Page 192 of Glass Jawed
I pull her into me. And say the words I’ve been wanting to for so long.
“Hey...” I say casually. “Would you like to go on a date with me next Saturday?”
She giggles, shoves me again, and practically skips away—dancing all the way to the mansion.
I follow behind her, laughing.
Then she stops, turns around gracefully—herlehengaswirling at her ankles.
“You had me at‘Hey’,Lamebrain.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Aarohi
ONE MONTH LATER
“Maaa,” I groan. “I gotta go, pleeaaase!”
“Arrey beta,just asking! Carol and Sam told us it’sverynormal,” she replies in Hindi. “We’re very modern,beta. We don’t mind.”
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me and say my goodbyes before hanging up.
Modern. Yeah, right!
This is thethird timein a week my mom has asked whether I’ve moved in with Lucian.
I haven’t.
Kash and I still have our beautiful condo in the west end of Vancouver. Lucian and Liam moved into their own apartment five minutes away. But my mom has eyes sharper than CCTV. She sees Lucian in my apartment almost every night during our video calls. She knows we’re practically living together—buttechnically, we’re not. Kash is still here. And I’m still in denial.
Carol and Sam—Lucian’s parents—have finally met mine, albeit virtually. And apparently... theytalk. At least my mom and Carol do. A lot. About everything. Including wedding dates, colors, decor themes.
Meanwhile, Lucian hasn’t even proposed. We’re not...thereyet. I mean—heis. And he never fails to remind me.
I’d like to say we’ve been fucking like rabbits—but we haven’t. We haven’t had sex yet.
I’ve spent the last month confronting my sexual hesitancy in therapy. It’s been grueling and heavy. But Lucian’s never pushed. Not once.
We do kiss though.All the damn time.
But no sex.
And I’m working up the courage for that. When Ruth asked me, all those weeks ago, to describe a picture of myself like I was a stranger... I reluctantly started writing it after moving here. And then I cried after only a few words.
I couldn’t writeone sentencewithout the undercurrent of self-loathing.
Lucian found me curled in bed that night, crumpled, tears streaking my cheeks. I’ll never forget how his face changed when he saw what I wrote.
Her collarbones are prominent like they’re trying to escape her skin. Her legs are all angles, knobby knees and bones that don’t know how to fill out jeans properly. She doesn’t need a bra. Even a push up bra can never magically create a proper cleavage.
He didn’t say a word. Just gently took the paper from my hand, crumpled it, and held me for the rest of the night—whispering everything he loved about me. My body. My soul. Every inch, every part.
A few days later, I managed to write something neutral enough to show Ruth. Lucian hadn’t read that one. But that same night, he must’ve slipped a folded paper into my work bag.
Because the next day, I was bawling alone in my office bathroom reading this:
I love her collarbones. Not because they’re sharp, but because they catch my lips, saving every kiss.
