Page 40 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“Grab a drink,” Mihir whispered in my ear as I placed my bag on a corner table. “Oh, and laugh like I said something funny.”

“That’s your play? To make him jealous?”

“Yes, now play along.”

“I can’t laugh on cue!” I said between clenched teeth. “How about a fake smile?”

“You’re taking the fun out of this,” he said and walked toward the kitchen, where the food and drinks were set up.

I smiled, not a fake one, and spotted Sameer in the kitchen. Taking the beautifully wrapped gift from my bag, I walked up to him.

“Happy Birthday, Sameer,” I said, handing him the gift.

“Thank you,” he said, holding himself in perfect poise for a second before abandoning the pretense. “What’re you doing here?” His annoyed frown was my first reward that evening.

I whipped out my sweetest smile. “Mihir invited me.”

He looked at Mihir, who glared back before taking a swig of the beer he had just opened. “She’s my guest. She better be welcome.”

Sameer didn’t reply, just held his friend in a steady gaze, then took my gift and walked away toward the anterior rooms. I struggled to suppress a grin.

“People are going to talk about us.” I rolled my eyes and poured myself some whisky over ice.

Mihir picked up a meatball on a stick. “Does that bother you?”

I shrugged and took a sip of the very expensive, very smooth liquor. “I don’t live here. These aren’t my friends. I hope you don’t find yourself the subject of a rumor,” I said, although something told me that wouldn’t bother him.

He picked up another meatball on a fancy stick and handed it to me. “Try this. It’s really good.”

“Of course it is,” I said, scanning the spread of Mediterranean food—fresh, decadent, and beautiful.

“Stop being grumpy and work your magic,” Mihir said just as Sameer walked back to us.

“What are you two whispering about?” Sameer asked with narrowed eyes.

“We weren’t whispering,” I said, pushing myself off the counter with a playful grace that earned me Mihir’s approving smile.

When I rejoined the group in the living room, people were curious to know more about me. What did my work entail? Where was I from, really from, because my accent didn’t sound Indian.

What does an Indian sound like to others, I wondered. Eventually, though, I faded comfortably into the background.

When the doorbell dinged again, we dispersed to get more food and drinks. Relaxing on the couch, I had struck up a conversation about art with a woman named Jessica, when we were interrupted by a little boy who came hurtling through the front door.

“Oh my god, Bryson!” Jessica squealed and hugged the little boy.

A well-dressed woman came rushing after Bryson, followed by a man carrying a baby bag. “We’re so sorry. Our sitter had an emergency, and we didn’t have time to find a replacement. I hope you don’t mind,” the woman said, looking at Aarti, who welcomed her in.

“Of course, not.” Aarti smiled warmly. “We love having Bryson.”

“Hi, I’m Amanda.” She extended a hand to me. “My husband, Ben.”

“Tara, very nice to meet you,” I said to Amanda and waved across the room to Ben. “I’m a friend of Mihir.”

Amanda smiled. “Bryson is almost ready for bed. Just a few more minutes and he’ll be out like a light.”

I smiled at the young child, who stood gawking at me with big, curious blue eyes. “Hi, Bryson, I’m Tara.”

When he gave a shy smile, I put my drink on a side table and slipped to the floor on my knees.

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