Except…now I know that he did. He came to D.C. He sawme. But he didn’t tell me he was there. Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he ever tell me anything? He was always so closed off. About work, about his family, about key pieces of his life.
Though I suppose I was hiding things too. I was hidinghim. From my family and friends. From everyone who knew me. I thought I’d been so open. Confiding in him about my career aspirations, about my parents and my sister and my niece, about the bar exam and how scared I was. But I’d kept him a secret, and I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t really considered how that might make him feel.
Though I still can’t believe that Nikhil could ever have thought that I was embarrassed byhim. He was the one with a job. The one supporting us. The one holding me and everything together. I was the one bringing nothing to the relationship. The one who’d failed. If anything, he should have been embarrassed byme.
But of course, he hadn’t been, because he’s Nikhil. Kind and steadfast and patient. He has a caretaker personality through and through. Sometimes to a fault. Sometimes at the expense of his own needs. Though I have more than my share of flaws too. It’s taken some time for me to realize it, but it’s clear that we both played a role in the demise of this marriage. We both bear some of the blame. And now, all that’s left is for us to make it official.
I go downstairs, enter the living room, and flip Nikhil’s laptop open. I would have asked his permission to use it again, but I haven’t seen him around, which is a little strange. He’s usually an early riser. Or at least, he used to be. But with everything that’s happened I wouldn’t be surprised if his sleep schedule is a little out of whack.
The airline’s sent me a message that anyone who had a flight canceled due to the storm can rebook anything in the next two weeks, regardless of price difference. Their website is already showing options out of Houston tomorrow, including an early afternoonflight to D.C. that has only a handful of seats remaining. I grab it quickly, breathing a sigh of relief when it goes through, the confirmation screen flashing like a victory flag.
I email the itinerary to Shake, so he knows not to book something, or even worse, take his client up on that offer of using the jet. I’m doing a quick scan of the news I’ve missed over the last few days when an email from Shake pops up in my inbox. I’m able to take inonly the subject line (“Rescheduled Strategy Meeting—MUST READ”) before the screen goes black.
I frantically tap the touch pad and the power key, but nothing helps. Nikhil’s computer is dead. I scan the room and the outlets but don’t see a charger anywhere.
I wish I could let it go, but that “MUST READ” is tempting me. Part of me wonders if Shake thought about what I’d said. Maybe he was able to confirm the news about Garcia’s retirement. Maybe he ran my idea by the group. Maybe they have thoughts on the Texas seat. I’m desperate to know, and it’s that desperation that forces me off the couch.
I have to ask Nikhil for the charger, and though he’s likely still asleep, there’s a possibility he’s in the garage. Sure, I haven’t heard any noises coming from in there, but maybe he’s working very, very quietly. It couldn’t hurt to check.
I rap my knuckles against the garage door, and even though I don’t hear any response, I step inside just to make sure. I’m disappointed, but not surprised, when I don’t find him in there.
Nikhil hasn’t hung the canoe back on the wall. It’s lying in the center of the garage on top of a large towel, its green paint shiny and glistening. I sidestep around it.
There are a couple objects covered by sheets and I bet those are the other projects he’s working on. They’re all different sizes, but they look like smaller pieces. At least they’re all much smaller thanthe canoe. A piece of wood juts out from the edge of one of the sheets, and I’m pretty sure it’s the sign he’d shown me earlier. I inch closer, trying to get a better view, to see if he ended up working on it any more, and that’s when I notice something propped up against the wall.
The size and shape of it triggers a memory in my subconscious. And the brown backing and black spring clips confirm my suspicions. It’s a picture frame. The image inside is facing the wall, but I’m almost positive it’s the one I’m thinking of. Though it’s possible he kept the frame and changed the picture inside. Or left it empty.
There’s only one way to find out. I grab the top two corners and turn the frame around, unable to hold back a gasp at what I see.
The glass is cracked. Lines running in every direction. Not unlike the screen on my broken phone.
The broken glass doesn’t completely distort the image behind it, though, and after a while I don’t even notice the cracks anymore.
Two faces stare back at me. Such young faces. These two don’t have crow’s-feet when they smile or strands of gray hair. These two don’t know the heartbreak that awaits them. These two aren’t even aware of what’s going on around them at the moment.
Nikhil and I had laughed the entire time we sat for our portrait, the artist constantly admonishing us to sit still, which had only made us laugh more. I don’t remember what was so funny. I don’t think it was anything in particular. I just remember that the world had seemed so alive. It had been golden hour on the strip, and every casino and billboard and sign had been lit in this beautiful, magical glow.
Nikhil had been glowing too. Bubbly like a glass of champagne. Joyful and effervescent in a way that felt contagious. He was sunshine incarnate, and any stress or anxiety or worry I should have had about our reckless decision, about our impetuous wedding, vanished under his rays.
I stare at my younger self and hardly recognize the girl I see. She’s pure adoration, her eyes fixed on the man beside her. And he’s watching her in return, his expression so soft. So gentle. So full of hope.
It makes me want to cry.
These two people trapped behind the broken glass look just like us, but they’re strangers to me. I’d told myself before that this sketch was a lie. That it hadn’t captured a couple in love. That it had just captured infatuation and foolishness and lust. But looking at it now, I know that’s not the truth.
I loved Nikhil. And he loved me. We loved each other.
He saw me. He knew me. Until I chose to hide him away, hiding pieces of myself as I did.
And I knew him. Even as he kept parts of himself buried and out of reach, I knew him. At the time I’d thought he’d intentionally drawn a line around his heart. Intentionally raised a wall that I could never get past. But I think he was scared. He might have revealed those parts to me one day. If he’d felt safe. If he’d felt like I was really in this marriage. If he hadn’t felt like he was a second choice.
My chest constricts, my vision growing blurry.
How could he think that? How could I have let him think that?
I want to go back in time. I want to find young Meena and tell her to wake up. Tell her that there’s a man who loves her and she needs to make sure that he knows she loves him back. That she needs to tell him what he means to her. That she needs to show him, show everyone, instead of hiding him under a rock.
What had I been so scared about? Judgment and disappointment from my parents? From the community? Being on the receiving end of that same shame my parents and sister had been subjected to all those years ago? It had felt like the worst thing imaginable then, but it seems so small now.
