Page 17 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“You were playing. I was serious,” she said, but spotting no animosity in her tone, I took the liberty of slipping into the banquette facing her.

“I see your wardrobe hasn’t changed much.”

She scalded me with a glare. “Neither has your condescending attitude.”

I smiled. I had expected nothing less. “Truce?” A standard question from our past.

“Why?”

“Can we talk?”

“Why?”

“Don’t be difficult, Tara.” She served me another glare, and I tossed it away just as quickly. “Your coffee is getting cold, but that’s how you like it.”

She returned her attention to the machine, her nimble fingers flying over the keyboard. “I’m not sure we have much to talk about, Rehani.”

It usually took more than a gentle nudge to dissuade me. “Did you find a place to live around here?”

With an audible sigh, she pushed away the laptop and nursed her gargantuan coffee cup. The slender, tapered fingers, finished with professionally manicured nails, evoked fuzzy memories of cold nights in a warm bed. I tried to focus on her face instead, but her plum-colored lips on the thick rim of the cup did me no favors either.

“Yes,” she said softly. “About a block away.”

“I’m about a five-minute drive from you,” I said.

“What do you want, Sameer?”

“A chat with you.”

“We have nothing to chat about. You made that clear years ago.”

“Will you give it a rest? What I have to say has changed in the last thirteen years and in the last twenty-four hours.”

She pulled herself upright, but the expression on her face remained unaltered. “All right, get to it then. This is your chance. Say whatever it is you want to tell me, because after today, I don’t wish to see you again.”

“What if you accidentally run into me like this?” I grinned playfully. “How will you avoid me then?”

I thought I was being clever, but she gulped down her coffee, shoved her laptop into her shoulder bag, and slid out of the booth. “Like this.”

I quickly reached for her wrist. “Please.” With her body still attempting a getaway, she turned her head and gazed into my eyes. I’m not sure what she saw in them, but she set her bag down.

“I need another coffee. Anything for you?” she asked, retrieving her wallet from the bag.

I shook my head. By virtue of old habits and male socialization, I would’ve offered to get her the coffee, but I knew better. I hoped to remain on her good side for at least a day before she blackballed me again. In college, she had always been bluntly honest about her tight finances. Her furious sense of dignity and her fierce self-respect had me completely defenseless even before I fell in love with her. I had never expected it, nor had I experienced anything like it, so I didn’t know how to react except to offer veneration. And that’s what I did.

That same night of Navratri, as I’d sat wrapped up in her perfume, we’d smelled something else.

“What’s that strange smell?” she asked as a young couple walked past us sharing a joint.

“It’s what they’re smoking,” I whispered.

“That doesn’t smell like cigarette. Is it a flavored stick?”

“You really don’t know?” I asked with genuine surprise.

“Know what?” She turned to me with a slightly gaping mouth, eyes blinking with innocence.

I had to smile. She was smart and savvy, yet totally clueless and childlike in some matters.

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