Page 85 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

My chest tightened. There were too many fires to put out. I had to talk to Tara. I called but got her voicemail. I called Mihir, but he didn’t answer either. I needed to settle the score with my father and had to discourage Aarti from wanting to spend the night with me. How had I ended up trapped like this again?

When my head stopped spinning, I looked around. My father had found himself a drink and was no longer concerned with what was going on around him. Aarti beamed with the happiest smile on her face before disappearing from my sight. At that moment, I decided everything else could wait. My fight with my father could wait until tomorrow. Appeasing Aarti could wait. I needed to be with Tara. As the party began winding down, I shamelessly used my mother as a crutch and told Aarti that she was feeling unwell and that I should stay over at their house in case she needed me in the night. Aarti didn’t doubt me. She accepted the ruse and even offered to help. Trust is a liar’s most useful ally.

I drove straight to Tara’s and rode the elevator to her apartment. She didn’t answer the door or her cell. But I wasn’t budging until I had spoken to her. She could ignore my phone calls, but she couldn’t avoid me. I planted myself down against the wall in the carpeted hallway.

About half an hour later, the elevator doors opened, and Tara walked out, her makeup still intact. No runny mascara, no streaks down her cheeks, no red eyes.

She froze for a moment as I stood.

Retrieving a key from her clutch, she asked in a voice that was neither angry nor annoyed, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She approached the door with calm steps.

“I tried calling. Where were you?”

Throwing me a dispassionate glance, she slid the key into the lock. “Shouldn’t you be by your fiancée’s side right now?”

I took a step toward her.

“See you later, Sameer.”

When she tried to close the door in my face, I thrust my foot against the jamb and stopped the door with my palm. “I’m not leaving until we talk.”

She turned and walked inside. I followed and closed the door behind us.

Gracefully stepping out of her heels, she stowed them in a small shoe cabinet. Her gown rustled against the carpet as she walked to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and downed it before moving inside toward the bedroom.

“Tara,” I cried, unnerved by her apathy.

She looked at me and kept walking. I followed her into the bedroom, where she proceeded to remove her earrings.

“Say something, love. How are you not angry?”

She glanced at me in the mirror, standing behind her, but she continued to hold her silence.

“Where were you?”

“Mihir took me to some exclusive club to get a drink. We couldn’t go to a regular bar dressed like this. He seems pretty well connected.”

Her nonchalance was now beginning to annoy me.

“Are you drunk?”

An angry frown. “Now,” she said, turning to me with her hands on her waist. “If you could please leave, I need to change.”

“I’m not leaving.”

She grabbed a t-shirt and pajama bottoms from her dresser and started toward the bathroom.

“How’re you not angry? I thought you’d be in tears.”

“Are you ending your engagement?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Then why should I be angry or in tears?”

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