Page 36 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“Because you’re not fifteen.”

“Okay, then whatever you want.”

“It’ll be lowkey, but let’s get some decent food. Maybe some sandwiches and some kind of spread. No, scrap the sandwiches. Let’s make it a Mediterranean spread, kebab, shawarma, gyro. And something vegetarian. Maybe rice and pita and three dips at least. Oh, a baklava cake with honey buttercream frosting. I had it at a party last month.” She eyed my checked-out face and smiled. “I’ll have Shirley arrange it.”

Shirley, her event-planner friend, catered to Aarti’s whims as frequently as she did her parties.

“I thought we were keeping it casual.”

“We are. Very casual,” she said with a naughty grin.

“If Shirley’s involved, it’s going to be anything but casual.” I shook my head and smiled back.

“Well, she knows how to keep me happy.”

“That she does. Better than me,” I blurted, then instantly regretted my words. I had internalized the habit of pleasing her despite how I felt, a habit that was sure blow up in my face soon.

“I wouldn’t say that.” She snuggled against my side and slipped her hand down my pants. Employing both enthusiasm and seduction, she tried for a while but gave up with a frown on her pretty face.

“I’m sorry. I’m very tired,” I said when she pulled her hand out.

“You’re not even trying. Look at your hands, just stuck under your head. Maybe if you slipped them under my shirt, we could get some heat going.” But a smile quickly replaced her frown, and she dropped a light kiss on my lips. “That’s alright, baby,” she said. “Consent works both ways.”

I rolled to my side and kissed her forehead. “Thank you for everything you are, Aarti. And I’m sorry for everything I am.”

She peered into my eyes, and I prayed she didn’t see the guilt in them. “Don’t be silly. It isn’t a big deal. I appreciate who you are, just the way you are.”

My breath caught between my throat and lungs. I was fucked up, and she deserved better. Tara deserved better. And I deserved neither of these phenomenal women. What the hell was I doing?

When she buried her soft body next to me, I mustered up some courage to wrap my arms around her. But at the first sign of her deep, peaceful breath, I snuck out to the dark living room with my phone.

Are you up? I texted Tara and waited. Across the room, two green dots on the oven clock blinked steadily, counting moments wasted on misgivings and heartache. Fifteen silent minutes later, I returned to bed, pulled Aarti’s hand from under her, and fell asleep holding it.

The next morning, Aarti insisted on going to her favorite brunch place in Plano. With one eye on my phone, I pretended to enjoy her company, but felt a deepening ache as I heard nothing back from Tara. We returned to spend a lazy afternoon watching TV, all the while feeling like the imposter that I was. When Aarti left that evening, I was tempted to rush over to Tara’s, but her furious silence had been her response.

Later that evening, Mom’s name lit up my phone.

“Hi, Ma,” I said.

“Are you busy?”

Her tone startled me. Something was up. “What’s wrong?”

“Is Aarti with you?”

“No, she left. Why?”

“It’s about Sangita.”

My anger spiked at the mention of that name. The veins in my head throbbed. My body went rigid with rage.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it, Ma. I’ll have nothing to do with that woman anymore. And you shouldn’t either.”

“Sameer, just listen to me for a minute, will you?”

“Haven’t we had enough?” My angry voice ricocheted off the walls in the cavernous apartment. “Haven’t we done enough?”

“Sameer.” Her voice hardened. “You know I’d never talk about her unless it was important. Don’t you trust me anymore?”

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