He pulls back, confusion and passion warring for a moment, and then his face shutters. He looks down at our hands, at our fingers still intertwined.
“You’re not wearing a ring,” he says. And for a second, I think he’s talking about my wedding ring. Not the one we’d gotten in Vegas, but the one Nikhil had surprised me with a month later. He’d bought two. A matching set of gold bands. He’d said he was saving up for a diamond, and that he’d get one for me soon. That he’d do a real proposal one day when I least expected it, but that we could at least wear these bands for now.
I’d taken mine off, leaving it on the kitchen table before leaving for good. Is it possible he never found it? Maybe it got knocked off and sucked up by the vacuum cleaner. Or maybe it rolled under the couch or into a shadowy corner of the room. I wonder where his is. I haven’t seen him wearing it. I don’t even know if he still has it. But when he continues staring at my left hand, I realize what he’s really asking.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “Shake and I— It’s just something we used to talk about, but I don’t know…I mean, he says he wants to get back together, but—”
Nikhil releases me, and I disentangle my legs from his body. He steps away, his breaths harsh and quick.
“We can’t do this,” he says quietly. “Ican’t.”
I open my mouth, desperate for words that will convince him that we can have this. That we need this one final goodbye before we’re torn apart for good.
“Nikhil—” I try.
“You’re leaving.” His words are final, but still a little tentative, as if he’s testing them out, as if he’s hoping I might correct him.
But I can’t. I can’t stay here. I have to go back.
“I am,” I say.
Nikhil’s carefully blank expression fades, something desperate and harsh breaking through, but he reels it back in an instant.
We watch each other for a long moment, and then he shakes his head, turning and leaving me alone.
14
We sleep in separate rooms that night. We don’t discuss it. We both just gravitate to our respective areas. I grab a pillow and blanket and head for the couch. Nikhil heads upstairs.
“I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom,” he says from the top of the stairs. He doesn’t turn back to look at me. “You can take the primary.”
“What about the broken window?” I call, but the only response I hear is the softsnickof a door closing.
The two of us cleaned that room up earlier, but I can’t imagine that it’d be comfortable to sleep there with the open window. It may not be raining anymore, but it’s still pretty warm outside, and I doubt that piece of tarp will do much to help with that. But if that’s where he wants to sleep, I guess that’s his prerogative.
I go upstairs, fully intending to go to bed, but a few moments later, I find myself standing in front of the guest bedroom, my hand hesitating above the doorknob. It’s late, and there’s not much leftfor Nikhil and me to talk about. Still, I don’t want us to go to sleep like this. I don’t want us to end the night on such a bitter note. It’s far too late for us to consider following trite marriage advice, but forsome reason it seems important that neither of us goes to bed angry.
I gather the courage to finally twist the doorknob, but my heart sinks when it barely moves.
It’s locked. He’s locked the door.
I could call his name. Or knock. But he’s clearly not in the mood to speak to me.
I walk the short distance to the primary bedroom, following his lead and locking the door behind me.
Ten minutes later, after staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, I climb out of bed. I quietly unlock the bedroom door, then slide back under the covers.
—
“We’re finally starting to hear some good news,” the woman on the television says. “Though it might look like the flooding’s at the same level it was yesterday, there are reports that it will soon start to go down. We expect that many streets will be clear by the end of the day, and almost all areas of Houston should be clear by tomorrow morning. Of course, a number of people are still without power, and others are contending with serious damage from the storm, but if the reports are correct, this is the last day Houstonians will be stuck in their homes. If you’re seeking shelter or need assistance, please contact the hotline at the bottom of the screen. We’re also showing a list of shelters that are offering temporary housing and aid. We’ll continue to keep you updated, but as of now, it seems like the end might be in sight.”
The reporter continues talking as I enter the bathroom. I canhear her voice while I wash my face and brush my teeth, but I’m not listening to what she’s saying. I’m still thinking about the information she just shared.
I can go home. By this time tomorrow, I could be on my way home.
I should be overjoyed at that news. I should be ready to get out of this house. I should be thrilled to finally be able to leave this place filled with nothing but painful memories, but nothing’s feeling the way it should.
The last time I left this house for good, I’d been in a hurry. It had been an impulsive decision. A few weeks prior I’d been in a completely different mindset, having just found out that I’d passed my second attempt at the bar. The relief I’d felt in that moment had been overwhelming. I’d texted the results to Nikhil and he’d somehow managed to leave work early. I’d broken down into tears the moment I saw him, and he’d just hurried toward me, wrapping me in his arms. He hadn’t asked me why I was crying or why I was upset. He’d just held me, telling me that it was okay, that I’d been through a lot, that however I felt, it was normal to feel that way.
