Page 47 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“You are persistent, aren’t you?”

“The secret to my success.”

I sat up. “Maybe to Montréal.”

“A solid maybe?”

“I need to use the restroom.”

He pointed to a door for an attached bath.

“I’m going to slip out of the covers now,” I warned. “I better not catch you looking at me while I’m walking to the bathroom naked.”

He pushed his hands under his head and set his eyes on me as I got off the bed.

“I’m not kidding,” I said. “I will clobber you. Close your eyes.”

He dropped his eyes shut with a warm smile, a smile that hurt my heart. I didn’t want warmth. I wanted distant, preferably rough, sex. I knew I was in trouble as I walked across the room to his ridiculously lavish bathroom.

I needed to use the restroom, sure, but it was also an excuse to get away from Mihir.

Something had changed last night. I had begun to trust him. It’s like there were two versions of him in my head: a player I needed to stay away from and a confidant I could blindly trust. There had to be a reason why I was able to spell out my fears to him that way without the dread of ridicule.

It was getting too real, too fast. The fire had engulfed me, and I seemed to keep walking deeper into it.

I wasn’t in the bathroom for long but when I returned to the bedroom, having composed myself, Mihir wasn’t there. I got dressed and remembered the meeting he had mentioned. As I walked into the formal living area, I heard his faint voice coming from a room I reckoned was his study.

I decided I had been granted a golden opportunity. If I slipped out unnoticed, I would be effectively severing whatever it was that we had. As much as it would hurt us now, later would be worse. Sure, it would be awkward when we saw each other at Tara’s wedding, but that was precisely why you shouldn’t mess around with your best friend’s friend. Because you never know when the fun and games might turn into something more serious.

Pulling out a notepad from my purse, I tore a page, scribbled a quick note for him, and put it on the bed. Then I called for a cab on my app and carried my luggage to the front door.

In a few minutes, I was on my way to the airport, complete with the heavy baggage from my past.

SONA

It had been years, and Ajay was no longer a memory, only a putrid taste still lingering in my mouth. I barely remembered the exact sequence of events, but I distinctly recalled how it felt. The churning in my stomach, the dipping of my heart, the metallic taste in my mouth, the pounding in my head as he declared I wasn’t worthy of him. All because his mother had determined so.

I’d been only months away from defending my doctoral dissertation, and Ajay had been courting competitive offers from two companies. We’d been like any other young couple at that age. We’d fought, loved, laughed, bickered over who’d take care of cooking, cleaning, and doing the dishes. Over the fifteen months we’d known each other, he’d never once given an indication that he’d drop me in a flash if his family didn’t approve.

That morning had promised to bring me a lifetime of happiness, but instead, two nights later, I’d been sleeping on my friend Payal’s couch.

While having coffee on a lazy Saturday morning, he declared his intention to introduce me to his family and get the ball rolling on our wedding. That evening, early Sunday morning in India, we placed a video call to his parents. They seemed amicable and asked me questions, none too offensive, but they had taken one look at me and decided I wasn’t the right woman for their son. They confided in him later that night while I slept my naïve sleep of innocence. Ajay didn’t share this with me immediately, but after two days of distant and angry behavior, I forced him to come clean.

He said with absolutely no guilt, “My mother doesn’t think this is a good match for me.”

“Why does she have a say in this? We’ve been good together, haven’t we? Shouldn’t this be about us?”

“But she’s my mother. I can’t do this to her.”

“Is it because my father is a Christian?” I frowned. “You knew that when you asked me out. It’s in my name, Sona Thomas.”

“Of course not! My parents are not narrow-minded bigots, for heaven’s sake,” he cried.

“Then what’s their problem?”

After I had repeated the question three times, he blurted, “My mother thinks you’re a bit dark.”

“Excuse me?” I screamed.

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