Page 21 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“We should talk.” I took the opportunity to suggest.

“About what?”

“About what happened. Why I left. Did Amar tell you nothing?”

She offered a gentle frown in response. “Amar is a loyal friend. He knows the virtue of keeping a secret.”

I sucked in a breath. “Yes, he does.” Precisely why I had trusted him not to spill my shame to Tara.

Her eyes flickered for a brief moment. “Tell me honestly. Why didn’t you reach out in all these years?”

“Would you have responded if I had?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled. Lying didn’t come naturally to her, so she had no choice but to opt for the truth. “Probably not.”

“Let’s talk, Tara. Give me a chance to explain what happened. If we are still not sure we can be friends after that, I won’t insist. Just one more chance, that’s all I’m asking.”

A shuddering breath shook her body, and she nodded. “Alright, one more meeting.”

“At least two. I don’t think I can bring myself to tell you everything all at once.” Honesty was the only way to regain her trust.

“Alright, two more meetings.”

“Next Saturday? Same time, same place.”

She nodded and looked at me. “Sameer?”

“Yes?”

“How do you know so much about my work? And why?”

I shrugged and leaned in. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Before she could respond, Mihir returned with coffee for himself and water for her. Just then, her phone buzzed on the table.

I felt her stiffen, but she answered with a bright, “Hey, good morning.” Judging by her smile and demeanor, I knew it was the boyfriend. “I’m at a coffee shop. Can I call you when I get back to the apartment?”

“About half an hour,” she said and slipped the phone into her bag. “Okay guys, I need to leave. Mihir, it was very nice to meet you. Hopefully, we’ll see each other again.” She pulled out two cards from her bright, quilted wallet and handed them to us. “If you’re ever in the market for art but don’t know where to begin, get in touch.”

I slid off the booth to let her out.

She stared at me for a long moment. “I’ll see you Saturday, Sameer,” she said quietly as if she didn’t want Mihir to hear it. I nodded, and she disappeared.

Mihir reoccupied his spot in the booth, and I slipped into mine. He was the only friend who knew about my family’s murky past. He also knew every little detail of my relationship with Tara. His father and my uncle were old friends. Years ago, during one of my drunken stupors, I had poured out my heart to him. How much I missed Tara, and how my juvenile decision to disappear from her life still hurt. Back then, he was just a guy I hung out with because our families were close. After that night, he became a friend.

His reaction to my life’s story was neither pity nor ridicule, as I had feared. He had taken a sip of his drink and calmly said, “Look at yourself now, and tell me you’re not a fighter.”

It was a powerful thing for me to hear in my inebriated state, especially from Mihir, whom I had come to admire and respect. It felt like he had cut open the stagnating wounds of my heart, releasing all the rot of pain and bitterness. I had never cried so much, not even when we relinquished our comfortable life in India and moved here. He had been my champion ever since, a mentor, though he was barely two years older. He was a powerhouse in his own right, and those who knew him professionally called him ruthless and cutthroat. The image went well with his six-foot-two, broad-shouldered frame, dark eyes, and bearded face.

“What do you think?” I asked, bouncing my feet.

“She’s quick, smart, assertive,” he said with furrowed brows, then laughed. “She’s way out of your league, man. How did you get her to go out with you the first time?”

“I have no idea what she saw in me.” I sighed and fell back in my seat. “Now, she has a boyfriend who makes her face light up like that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re smart, well-read, moderately successful,” he teased with a slight smile. Like Tara, he had kept me grounded all these years. “Have you told her?”

“I’ve tried.”

---