Page 62 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“But he just set the terms for me. He pushed me into Sujit’s arms, knowing full well I had gone there for him.”

“That’s what he thought you wanted. Why the heck aren’t you both talking about it?”

“That’s why I went over, to tell him how I feel and to listen to his side, but he was with Aarti.”

She sighed.

“So, what’s the use of having someone care for you so deeply if it’s ephemeral? If it can’t be realized in this lifetime?”

“Books have been written on the subject. However, metaphysics is not my forte, but I’ll be happy to talk at length about the contribution of queer of color spaces to feminist theory if you’re interested.” I heard the shift in her tone from serious to teasing.

“Alright, alright, point taken, Professor Thomas.” I had to smile.

“Thank you, young child. Now tell me, how was the opening? I want details. And how did you like the surprise?”

“I hate you all so much. How could you keep it from me? I thought my heart was going to explode when I saw them walk in.”

I filled her in on the evening, including Dr. Hadden’s commendation and my impromptu speech.

“I’m so proud of you, babe,” she said. “And hey, don’t think too much. You have Sujit. Sameer is your past. Don’t try to erase him. Embrace the power of letting him go.”

“That’s very sound advice, Professor. Alas, my heart and brain don’t operate on the same frequency.”

When I rang Sujit immediately after, the call went directly to voicemail. I left him a text thanking him for the love and support that had helped me get through the evening.

It was also Sameer’s love and faith in my abilities that had put me back on my feet, but I didn’t want to think about him anymore.

I started the week knee-deep in research, trying to figure out the mystery of the two artists while still getting ahead of my work. I felt happier back in my comfort zone, a place where I could stay invisible and sane. I exchanged a few texts with Amar, who was off visiting relatives on the West Coast, but we didn’t bring up Sameer, who had kept his distance since that evening. He did text me early that week to congratulate me on the critical coverage I had received in two local newspapers. So proud of you, his text read, but I underplayed it with a simple Thank you, sans emojis. He had taken the hint, and I didn’t hear back from him for the rest of the week.

By Saturday morning, I had settled into a quiet routine of work and research that I didn’t want to break for the weekend, so I decided to take my work bag to Cups and Cookies.

I was about to leave for the café when I got a call from my brother. I hadn’t spoken to him since I brought Aai over to the U.S., and seeing his number on my phone screen made my heart thud.

It was Saturday evening in India, and he was drunk. He lived in Gujarat, a dry state, so most likely he had been boozing on something cheap because he was too broke to buy decent liquor illegally. Using the choicest of abuses and curses, he accused me of having messed up his life. He recounted how I thought I was better than him, that I had taken away every bit of his happiness, and in a final cruel stroke, even snatched his mother away.

Her love was the only thing helping him cope, and I had stolen it. Unaware that I was in Dallas, he demanded to speak to Aai. I fended him off, threatening to call the police if he tried to contact her, but he was too drunk to realize the absurdity of the threat. My only reassurance was that he didn’t have Aai’s U.S. number. Unless overcome with motherly love, she had shared it with him. The thought terrified me, so I kept him on the line, indulging him as he hurled abuse at me until he passed out and I heard him snore.

Five minutes later, still standing in the same spot where I had answered his call, my skin turned numb. My hands began to tremble. I needed to sit down, but I couldn’t move.

I tried breathing like Sameer had shown me that evening. I took deep breaths and closed my eyes to Sameer’s image. I saw him holding out his hand for me. I grabbed it and steadied myself. I was still holding on to him when my other hand began to vibrate. With a jerk, I looked at the phone. It was Sameer. By sheer reflex, before I could stop myself, I answered the call.

“Hello,” I said blankly.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry to call, but I’m meeting Mihir at Cups. I was wondering if you could join us. We have an interesting proposition for you.”

I heard his voice but not his words. All I took in was Sameer, confident and reassuring, telling me I was loved.

“Tara? Are you there?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked as a tear rolled down my cheek, and I heard his breath quicken.

“Tara, do you want me to come over? Just say the word.”

“Yes,” I said again, my voice still small.

“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be there, I promise.”

“Okay.”

---