Page 5 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“Hi Durgaben,” I said fondly and reverently to my parents’ housekeeper when she answered the door.

A sprightly, middle-aged woman, she sported an easy, playful smile that pulled you in with love and kindness. And she had a personality to match. Durgaben had been with my parents since we moved here and meticulously managed their massive house.

“Hello,” she said in her heavy accent. “They are in the backyard. Everyone is waiting for you.”

“How bad is he?”

She shrugged. “Just regular annoyed.” We shared a short, hearty chuckle before she patted my arm. “Go now. Your pretty girlfriend is waiting.”

Out of habit, I squared my shoulders before stepping over the threshold into the sprawling backyard. The place was festooned with lights that stayed up all year to bring cheer to soulless lives. About ten families were scattered in groups. Under the pergola, on a set of plush outdoor sofas, sat the women, chatting and laughing in their rich clothes and subtle, expensive jewelry.

Their eyes scanned me as I walked in. I responded with a cordial wave and smiled at Mom. The younger kids were probably somewhere in the house, busy on their devices. The older ones had gathered around the outdoor bar, from which short bouts of laughter erupted periodically. Mihir was perched on a barstool, silently observing the youthful conversations around him.

I walked up and whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

He responded with his signature single nod and trademark stoic face, then sipped the scotch in his hand.

My father held court at his usual spot on the woven sectional. He loved the attention. He needed it, and he had no trouble getting it. Just like me. Tonight he wore a laidback blazer that was easily more expensive than anything anyone around him was wearing. His thick mane, not quite gray yet, lied about his age. A handsome face concealed the cold blood running through his veins. Only his eyes gave away his viciousness, but he knew how to mask them too. He had a terrifying combination of charm and intimidation that pulled you in effortlessly and held you in awe, despite him. Only Mom knew how to peel away that mask, but he had managed to fool her too that one time.

“Here he is now.” The deliberately loud voice was my father’s passive-aggressive way of announcing I was late. With a grand hand gesture, he beckoned me as if I was a prince being shown off to commoners. “Come, come, my son.”

“Hello,” I said to his companions just as Aarti glided toward me.

“Hey,” I said to her, my voice soft and perfectly measured for the occasion.

“Hey yourself,” she replied as she hugged me and whispered, “I missed you.”

“Sorry. Work, you know.”

“As always,” she chided with a smile, then inhaled me. “You’re wearing the cologne I got you.”

“I knew you’d notice if I didn’t.”

“That’s true,” she said with a playful hand on my chest. “You smell amazing. Do you like it?”

“I like it if you do.” That earned me her brilliant smile.

“Come here, you two.” I heard my father again. “Sit with us. You have all night to mingle. Why, Bhatia sahab, isn’t that right?” he said, roping Aarti’s father into the conversation.

My insides cringed at his pathetic attempt to tease us.

But Mr. Bhatia smiled. “Yes, how’s work, Sameer?”

“Hectic.”

He laughed. “That means it’s going well.”

Reluctantly, I followed Aarti, who had already settled herself between our fathers. I stole a glance at Mom. If she could’ve rolled her eyes amid company, she would’ve. We shared a knowing glance before I took a seat beside Aarti.

Aarti, beautiful and delicate, was my girlfriend via an arranged relationship. She was an heiress to her father’s real estate empire, so the underlying instruction to me was make it work. Not that there was anything wrong with her. She fell far from the stereotype of the vacuous heiress. Intelligent, accomplished, and erudite, she single-handedly managed her father’s expansive businesses. She was also slender, gorgeous, and always elegantly dressed.

This evening, she looked radiant in a salwar-kurta. The light pink and gold of the ankle-length kurta brought out the brown in her eyes. Her hair was styled into effortless, flowing curls. Her makeup was flawless, complete with false eyelashes, pink-hued lips, and matching nails. She was perfect.

But she wasn’t Tara.

My stomach twisted in a knot, as if by admiring my girlfriend, I had somehow strayed. I had lost the feeling in my limbs when I saw Tara that evening. She was always attractive, but she had grown into a beautiful woman, her bronze skin still perfectly smooth and lustrous. She had never used makeup when I knew her in college, not even lip gloss. Now her makeup was immaculate and flattering. Thin liner and light mascara amplified her big, almond eyes without adding drama.

The hair that was once thick, black, and wrapped around my hand most nights was now a glossy, deep brown. The carefully styled waves fell straight down her back, drawing attention to her shapely waist. Her slender form had filled into gorgeous curves. A scar above her left eye, a remnant of a childhood injury, cut into a perfectly shaped brow. Like the dark spot on the moon, the scar defined her. It made her special, more beautiful. I had touched it, kissed it; she had let me.

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