Page 54

15
Nova
“Were you together long?” I tread lightly around the subject.
He refills his mug with coffee from the silver pitcher. “On and off for over a year.”
“Do you miss her?”
He stares at the table. “I don’t know. I used to. I was upset and then angry.”
“Did she break up with you?” It sounds like it.
He nods. “She’s Indian and her family arranged a marriage for her. She tried to break things off a few times but always came back, claiming she loved me and not him. He was what her parents wanted.” He laughs without humor. “I was dumb enough to believe her.”
“Not dumb. Hopeful.”
His eyes connect with mine and then drift away. “It didn’t matter. She chose him and her family’s wishes for her future.”
“She’s the dumb one. Sorry,” I add quickly, hoping he isn’t offended.
He sips his coffee. “I thought she was strong enough to make up her own mind. She’s married now.”
“Married?” I make a face.
“I know.” He exhales. “I just found out a few weeks ago.”
“Is that why you’re here? You’re hiding like me?”
“I’m not hiding from her.” He sips more coffee and reaches for my bowl. “Are you done?”
Ah. The old subject change. Conversation over. “I got it.” I stand, place the bowl on the tray, and wipe a droplet of oatmeal off the table. “Thank you for helping me feel better, mentally and physically. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“What about your breakfast?” His covered plate is still on the tray. I put it in front of him along with a napkin and silverware. “I hope it’s not too cold.”
“It’ll be fine. Thanks.” He removes the lid and takes a bite of omelet. “Still warm,” he says after swallowing his bite.
“I wonder if my mom has seen the posts,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
“Will she be pissed?”
I bark out a laugh. “At me—for allowing myself to be a target.”And for not being as fit as I could be, according to her.I don’t say that one out loud.
“Will she really?” he asks with disbelief.
“My mom and I don’t see eye-to-eye on most things. She’s obsessed with her appearance. Most models are, but it’s hard for her to accept I’m her biological child because I take more after my father’s side of the family. Physically.” Maybe mentally, too.
He sets down his fork. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”
“Me, too.” I hand him the utensil. “Please don’t stop eating because of me. I’m not trying to bring you down.”
He takes the fork and pokes at his omelet. “You’re not.”
“Being here is helping me,” I say, hoping if I lighten the mood he’ll finish eating.
“How so?”