Page 23 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

But every sight, sound, and smell faded away as I looked into his eyes. With plates of pav bhaji and vegetable-cheese sandwich between us, my body erupted in unfortunate goosebumps. He grinned at the sign of arousal on my arms, and I looked away.

“I’m going to ask you something, and you’ll promise me you won’t lie,” he said.

“I’m going to lie, and you’ll catch me at it,” I replied with a straight face.

“I’m serious. Do you like me, Tara?”

I picked up my sandwich and bit into it. The dome of cheese, sprinkled liberally with the tangy chaat masala, smeared across my lips. I licked them clean while he kept gazing at my mouth.

“Because I like you,” he continued. “So much, I keep worrying I might lose you if I tell you.”

“You just told me.”

“Am I going to lose you?”

I kept nibbling on the sandwich while the spicy mash of mixed vegetables lay untouched before him.

“Let’s go back to my place,” he said.

The desire in his eyes unnerved me. It was what I had wanted to see since that evening on the steps. I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “I haven’t been with anyone yet.”

He lurched back in the plastic chair. “Oh!”

“Does that scare you?” I took another bite.

He shook his head. “With you, no. Does it scare you?”

I picked a slice of cucumber from my sandwich, studying the traces of spicy green chutney on one side and smooth, salty butter on the other. “There aren’t many things that scare me, Rehani. But I need you to know because I like you too. Enough to be worried about losing myself.”

A wave of relief mixed with triumph washed over his face when I looked up at him. His body relaxed in the chair before he leaned in again. “We can start slow. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

“Now, why do I not believe that?”

“Oh, I can be very tender if you know how to play me right. And I have a feeling you do.”

“Hmm, what if I don’t want tender?”

This made him burst into a laugh so loud, we got judgmental looks from everyone around us—from the chatty high-schoolers and heavy debaters to the relaxed uncles and aunties enjoying an evening out without kids. I brought the cucumber slice to his mouth, and he pounced on it with a grin.

“Tell me what you want, Tara.”

“Do you know my caste?”

He frowned. “Do you know mine?”

I shook my head.

“Do you need to know?” he asked.

When I shook my head again, he said, “And I don’t need to know yours.” Then he grumbled with a deeper, angrier frown. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“It is a fact of my existence, Rehani. One that I’m made to live with every day of my life. How can I assume it won’t be an issue between us?”

His frown ironed out instantly. “I’m sorry. You’re right, but it’s a nonissue for me.”

“That’s a privilege I don’t have.”

We let the silence between us drown in the sounds of heavy spatulas banging on cast iron griddles, plastic chairs and tables scraping against the asphalt as people vacated them and new patrons settled in. More laughter, different chatter. An aura of happiness all around us.

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