Seconds pass, and the amusement in his eyes begins to fade.
“I’m going to get the soup now,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, but I don’t let go of his hand. I know I should, but for some reason, I keep holding on.
In the end he’s the one to do it. He retreats, and I reel my hand back, awkwardly cradling it against my chest.
The loss of contact is sudden. And now, I’m cold. The comforter’s been peeled back away from me, and I reach for it.
“There’s an extra blanket right next to you,” he says.
And so there is. I grab it, throwing it over my legs.
Nikhil leaves the room, returning in a short while with a tray that holds two bowls balanced in both hands. He sets it down on the dresser, and my mouth begins to salivate. Food. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten. I’ve slept through the last few meals, and that rescue effort was the most strenuous workout I’ve had in months. I need calories.
Nikhil wraps a cloth napkin around one of the bowls and uses that to carry it over to the nightstand. “Careful,” he says, no doubt seeing the longing in my eyes. The way I’m tempted to grab the bowl sans spoon and just tip it directly into my mouth. “It needs to cool down.”
He goes back to the dresser, then returns with the other bowl.
He looks around for a moment, as if trying to figure out where he should sit. I scooch over, giving him enough space to sit on the edge of the bed.
He silently accepts the invitation, though he doesn’t look my way.
I blow over my soup, cautiously tasting a spoonful. Chicken noodle. The kind with star-shaped pasta.
“My mom used to make this for me whenever I was sick,” I say, no longer cautious, full-on scarfing it down. I can still imagine the small plastic bowl she’d serve it in. It had characters fromThe Lion Kingon it. And a matching spoon.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes are glued to the bowl in his lap. “I know,” he finally says. “You told me that once.”
Oh. My chest is tight. There’s some kind of pressure. Something squeezing my lungs. Probably a side effect of whatever infection I have.
We eat in silence for a bit, but once I have food in my stomach and feel the tiniest bit better, I can’t help but bring up our prior conversation.
“So,” I say, “you came to D.C.”
His spoon freezes midair, halfway to his mouth, and he sets it back down in his bowl. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
I pick a loose thread off the edge of the blanket. “Did you likeit?”
“Like what? The city?”
I nod. I’d been so worried about that back then. So worried that he wouldn’t like D.C. as much as he liked Houston. Houston had been his first real home, the first place he’d been allowed to live for more than a year or two. We’d talked about moving. Even when we were just dating, he knew that I’d been planning to move. That I’dhaveto move for my job. After we’d gotten married, he’d said he was fine coming with me to D.C., but I still hadn’t been sure whether he would actually do it. If he’d really be willing to pick everything up and leave the first home he’d ever known. And I guess in the end he hadn’t.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t see much of it. I wasn’t there very long.” He glances over at me. “Finished?” he asks, gesturing for me to hand him my empty bowl. I pass it, and he gathers everything back onto the tray and leaves the room.
I rub a hand over my eyes and sigh. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about that anymore, and now I’m not even sure why I brought it back up. The fact that Nikhil came to D.C. years ago doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact that he never tried to talk to me once all these years. It doesn’t change the fact that the two of us were not meant for each other. It doesn’t change the fact that Ineed this divorce, that I need him to sign the papers, that I need to end all of this to get back on track with my career, and with Shake.
I miss how logical and rational Shake and I were. How things made sense when we were together.
Our plans for the future, our joint runs for office. We’re on the same page about everything. Together, it really seemed like all of that might be possible.
I wonder again what he would think about the Texas seat. Elizabeth is probably running, so it might not even be worth it to bring it up, but for some reason, it still has a hold on me. Being here, spending time on this street, it’s reminded me how much I once loved this place. And hearing Elizabeth’s passion was inspiring. This place was once my home, and the way she’d talked about it made me want to be here, to fight for this place and the people who live here too. I’m not sure whether it would even be possible, but I want to at least try to find out more.
But I’ll deal with all of that later. Right now, I have more pressing matters to attend to. I’m all grimy. I feel so gross. And I really need to brush my teeth. I swing my legs out of bed, and the floor rises up to meet me.Whoa. I catch myself in time, avoiding a fall. I’d underestimated how slowly I need to take things. Underestimated how weak my body is. I wait a moment before trying again, taking small, tiny steps to the bathroom. Once there, I’m shocked by what I find in the mirror.
I hadn’t expected to look great, but it’s even worse than I’d feared. My hair has taken on a life of its own. A bird’s nest with a hair tie trapped somewhere inside it. And my arms look strange and unfamiliar. Like they don’t even belong to me. Dotted with scrapes and scratches and red bites and welts, though fortunately those aren’t as itchy as I remember them being hours ago. And my eyes are all sunken in, the shadows under them dark and deep and purple. I can’tbelieve I’ve been out for hours. I look like I haven’t gotten any sleep in days.
I do what I can to repair things, splashing cold water on my face and stealing some of Nikhil’s toothpaste. I somehow find the hair tie amid the tangles and manage to smooth the mess of hair back into a low ponytail. This usually makes me look like a Founding Father, but with everything else going on, it’s somehow an improvement.
