Zayaan brushed past Nirvaan to the squat new coffee machine by the fridge and programmed in a double espresso, his after-lunch special. “You sure you want them going back on Monday?” He looked askance at Nirvaan as the machine chugged out black-brown liquid in a swallow-sized cup. “They’ll want to be here, Mummy especially, during the radiosurgery.”
I stiffened and then quickly spun around to face the sink to hide my panic. The antiquated kitchen had no room for a dishwasher, so I soaped up a sponge and started washing the dishes by hand. I was furious with myself for reacting so badly, so typically. And I’d thought Nisha needed lessons on how to behave around Nirvaan. Ha.
“Nah. They’re doing enough, man—driving up and down on weekends, Dad taking on my share of the business acrobatics—and...you know, Ba hasn’t been keeping well, either. He needs to take care of his mother, too. She’s getting old. Besides, the procedure won’t even take half a day. No hospital stay and no side effects. Not a biggie at all.” Nirvaan’s words were all but muffled under the thundering beats of “I Want to Break Free” spooling around and around in my head.
What kind of a wife fears taking care of her sick husband? What kind of a person quakes to hold an ailing man’s hand?
I could handle death—the finality of it, the suddenness of it. I’d lost my parents when I was fourteen, and while it had changed me forever, it hadn’t broken me. I could face death. What I couldn’t face was sickness. What I couldn’t bear was the corrosive odors of a hospital and the utter helplessness one experienced in the face of trauma. That was why Nirvaan and I had moved in with his parents when the cancer first tainted our lives. It was the reason Zayaan lived with us now.
I was a useless spouse.
* * *
If I was a poor example of a wife, Nirvaan was the epitome of an exceptional husband.
He forgave all my faults and loved me anyway. He didn’t expect anything from me I wouldn’t willingly give—or he hadn’t until the baby. That he had my heart and my devotion was no secret. He’d had it since we were fifteen. He didn’t try to change me, not in any way. Even when it had become clear he was my second choice, in love and in marriage, he had not faltered. Neither had he begrudged Zayaan’s place in my life. In fact, Nirvaan had always encouraged the unconventionality of my desires. Later, when he could’ve walked away for all those reasons, he’d stayed beside me and become the Band-Aid for my wounded soul.
I’ll tell you one thing for sure. It rocked to have Nirvaan for a husband.
Groceries, Jet Skis and a couple of other errands later, the guys and I made a night of it in town. By unanimous agreement and an available table, we drove to Hara Kiri, a Japanese steak house known for its gourmet teriyaki and teppanyaki menu. We parked the truck in a supervised lot down the street from the restaurant to ensure the Jet Skis would be safe.
It was still raining. Shallow puddles had formed in places where the earth was dented. The guys, as usual, were oblivious to the vagaries of weather, content with the deficient protection their unzipped hooded coats provided.
I was more circumspect. I cinched my raincoat about me and opened an umbrella large enough for a homeless man to use as a shelter. Without making a fuss, I hurried after Nirvaan and brought him under the red canopy and out of the rain. He shot me an amused grin and curled an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his body, as we plodded forward.
Lately, life seemed to amuse him a lot. I guessed when one was about to lose his life, he had to choose whether to laugh or cry about it. I supposed the same could be said for anyone not about to lose his life, too. I recalled the Elbert Hubbard quote Nirvaan had printed out and stuck on the fridge at his parents’ house some five-odd years ago.
“Don’t take life too seriously. You won’t get out of it alive.”
Inside the restaurant, Nirvaan headed straight for the restroom while I tried to remove my coat, one-handed, while juggling my handbag and the dripping umbrella in the other. There were days when Nirvaan would experience moderate to severe incontinence due to a change in his medications or a reaction to some food. I hoped it wasn’t bad. Maybe Hara Kiri hadn’t been such a great idea...
“Here, give me those,” Zayaan said, tugging my bag and umbrella out of my hand.
Unencumbered, I shrugged off my raincoat, and he took it, too, handing my purse back to me before heading to the coat check. After the exchange, we didn’t speak or even look at each other as we waited for Nirvaan.
Sometimes, it saddened me that it’d come to this between us. This man was my soul mate, and through no fault of his, I couldn’t stand to be near him now. I found no humor in our situation, no matter what Hubbard had quoted.
“Are you okay?” I asked when my husband rejoined us. “Would you rather go home for dinner? Or somewhere less exotic?”
Nirvaan shook his head, saying he only had to pee and was fine, so we followed the sleekly dressed half-Asian hostess to the hibachi grill in the middle of the restaurant. The space was packed, every seat taken, every table laden with food and sake. I was glad I’d had the foresight to make a reservation through the restaurant’s mobile app. The hostess took our drink orders once we’d settled in our seats and sauntered off to fulfill them.
“Pink Shirt and Fake Tits checking you out, chodu,” said Nirvaan through the corner of his mouth. He had the menu open before him but clearly wasn’t interested in selecting his dinner from the listed offerings, busy as he was with scanning other delights. “Baby, scoot hither.” He conspiratorially leaned close. “Give those two lovely ladies a chance to corrupt our friend here. He deserves a reward for all his hard work today.”
I followed my husband’s line of vision to the women sitting on the opposite side of the massive grill. In the expanse between us, a quartet of Asian chefs danced about, flaming up masterpieces in the woks on the grills. Pungent garlicky aromas wafted up, making my mouth water and my stomach growl. Through the steam, I saw the women were indeed looking our way. A sideway squint showed Zayaan returning the favor with his signature mystery-man look—hooded eyes, calm but cocky expression, a hint of a leer curling his lips.
A flame of jealousy ignited in my belly. I wrenched my eyes away and looked down at the menu in my hands.
I didn’t understand myself at all. I loved my husband. We were happy together. I didn’t want Zayaan anymore—not in any capacity, other than as a good friend. I had pushed him away, locked up all memories of him for twelve years. I’d been very successful. But ever since our forced proximity, it had become impossible to maintain any sort of equanimity.
I didn’t want those women staring at my guys—both my guys. I wanted to stake my claim on them in front of the whole world.
I could brand Nirvaan, claim his mouth with lips and tongue, and there would be no mistaking my rights. Then I could lean into Zayaan and run my hand down the pearly-white buttons on his shirt to his heart. A kiss here, a touch there. I wondered if the women would take my actions as a warning or an invitation.
Here was the thing about places like Carmel-by-the-Sea where half of the populace was of an artsy temperament and the other half was mega rich—no one cared about ménage à trois or even ménage à twenty. In such places, kinky was normal.
Not that the guys and I had ever been kinky outside of our childish fantasies. We weren’t a sexual ménage. Had never been, would never be.
But our audience didn’t know that, did they?
I wasn’t drunk, truly. My sake bomb had only just been placed in front of me, so I couldn’t blame my insane cogitations on its consumption—not that I ever blamed alcohol for anything. I preferred to take responsibility for my own thoughts and fancies.
I didn’t know these women, but I did know how my guys would react if I actually gave in to my wicked desire. Nirvaan would guffaw if I made a spectacle of us. Probably