“You’re welcome,” he says distractedly. He frowns, picking up his pen and crossing through something.
“But I feel bad,” I say. “You’ve been making all the meals. I should make something.”
His gaze stays fixed on the papers, but the right corner of his mouth tips up. “You want to make something?”
“Yeah. I can cook.”
This time his eyes flit to mine, humor flashing for a brief second. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I took a cooking class. Learned a bunch of new recipes.”
“Hmm.” He goes back to the document, but a small smile stays on his face.
I conveniently leave out the remaining details. That I attended a grand total of three classes before giving up entirely. That I went to these classes four years ago and barely remember anything about them. And that they taught us ridiculously complicated dishes that I would be able to replicate only if I was suddenly possessed by the soul of Gordon Ramsay, and honestly, maybe not even then.
“What kinds of recipes?” he asks.
“Oh, uhh, it’ll be a surprise.” For him and me both. I have no idea what I’m going to make.
He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t mind cooking,” he says. “I’ve always liked it.”
And he had. When we’d lived together, he’d never made anything superfancy, but he’d always done the bulk of the cooking. I’d help with meal prep and stick things in the oven, but anything involving an actual stove was all Nikhil.
“I know,” I say. “But really, I can make dinner.” I don’t know howto explain, but his cooking for both of us, it’s always been a way he’s shown care, and I want to do the same for him before I leave. I want him to see that same care reciprocated. I want him to know that he’s deserving and worthy of receiving it, that he can allow himself to receive it. If not from me, then from someone else in the future.
My insides revolt at the thought, but I force the sensation down. I want Nikhil to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.
He looks at me skeptically, then returns his pen to the paper.
“It’ll be our last meal together,” I say, trying to convince him. “We should do it in style.”
His hand slips, his pen shooting across the page in a jagged line. Then, he nods. “Okay. Sounds good.”
The room returns to its earlier silence, until finally Nikhil is done. He pushes the document over to me and settles back in his chair.
“I think we’re almost there,” he says.
I nod. I make a few tiny changes, and when it’s all done, he grabs his computer. We input our edits together, and then he goes off to print it. Minutes later, he drops the shiny new version onto the table, the pages still warm from the printer.
We both read through them one last time. The air around us, between us, is still and heavy. Without saying a word, he signs his name on the last page. And then I sign mine.
It’s technically not official until we get this filed with the court, but it feels official right now.
Nikhil and I are done.
15
We spend the rest of the afternoon in the living room.
After all the up-and-down emotions of this morning, it’s rather anticlimactic. I get some work done on Nikhil’s laptop, and he sits on the opposite side of the room studying. His classes have been canceled this week and next due to the storm, but he says he wants to use this time to catch up.
We don’t talk to each other much over the next couple hours, but it’s not as uncomfortable as I would have expected it to be. It’s quiet, but in a good way. Almost peaceful.
Every now and then, I go upstairs to peek out the broken guest bedroom window. The water level is lower each time. It really seems like it might all clear up by morning. I’d never thought I’d feel so conflicted about that.
At some point, Nikhil falls asleep on the couch, his accounting textbook open on his lap, his lips slightly parted. He looks younger like this. The lines on his face softer. Smoother. A lock of hair falls over his forehead, and I resist the urge to push it back. He’s not mineto touch. He’s not mine to care for. He hasn’t been for a long time, and now, he never will be again.
Pain pierces through me at the thought, and I escape to the pantry, needing space away from him, but also needing to figure out what I’m going to put together for dinner. I’m still not sure why I volunteered to make it in the first place, but I can’t back out now.
