Page 89 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“That’s true,” Mom said. “He’s the worst patient. But nothing this week, beta. We have a dinner invitation for Friday, but we won’t need you there.”

I nodded. That would be my chance to sneak back in.

“Now, about Anju…” Mom started.

“Years ago, Mom, before her marriage. It didn’t last, as you saw.”

Mom tsked in censure, and Dad crossed his arms, which was his way of signaling disapproval.

“I thought you both knew.” I frowned. “She asked her parents to find her a match who was better than me. That’s what I heard.”

“That can’t be true!” Mom shook her head in denial. She’d always been fond of Anju. “Is that why her marriage fell apart? Because she was in love with you?”

“No, Mathur told me the family was unkind to Anju, too meddling in the kids’ lives,” Dad supplied, and both Mom and I turned our heads to him. I felt a pang of sadness for Anju and a certain thankfulness for Sona, who had prevented me from hurting her further.

Mom straightened. “But I can’t imagine you with anyone other than Sona. Anju stood no chance, even if you hadn’t met Sona.”

I returned Mom’s smile. She knew me. It had been only a few months, but I already couldn’t imagine my life without Sona.

RULE #8

Be mindful of cold ashes.

Coal and ashes can remain hot enough

to restart fire long after the flames are out.

SONA

Ihad it all. Then, in a flash, it was gone. All of it. Every bit of it.

March turned out to be more demanding than I was prepared for. I had a draft to polish for a conference and needed to respond to several calls for papers. The clock ticked on revision and submission deadlines, and teaching, grading, and meetings demanded my attention like petulant children. To top it all off, the university in Houston had scheduled my final interview that month.

Initially, Mihir had planned to see me in Houston, but an unexpected meeting changed that plan. We spoke on the phone on Thursday night before my second packed day of interviews.

When I returned home late Friday night, I was exhausted. I called Mihir first thing the next morning, but he didn’t answer, which was not unusual at this point in our relationship. I texted him to call me when he got a chance. He didn’t. That was not unusual either. He often lost track of time when he worked, so I called him again that evening. But when he didn’t answer again, I got a bit worried. I waited for him to call or text. Neither came.

I was ready to work myself up into a panic when I called him again on Sunday morning, but he texted, Busy. Will call later. That consoled me. Busy was alright, busy was good. Unreturned calls and texts were worrisome. I trudged along my day, prepping meals for the week and cleaning up the remnants from a busy workweek, all the while anticipating my phone to ring. But it didn’t.

When I turned in that night, I texted him, Going to bed now. Kept waiting for your call. Hope you’re not working too hard. Call me when you’re up tomorrow. Love you. Can’t wait to see you again.

Monday turned into Tuesday without a call. That night in bed, I texted him again. I’m really worried now. Calling Aunty.

Within two seconds, he called me back.

“Oh my god,” I cried. “I was so worried! Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

“Hey,” he said in a flat voice.

“What happened? Is everything alright? Please talk to me! Are your parents okay?”

“Yes, they’re alright. Everything’s fine.”

“Let’s switch to video,” I said. “I haven’t seen you in a week.”

“No, this is fine.” Flat tone again.

“Mihir, what’s the matter?”

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