“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do that. And…I really think you need to use this time to work out whatever you need to work out with Nikhil, but you should remember that whatever you’re feeling, however you’re feeling, may not be the whole picture. You’ve been through a lot the last couple days. It’s not a normal situation. But there’s a reason you both separated all those years ago. He wasn’t the person you needed, and one night can’t change any of that. You always told me being with him derailed all of your plans, and I don’t want to see you go back to something that wasn’t good for you before. You deserve more than that, okay?”
The proper response tastes sour, but I say it anyway. “Okay.”
“And be safe, Meena. I’ve been looking at flights back, but nothing’s available yet. As soon as I see something, though, I’ll let you know. I ended up getting permission from that client to borrow his jet, so I can even bring that down and—”
“You don’t need to come here,” I say quickly. “Not that I don’t appreciate it. I do. But I can figure out the flight back on my own. Once things open up again.”
He pauses. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“But, umm, if you do need to reach me, maybe you could email me? I’d rather you not text me on this phone.”
I don’t want Nikhil seeing messages from Shake pop up on his screen. “I can use Nikhil’s computer to check my email. All right?”
He agrees, and after discussing a few more details from the meeting, he hangs up. I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it for a second.
Shake and I really were good partners. We were on the same page about all the important things. We showed up for each other during hard times. We supported each other’s goals. Even when we fought, even when he dumped me, he was honest with me. I never had to guess what he was thinking. Even just now, he was vulnerable with me, sharing his concerns, his worries, how he felt.
Shake is safe. Secure. Predictable. My parents love him. If we get back together, if we one day get engaged, I know they’d be more than excited. They’d berelieved.
I have a feeling my sister wouldn’t feel that way. My parents had pushed her to consider marrying Ritu’s father when she first found out she was pregnant in college—not that he was offering, or offering to be involved as a co-parent in any way—but my parents didn’t give up after that. They’ve tried to matchmake on her behalf a number of times over the years, always insisting that Ritu should have a father.
I know that’s been hard for my sister. Not that she would tell me that herself, but it’s been obvious. At least to me. I can always tell from the way she tenses up when my parents mention it, from how distant she grows.
If Shake and I ever get married, I don’t think she’s going to be excited for me. I doubt she’ll even care. My sister’s never reacted the way I’ve hoped anytime I accomplished anything. Every graduation—from high school, from college, from law school. My first job. Every success I’ve had at work. All of those milestones have been met with dull words, tense smiles, rote congratulatory statements devoid of any emotion.
My parents always made up for it, hugging me warmly, telling me they were proud of me each time I achieved something, but no matter how hard I’ve tried, how hard I’ve worked to be who my parents wanted me to be, who theyneededme to be, it hasn’t been enough. None of it helped me bridge the gap between me and my sister.
Sometimes, I’m tempted to tell her that I understand. That I’m sorry. That I feel the weight of all of that too. That I know our parents mean well and I love them, but that their expectations have also been hard for me. That sometimes I felt like they approved of me or loved me onlybecauseI was achieving these things. That I wasn’t sure what would happen to that love if I failed, if I couldn’t accomplish everything they wanted.
I wonder if my sister would relate. I wonder if we have any of this in common. But we don’t talk like that. We barely talk at all.
I head to the living room and grab the laptop off the coffee table. I check my work email, quickly skimming through it, but pause when I look up.
One of the things I’d liked most about this house was the brick fireplace in this room. It had seemed so classic. So grown-up. But itlooks different now. It takes me a couple minutes to figure it out, to realize what’s changed, but suddenly it clicks. The space above the mantel has nothing on it. It’s empty.
When we’d first moved in, Nikhil had made me stand right in front of the fireplace. He’d asked me to wait for a moment, then returned minutes later holding something behind his back.
“I know just what we should put here,” he’d said, nodding toward the wall. He’d let the anticipation grow, then pulled the surprise out dramatically, placing a large picture frame on the mantel with a flourish.
I’d stared at the black-and-white charcoal sketch, processing for a moment, then dissolving into laughter when I’d realized what it was. “You…you framed that? You actually got thatframed?”
His smile had grown wider than I’d ever seen it. “Of course I did.”
The sketch was something between a caricature and an accurate depiction of the two of us. Some features were slightly exaggerated: Nikhil’s large nose, my thick eyebrows, the pointed tilt to my chin. But our expressions were what had been exaggerated the most.
We’d stumbled across this street artist in Vegas after we’d fully recovered from our post-wedding hangover. I can’t remember which one of us had insisted on sitting for the drawing, but the result had made us both snort with amusement. And maybe a bit of embarrassment. The result had been so vulnerable. So raw. The artist had all but drawn literal hearts in our eyes. We’d looked absolutely besotted with each other, our hands clasped, our gazes locked, the swooniest, lovestruck smiles on our faces.
It was an exaggeration of what we really looked like, but it had also felt shockingly real. Like an X-ray of the two of us, showing what lay beneath the surface.
“Are you sure?” I’d asked Nikhil. “Are you sure you want to put it up here?”
His smile had fallen the tiniest degree. “Why? You don’t want to?”
I’d winced. I hadn’t wanted him to think I was embarrassed by the picture. Ashamed of it. But this depiction of the two of us was so intimate. It made me feel so exposed. It seemed strange to display it somewhere so public.
But Nikhil clearly wanted to, and besides, this was our home.Ours. It wouldn’t be that public. No one else would really see this. This was just for us.
“No,” I’d told him. “I do.” I’d reached a hand out, grabbing onto his. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
