Page 177 of Glass Jawed
“There’s a difference between wanting you andforgivingyou,” she says, voice soft but sharp with meaning. “And there are things I haven’t told you. Things we’ve never really talked about. Things I don’t know if we can... get past. But I want to.”
I nod slowly, heart pounding. Panic gripping me slightly. Because I can feel it—whatever she’s holding back, it’s important. Maybe even everything.
“Whenever you’re ready, Rohi. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She lifts her gaze. And in the middle of that pained little smile, I see it—just the faintest flicker of hope.
“Find me after I get my henna done.”
And with that, she turns and walks away—leaving me wondering whether the distance betweenwantingandforgivingis just a conversation apart...
...or a chasm we’ll never close.
FORTY-FOUR
Aarohi
I can’t believe this.
I’ve made thebiggestmistake of my life, and the frustration just won’t quit.
What the hell have I done?
I glance at Kash, who’s lounging beside me—calm, composed, radiating peace.
I try to absorb some of that serenity through sheer proximity. It doesn’t work.
“Rohi, just—”
“Stop!” I snap, cutting her off with the rage of a woman who’s made a fatal tactical error.
I groan, staring down at my hands—both slathered in thick, cold mehendi (henna), all the way to my elbows in beautifully intricate designs.
I should’ve brought a glass of water with a straw.
Instead, I’m dehydrated. Dying.Desperate.
The main hall is packed—dozens of aunties sprawled across couches, getting their own henna done by the crew of artists floating around the room. My mom, Ishika and a few others are upstairs, getting theirs done together in her room. There’s the occasional burst of laughter, the hum of aunties low-key gossiping like it’s a paid job.
Meanwhile, I’m parched. With zero mobility. And no hands to actuallyholda glass. Not without ruining the henna.
“You’re overreacti—”
I growl at Kash. Loudly.
She blinks. “Ooookay. Normal Rohi has left the building.”
“I haven’t had a drop of water since dinner. Which I had at eight. It’s one a.m., Kashvi. One. I’ve been drinking since then. I am dehydrated. I am dying. DYING!”
She gives me a deadpan stare. “Poor Lucifer.”
And as if her words summon him from thin air—there he is.
Lucian, casually walking past the main hall, carrying a box like some kind of bridal logistics prince.
Instead of calling out politely like a normal person, I channel every cell in my body andscream.
“LUCIAN!”
