A laugh climbs up my throat, because really, it’s ridiculous. Whatever he’s wearing. And the exhaustion, the nightmare, the window, the fear, all of it has taken a toll on me. Everything has been so heavy, and I’m desperate for something light.
“It’s a headlamp,” Nikhil says, and I have to hold back another inappropriate giggle at the absolute misery, the embarrassment, in his voice.
“You look like you just came back from a hard day at the mines.”
“It’s practical,” he says. “It’s hands-free.”
“When did you even—” I stop, as the laugh I’d been trying to suppress a few moments ago finally escapes. “When did you even buy that?”
“I told you I’d prepped for this season. I bought everything months ago.”
“Right,” I say. “Standard hurricane season prep. Canned goods. Bottled water. Flashlights. All makes sense. But a headlamp?”
He stares a moment, then his shoulders droop in resignation. “It came free with the radio,” he mutters. “I’d thrown it on my dresser. I hadn’t planned on actually using it.”
I grin. “Well, I’m glad you did.”
He shoots me a skeptical glance. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, look at how useful it ended up being. Besides, it suits you. You should wear it more often. Out on walks or while running errands. Soon everyone will be copying you. You’ll be a trendsetter.”
“Oh yeah?” A corner of his mouth creeps up, and I have this strange, brief sensation of victory. “Then I’ll have to get you one as well,” he continues. “We can’t have you missing out on the latest fashion statement.”
“Oh, no.” I laugh. “I don’t think so. I’d never be able to pull itoff.”
“Huh.” He watches me for a long second, and when his eyes light up with mischief, I’m struck by how familiar that expression is. How familiar this all feels. The lightness and teasing and pure fun of being around him. With a click, he unbuckles the headlamp, and it’s only then that I realize I might be in trouble.
“Nikhil—” I say in warning, but he only smiles wider, slowly advancing in my direction.
“Don’t you think you need to try it on? Just to be sure?”
“No, that’s okay. We don’t have to—”
“C’mon. Since you love it so much, let’s just see how good this thing looks on you.” He reaches for me, and I dodge, letting out something between a squeak and a laugh as he catches me. He slides the lamp around my hair, his hands coming to the back of my skull. But right when I think he’s going to fasten it, he stops moving, his whole body growing still.
He takes the lamp back, slipping it onto his head, then he raises his thumb to my chin. Slowly, he turns my head to the side, and I watch all of that mischief, all of that levity, drain from his face.
“We need to get you cleaned up,” he says, his voice flat and gray.
“Okay.” My arms prickle with goosebumps, the hallway suddenly feeling cold.
He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight for a second before meeting my gaze. “Why would you— Do you know what could have— Seriously, what were you thinking?” He speaks quietly, but that doesn’t make his words sound any less hot and acidic.
A spray just as stinging and harsh as the wind and pebbles of glass.
I know I’m in the wrong here. He’d warned me plenty, but I didn’t take his warnings seriously. I probably should have listened to him, but hell if I’m going to admit that.
“Meenakshi,” he says, and I go still. He doesn’t add anything else. He doesn’t have to. Because Nikhil doesn’t use my full name. Ever. It’s happened only twice in my life, and neither of those moments is one I want to relive.
So I don’t respond. I don’t say anything. The silence lingers for a few seconds, and then he tries again.
“Meena,” he says, as if the last slip hadn’t happened. “You can’t just—” But he doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence. He only shakes his head, and turns and walks away.
“Come on,” he calls over his shoulder. The beam of light bouncesslightly with each step he takes, and I follow him, the path to the primary bedroom somehow feeling both familiar and foreign.
In the bathroom, he’s pulling open cabinets and drawers, searching for something, and I perch on the edge of the bathtub. Waiting. I idly track the scrapes and cuts on my arms, alarmed at the glinting I see when the light catches just right. There are specks of glass there. That makes sense. That’s what’s caused the stinging and the light trails of red. Though now they look almost pink, diluted by the water coating my skin.
Nikhil returns with a large brown bottle, cotton balls, and tweezers. He squats in front of me, pulling my arm across his knee. With the light shining from his head and the tweezers in his right hand, he looks a bit like a surgeon preparing to cut.
