Page 26 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“You deserve to be happy,” he said, but I caught a glint of something strange in his eyes, like love, admiration, pity, and concern, all blended into a distasteful concoction.

I sat up with a bright smile. “But it wasn’t all bad. I had a great time too. During my master’s, I got to take courses in folklore theory and black feminism. And I went to Rome! Those were the best fifteen months of my life. I traveled across Europe and witnessed the glorious pieces of art and architecture that I never imagined in my wildest dreams I’d get to see. Never had too much money, but the friends I made were resourceful and inventive.”

“I love your picture from Rome. The one with your hair flying across your face.”

My cheeks flooded with warmth to know he had looked me up. “You know everything about my life, but I know nothing about yours,” I accused with a smile.

“I follow you on social media. I only know what you’ve made public.”

My back straightened. “You aren’t on social media.”

“I am.” He leaned in to meet my eyes. “Hiding behind a different name.”

“I tried looking for you.” I regretted the admission immediately. My stomach twisted and my brows creased. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”

“We need to do this, Tara. Even if it’s upsetting.”

“It’s beyond upsetting,” I said, trying to keep my hot head from exploding. “Everything you’ve done to me is unfair.”

“Yes, I’ve been unfair to you. But it hasn’t been easy for me either.”

“But you made all the decisions. I didn’t.”

His gaze lowered to his cup, and I looked into mine. The beautifully stained rings of foam had now deflated and hugged the ceramic walls in the hope of holding on just a little longer. I pushed the cup away. “Get me another,” I said to him.

“Same?”

“Extra shot.”

He nodded and left me to my thoughts. The weekend he sent me the text, I had returned home to see my parents, looking for support. But before I could summon the courage to tell them, Baba had a heart attack. A mild cardiac event, the doctor said. And we could get him timely medical attention only because I was lingering outside his room, working up my courage to approach him when I heard the thud. I rushed in and yelled out for Aai and Dada. The ambulance arrived fifteen minutes later. If I had told him, I would’ve surely killed him.

I speared my fingers through my hair, trying to make sense of my turmoil. Because despite it all, I still a felt a visceral draw to Sameer. He was the only one who recognized my spirit, my hunger. He could tell from the way I held a brush, from the look in my eye, what I was thinking.

When Sameer placed the fresh cup before me, gentle steam rose from the surface like a mother’s consoling hand.

“Tara…”

“Don’t.”

I tore open multiple tiny packs of sugar, dumped them into my cup, and stirred furiously.

“I want to make things right,” he said softly.

“How? How can you make things right? Can you bring back my father? Can you give me back those years I spent afraid and unsure? Unwilling to trust anyone with my heart? I didn’t have a relationship until I met Sujit. I was thirty-two! That has to mean something, Sameer.”

“Neither did I, Tara. I could never replace you.”

“But you did.”

He didn’t respond, merely stared back with a tenacity that scared me.

“I have a life, a career. I’m in a relationship that makes me happy.”

“But are you happy?”

This time, I refused to respond.

“I want us to move past the hurt and the pain, to be able to talk, share, laugh like we just did. Right now, I’ll settle for that,” he said.

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