Page 79 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

Then I’m happy for you. I’ll see you soon.

While I was responding to him, Aai called. Since her visit to Dallas, I sensed tension lurking in the background whenever we spoke. She had delicately asked me about Sameer, and why I hadn’t mentioned him before when she had heard so much about Amar. I had brushed it off with a feeble explanation about how he wasn’t a close friend. But since then, our calling ritual had also undergone a change. Before, I used to call when I had the time. After her visit, she began checking in more frequently, asking me tenderly how I was holding up, as if she could read the invisible ink on my heart.

I answered her video call, but a few seconds into our conversation, she paused to look at me. “I wish you would come back now.”

“You must be lonely. I’m sorry, Aai. Maybe I can bring you here for a few weeks.”

“No, I’m just fine. I’m worried about you.”

“Me? What’s there to worry about? This is a very safe city.”

“It’s not that….”

“What, Aai?”

“Okay, don’t be cross with me, but that Sameer boy was looking at you with unusual fondness.”

My heart lurched as I prepared to lie. “He’s a friend, Aai.”

“No, it’s different. See, Amar doesn’t look at you that way. Sameer looked at you like…”

“Like what?”

“The way Sujit does,” she said, stunning me into silence. “Has he said anything to you, Tara?”

I responded with an exaggerated shake of my head.

“Okay. Just be careful, Rani.”

“Careful about what, Aai?” I cried. “It’s not like he’s going to force himself on me.”

“No, Tara, I’m talking about the heart. Be careful.”

I didn’t know if it was a mother’s instinct or her keen perceptiveness, but in that moment, her uncanny ability to read my life felt like a mythical superpower. For the first time, though, she didn’t bring up Sujit.

Over that weekend, I tried calling Sujit two more times, but he was busy, and I saw no way to squeeze into the rushed conversation, I’m sorry, I think I’m still in love with Sameer, and also, I slept with him while you were mired in work.

Luckily for me, the week started out busy. A shipment of paintings had arrived from Naples, Italy, on loan for a new exhibit. Even though it wasn’t a part of my assignment, I was enthralled by their large collection of oils and offered to help with cataloging. This left me with little time to think about Sujit or miss Sameer. I managed to catch up with Sameer during my lunch hour, and he told me about the dance moves he was learning. He didn’t mention Aarti, and I didn’t pry. Between his evening choreography sessions and business dinners, I didn’t get to see him much that week. By Thursday, I was missing his touch and his smell. I texted him that afternoon and took a cab to his apartment after work.

When I arrived, Mihir answered the door with a beer in his hand.

“Tara!” he said, a gentle frown marking his otherwise equanimous face. “What are you doing here?”

“I…I wanted to talk to Sameer about something,” I fumbled, then cursed myself for offering such a flimsy pretense with such little conviction.

He gave me a quizzical look. “Really? About what?”

“Umm, is he in?” I strained my neck to see around him, but he didn’t budge. His big, tall frame blocked the door, preventing me from peeking inside.

“Let her in,” Sameer’s reproaching voice called out.

He came around Mihir, who was now grinning.

“He’s messing with you. He knows.” Sameer smiled at Mihir, then pulled me into a hug and whispered, “I missed you.” My body relaxed in his arms.

“Talk?” Mihir smirked at me, “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

“You don’t want to know what the kids are calling it these days.” I grinned as he took me in a big hug.

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