Page 82 of Red Flags and Rishtas
Why?I wanted to ask him, but I was too proud.
I’d put my heart on the line for this man, and he had stomped all over it. I’d gone to him with my love and he had turned me away.
His poor knowledge of the romance genre was truly appalling. I wondered if this was the right time to point out that this would not qualify as a meet-cute. Aadar and I had met tons of times already, and our story had gone through a steep arc. If anything, this was the grand romantic gesture that typically came at the end.
I badly wanted to answer in the affirmative. In fact, I wanted to unmatch him, block him everywhere and never give him another thought. God knows he deserved it. But I couldn’t ignore the little dance my intestines had begun performing inside me. I owed it to them to find out what he wanted to say.
After that, he stopped responding. Seconds turned into minutes, but the familiar sound of a notification refused to oblige me. I wondered if I’d said something wrong or if he’d simply decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. But after forty painful minutes of self-doubt and anxiety, my phone pinged again.
What? Like, right now?
Apprehension spread through my gut as I reread his text, wondering what to make of it. I’d spent too many hours trying to heal my heart to allow it to fall prey, once more, to the incurable disease of hope. I hovered in my empty living room, too scared to open the front door. I was fully aware that another disappointment would cause devastating damage to my spirit. But a part of me, the one that had grown up watching SRK movies and dreaming about my own happy ending, begged me to go outside.
After ten minutes of agonising conflict, I unlatched the door and peeked out. At first glance, there was no sign of him. My mother’s carefully tended garden was empty, glowing in the rays of the setting sun. I craned my neck further, which is when I saw him. Leaning against his red Kia, he was looking right at me.
I shut the door behind me and slowly made my way to him. Still in my workout tights and neon tank top, I knew I must’ve resembled a sweaty, brightly clad pig – I was certainly no Julia Roberts fromPretty Womanwhen Richard Gere shows up at her doorstep.
Aadar, on the other hand, was as charming as ever. He wore a blue linen kurta and faded jeans. His curls were longer than I’d ever seen them, spilling over his forehead in a gorgeous mess. He uncrossed his arms and straightened up his tall, delicious body as I reached him.
‘How did you know I’d be home?’ I asked, eager to get the first word in.
I wanted to fool my brain into thinking I was in control of this conversation.
‘I took a chance,’ he said. ‘It’s a Saturday, so I figured you wouldn’t be at work.’
I nodded, then said, ‘I quit my job.’
He gave me a warm smile. ‘That’s great. I know you weren’t happy there.’
If he expected me to return his warmth, he was in for a surprise. I stayed silent, feeling him studying my face for a sign of emotion. I hoped that I’d be able to maintain the facade of indifference under his scrutiny.
He cleared his throat and said, ‘I wanted to say something to you … and it didn’t feel right to text it. So I came to see you.’
‘What?’ My mouth had dried up and the word came out as a croak.
He took a deep breath.
‘It took me a while… but I know now that she was never the one for me,’ he said, trying to find and hold my gaze. ‘You are.’
Abruptly, I turned away from him. In the last few weeks, I’d played out countless versions of this scene in my head. I had pictured him here, seeking me out, saying these very words. But instead of the joy and triumph I had expected to wash over me, I was overcome with anger and resentment. It was too much.
Without another word, I began walking in the direction of my house.
‘Ananya, wait.’ He was hot on my heels. ‘Please, just hear me out?’
‘Why?’ I barked at him when we were outside my garden. ‘Because you’d so patiently listened to me when I had come to you?’
‘I …’ he began saying, but I cut him off.
‘What had you said that day …?’ I pretended to think, then said, ‘I’m too old to be playing these games with you.’
What kind of games was he playing now?
‘I know, I know I fucked up,’ he said, reaching out to take my hand in his.
I recoiled at his touch and he held his hands up in surrender.
‘How bloody convenient.’ I scoffed and turned around to leave.
