Page 88 of Glass Jawed
It guts me more than if she’d screamed. I want to reach for her. Hug her. Fall at her feet andbegfor the ability to reverse time.
But I do nothing. I can’t. Not anymore.
She steps aside wordlessly, letting me in. I walk in gingerly, like the floor might collapse under me.
We sit. Opposite ends of the couch. The space between us might as well be a minefield. Her eyes narrow slightly when she notices the bracelet on my wrist. But it lasts only a second.
I inhale. “Rohi—”
She lifts a hand. Not to touch me. To stop me.
“You don’t speak unless I ask a question.”
Her voice is calm. Deceptively calm.
“You don’t share more than what you’ve been asked. You don’t use the wordsorryor any derivative ofapologize. You don’t call me Rohi, baby, sweetheart, or any other term of endearment. You want to address me? Practice sayingAarohi. Understood?”
My throat tightens. I nod.
So much for all the speeches I practiced.
And just like that, I realize—this isn’t a conversation.
It’s a reckoning. And I’m the one being weighed.
Every breath, every answer, every ounce of my existence—put on trial.
God help me.
“How long had you known that woman? Give it to me in minutes, hours, days, months... You know.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
She doesn’t have to specify. We both know who she’s talking about.
I rein in every instinct to soften the truth with diplomatic bullshit and force myself to answer plainly.
“Forty-five minutes to an hour.”
Her face remains unchanged. No twitch, no frown—just eerie stillness as she catalogues my demeanor like a file she’ll revisit later.
“Did you fuck her? Meaning—did your penis—”
“No, I—”
“Don’t fucking interrupt me,” she snaps, voice still dangerously even. “Did your dick enter her pussy or anything else?”
My throat closes up. “No,” I say, voice shaking.
“Did you kiss her on the mouth?” she asks robotically. There’s no intonation in her voice. It’s like she’s reading down a grocery list.
“Yes. But—”
I stop myself before I make another mistake. She told me not to explain. Just answer.
“Hmm. What parts of your body did she touch? And what all did you touch?”
I shift in my seat, nausea curling low in my gut. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to hurt her again by reliving that moment, but I know I have to. I stare down at my hands and force the words out.
