Page 4 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“Oh, I’m sorry! See, I’m not as cultured and classy as you. I wouldn’t know if this is more vile than ghosting someone you’ve been with for a year, then responding to their frantic phone calls with a text, Stop calling. We are D-O-N-E, all caps.”

“I was twenty. I was a fool.”

“Yes, I was twenty and a fool for thinking I meant more to you. You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.”

“You’ve no idea what I’ve been through either.”

“What you did was cruel and unfair, and it hurt.”

He regarded me with sorrowful eyes. “And you’re still hurting.”

“Yes, I’m hurting. And I’m angry and humiliated.” I stared defiantly into his face. “But don’t let my changed appearance and polished accent fool you. We still remain worlds apart.”

“We were worlds apart when we met.”

“And yet I let myself fall for you. I regret it every single day,” I said and tried to mean it, but my voice gave me away—or maybe it was my eyes, because he smiled into them.

“No, you don’t. You still have feelings for me.”

I should’ve denied it, but I clammed up, almost handing him the confirmation rolled up nicely and adorned with a bright, cheery ribbon. I knew I couldn’t lie to him. He’d see right through it.

“Then here’s something you should know. Not a day has passed in the last thirteen years when I haven’t thought of you. Not one.”

He took a step back from me, looked down at his exquisite shoes, one hand resting gently on his brows, then lifted his head with a deep breath. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Kadam. I will see you again, I promise.”

He turned around and walked away. But his scent lingered on, holding me in a warm embrace.

I slumped down on the bench behind me. What had I done? The man had a propensity to feed off people’s weaknesses, and I had just handed him mine on a silver platter. My weakness? Him. Now he knew it.

With a deep breath, I pulled myself up and walked back to the beautiful office the museum had assigned me with its huge windows overlooking a lush garden. This time, the rhythmic clicking of my heels didn’t annoy me. Instead, it reminded me of the way I lay on his chest, listening to our hearts beating in tandem after we had made love.

Chapter 2

Sameer

Ireturned home feeling defeated. Dropping my suit jacket on the recliner, I flopped onto the couch as Tara’s words played on repeat in my head. The sorrow in her eyes and the pain in her voice filled me with guilt and regret. I had to come to terms with the hurt I had caused and find a way to heal her broken heart.

And I had to get her back—a goal that seemed slated for failure no matter how I considered it. All I wanted was to stay in and drown myself in Tara’s memories, but today wasn’t a day I could indulge myself. There was never time for that. My father had planned a small gathering at their house, and my presence was required.

Thirteen years ago, my father took everything he had built with my mother and burned it to the ground. To save face, I moved us from Delhi to Dallas, where we made a fresh start. Since then, it had become my burden to restore my family’s name. I made connections and increased my worth through relentless hard work, trying to rebuild the life we knew.

Success demanded persistence and diligence, and I wasn’t hesitant to put in whatever it took. Determined to leave no stone unturned, I even deferred to my father’s whims and ended up on the arm of a beautiful socialite who would make me a household name in Dallas. People called me a savvy businessman and I considered myself a smart, rational decision-maker. But now I felt like I had lost control of the steering wheel.

For years, I had followed Tara’s life from afar, reading her blogs, perusing her website, tracing her move from Baroda to the U.S., where she got her master’s degree, to Rome for another master’s, and back to the East Coast, where she had set up her career. But I never imagined she had held on to us. Now that I knew, I found myself grappling with a strange feeling. Something I hadn’t encountered in a long time. For the first time in thirteen years, I felt happy. I felt like myself.

After a quick shower, I stood before my spacious wardrobe, trying to figure out what to wear. If I showed up in casual clothing or chose the wrong jacket, I’d never hear the end of it. After all, appearances were everything. I had learned early on how to sink beneath the skin of a chameleon, knowing when and how to change my colors to blend in. How to adapt to any situation, to speak effectively across the lines. How to appear disarming before launching that final, deadly attack.

Adaptation was the key to survival in the animal kingdom. If you failed to adapt and change, you perished. You became the prey. It wasn’t by sheer luck that I had acquired three firms over the last six years. Tough decisions required shrewdness and dispassion. My friend Mihir had drilled both traits into me over the years, along with a certain degree of cruelty. I wasn’t quite the ruthless bastard he was, but I was aggressive enough to lead the fourth largest financial conglomerate in the Southwest.

My wedding to my girlfriend Aarti was all that stood between me and becoming the most powerful South Asian in the region. Only now, life had shoved a giant Tara-shaped wrench into the well-oiled machinery I had crafted over the last decade.

The powder blue shirt I chose paired perfectly with the textured navy and grey blazer and my favorite tan brogues. I styled my hair with the meticulousness I had acquired from Mihir. Finally, I spritzed the very expensive cologne that Aarti had gifted me last week. The notes of patchouli didn’t meld with my skin or flatter my personality, but she wanted me to try it anyway. It had only cost a few hundred bucks, after all. She’d unironically told me to discard it if I didn’t like it. After throwing a change of clothes into my small holdall, I pulled out of the garage and merged into the Friday night traffic.

When we moved to the U.S., I made it clear I wouldn’t live under the same roof as my father. It was the only way I could interact with him again. I needed to breathe without his shadow bogging me down. It was bad enough the specter of our past hovered over me every moment, I could do with a little distance from him.

Mom was a different story. I missed having her around, but she refused to live apart from her husband. According to her, it wasn’t the proper thing to do. My buying a place in uptown Dallas, instead of the lush green suburb where they lived was part rebellion, part spite. I didn’t want to be within driving distance of my father. I wanted it to be an effort for me to visit them and for them to see me. It worked. Dad despised city traffic and seldom came over.

Pulling off the highway, I turned and drove to an affluent neighborhood, where well-groomed topiaries ran beside perfectly manicured lawns. I parked my humble Mercedes at the tail end of a line of luxury cars in their driveway, each screaming for attention, vying for style and status. I noted a couple of Teslas in the mix, although in certain circles, the Tesla was seen as a choice of the nouveau riche. It was the difference between toting an LV bag and carrying a discrete Hermès, Aarti had explained. Although her brand-new Audi R8 wasn’t intended as a snub at the electric car, she just loved her Audis. These social events were occasions to project one’s wealth, to establish one’s status in the hierarchy, and my simple car notwithstanding, I was about to land at the top of the food chain.

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