,” I say. “Since we have some time, I was wondering ifyou maybe had a chance to look everything over. The papers, I mean. Though I understand if you haven’t had time yet. I’m sure you’ve been busy, but really the whole thing is pretty short, and the terms are superstandard. I promise. Though I’m not saying you just have to trust me. You can consult with whoever you want, assuming you haven’t already. Or you can ask me questions. I’m happy to discuss any of it and—”
“Meena,” he interrupts. His voice is still rough. Slightly ragged, but then his lips stretch into a smile I’m all too familiar with. I wonder if he knows how pained he looks. How that smile conveys just how miserable he actually is. “I don’t want to…Let’s not do this right now.”
I wait a beat, trying to be calm. Trying to be patient. Trying to show him how reasonable I can be, but then he rubs the side of his neck and averts his gaze, staring down at the table. And my temper flares.
He’s checking out. Retreating.
I hate it. Even after all these years, it still feels so familiar. An echo of so many conversations we had. Me trying to broach a sensitive topic, and him brushing it away instead of engaging. Trying to defuse the situation with a joke, a change in topic, or that sad attempt at a smile. Sitting right in front of me, but still making me feel so alone.
I snap. “Well, we have to talk about it sometime. And I don’t get it. I really don’t. Is there something else you want? Something not spelled out in this draft? Because these terms are open to negotiation. All of this is just a starting point. We can discuss it.”
“It’s not that,” he says, still looking away. Still not looking at me.
“Then what?” I ask, thoroughly exasperated. “Don’t you want this to be done? Don’t you want this to be over?”
His head moves back. Just the smallest movement. It’s not quitea wince, but as I struggle to figure out how to classify it and what it means, his eyes return to mine. He raises his glass to his mouth and god, I wish I could look away but I’m transfixed. By the way his lips part, the way his throat flexes as he swallows.
The shape of his mouth is still so familiar to me. If I closed my eyes, I’d still remember exactly how it looks. Exactly how it feels.
