Page 7 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

This is nerve-wracking.

Since our last exchange almost a week ago, Lucian hasn’t stopped texting. It’s like a floodgate burst open—and once I responded that one time, he took it as an invitation to never shut it again.

Lucian: Good morning, Ms. Talwar. Did the coffee at your café miss me today, or was it just you?

Lucian: You crossed my mind during a stakeholder meeting. Again. Starting to think it’s a habit.

Lucian: You made me work for that answer in class today. Your question was by far the most interesting one. Just saying... next time, at least bring me coffee as a peace offering.

Lucian: I was reading some old investor emails tonight and realized something weird.

.. My days used to end with pitch decks and caffeine.

Now they end with me checking if you replied.

No pressure. Just... something shifted. You have a way of sneaking in quietly.

Not sure what to make of it. Goodnight, Aarohi.

His messages became progressively longer, more detailed. I replied every time but always felt like a deeper question was hanging between us. I just didn’t know what that question was.

Still, every time my phone chimed, I felt a little jolt along my spine. Not quite butterflies... but close. Dangerous territory.

Someone really needs to slap me back to reality, because I went ahead and assigned a different notification tone to his contact. That’s right. I customized it.

So now, whenever my phone goes Ting! , I barely glance. But when it’s Tunn-tunn! , I’m doing Olympic-level gymnastics. Hobbling off the bed to the dresser, stumbling while walking, choking mid-bite.

And now I’m here. Sitting across from him in a dimly lit luxury Italian restaurant, staring hard at a menu that doesn’t list a single price next to the entrées.

How much do startup founders on the brink of Series B funding make again? Two hundred? Three hundred grand?

Gahhh.

“Have you decided what to eat?” His deep voice pulls me out of my trance.

“Uh... yeah. I don’t know. I’ve never tried Italian like this. This place seems...”

“Authentic?” he offers, with a knowing smirk.

“Expensive,” I say, smiling.

He chuckles, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. God, I can’t look away. Somehow, I’m able to connect the guy who sends quirky messages to this... effortlessly confident man who’s currently flirting with just his eyes.

“Don’t worry about the cost. I wanted to wine and dine you properly,” he says, his tone softer now. “Even if you don’t consider this a date, I’m... going to pretend it is one.”

That catches me off guard, and I lean in slightly, elbows resting on the table between us. “Why?”

He blinks. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to date me?” I ask, voice calm but curious. “Honestly, your messages have been pretty flirty. I just... I don’t understand why someone would want to date the person their partner cheated with.”

He stiffens. I hear the small exhale he tries to disguise as a scoff. “That again.”

I nod slowly, eyebrows raised. If it wasn’t for the weight of our shared past, I’d probably be thrilled to date someone like Lucian. He’s handsome.

Empathetic. Attentive, even.

Just yesterday, he walked into my café—alone—and ordered my regular drink. When I asked how he knew, he just shrugged and said he’d seen me make it for myself during one of his visits.

He’d become a regular. Daily. Chatting up my coworkers, charming the pants off them, casually asking questions about shift timings, pretending like he belonged there.

So when I ask why—why put in all this effort to know me, when our origin story is so deeply screwed up—I expect a real answer.

Apparently, I’m digging up graves he thinks should stay buried, based on the annoyed tick in his jaw.

“Listen,” he starts, resting both forearms on the table. “I barely registered you that night. Yes, you were the woman Tim cheated with, but it’s been a year. I’m tired of rehashing it. Frankly? I don’t see that night when I look at you anymore.”

The urge to call bullshit is almost instinctive. So I do.

“You literally said you wouldn’t hire me because you didn’t want a reminder of the dreaded night .”

He pauses, then nods with a self-aware sigh. “True. I said that. But you should also know I was operating from a very angry place... during our drinks. Seeing you again after so long? I couldn’t get Tim out of my head.”

“And now?” I ask, tilting my head. “Is Tim out of your head?”

He smiles—shy and a little crooked. “Tim’s been out of my head for a while now, Rohi. And it’s been filled with you for the past week.”

I freeze.

That nickname.

Rohi.

Only a few people in my life use that name. And none of them are in Toronto.

My pulse stutters, my breath catching in my chest for a second too long. I search his face, trying to figure out what this is.

“I’m attracted to you,” he blurts out.

The moment hangs between us. His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Not like that.

“Ah... I mean—fuck it. I am,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re beautiful. Intelligent. You call me out on my bullshit without flinching.

And whenever you text me back, I—” he exhales, frustrated, “—I get so damn distracted. I think way too hard about what I want to say. So that I don’t, you know. .. fuck things up.”

There’s a boyish, hesitant shyness to his confession that takes the sharpness off his words. It’s oddly endearing, seeing him like this—unguarded, awkward even.

And truth be told... I’m attracted to him, too.

Maybe not with the kind of wholehearted abandon that I’d want—there’s still too much hurt wrapped around us like old, barbed wire.

But physically? Yes. Absolutely. He’s distractingly gorgeous, with light brown hair that always looks just shy of messy, and that stubble—God—it makes me want to drag my nails across his jaw just to feel it.

But that doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t rewrite the things he said.

“Lucian...” I sigh, fingers tightening slightly around my glass. “There’s... there’s a lot of hurt from that night. And I don’t think you’ve ever really acknowledged it. Yes, you were heartbroken. But I was—”

“Can we just... not talk about it?” he interrupts, too fast. “Start fresh?”

I blink. He’s not even trying to hide it—how much he wants to skip past it all. I get that it’s painful. Maybe even shameful. But it was painful for me too. And he’s never once asked what it was like for me. Never once looked at it through a different lens.

Something in my face must shift, because he notices. He swallows hard, the tension rippling through his throat before he clears it with a quiet, rough sound.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low now. “Really. I know what I just did. I know you carry that night around... and it must’ve been awful. Being—” he hesitates, like he’s forcing himself to say it, “—used. For lack of a better word.”

My breath catches. Just a little.

So... he does get it. At least partially.

And for once, he isn’t dressing it up. No charm. No dodge. Just truth.

And that’s a start. I think.

But I can’t seem to find the will to respond. Because now my brain—traitorous as ever—is busy dredging up the images and words from that night. Words flung at me with venom. From the same voice that, only moments ago, called me beautiful.

The silence that stretches between us isn’t dramatic or loud. It’s just... uncomfortable. Muted. Like we’re walking on thin ice and both of us know it’s about to crack.

Even when the waiter returns to take our order, I find my voice quieter than usual, a little too polite. He notices. Of course he notices.

And then, while the waiter walks away, I see him lean back and type something into his phone—thumbs moving fast, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Great.

This non-date date is officially swerving toward disaster.

Tunn-tunn!

Shit.

My heart rate kicks up like it’s trying to outpace the awkwardness. He just texted me. While sitting right here.

I glance down at my screen.

Lucian: Is it too soon to admit I’ve already Googled how to make eggplant parmesan? Just in case you like it enough to let me cook it for you someday.

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips.

Goddammit.

The scent of basil and garlic hits first. My plate of eggplant Parmesan is placed in front of me, while he’s beaming at his ravioli. Across the table, Lucian watches me as he picks up his wine glass.

“Are you a vegetarian, by the way?” he asks lightly, nodding at my plate.

I shake my head. “Not really. Just wanted to try something new.”

He grins. “So you’re adventurous with food. Noted.”

I stab a piece of eggplant and nod, half-smiling. Adventurous is not the word I’d use to describe my relationship with food. But apparently this night is not about me or my feelings.

The first few bites are good, I think. But I’m barely tasting it. Lucian’s watching me too closely—like he’s studying my reactions, my dwindling attention.

His voice cuts in again. “This place is legit. Chef’s actually from Naples.”

I hum a polite sound of agreement, then go back to my plate.

He doesn’t comment on the shift. Just sips his wine and leans forward. “So. Tell me about your business model project. You mentioned something about the US healthcare last time?”

I give a slight nod. “Yeah. Katie and Akshat are handling the secondary research—trend reports, competitor analysis, that kind of stuff.”

He nods, encouraging.

“And... I’m building the actual model,” I continue, a little more mechanical than before. “Potential solutions, user personas, user acquisition, pricing tiers. You know...”

“You’re doing that solo?” he cuts in, brows lifted.

“For now,” I say.

He smiles. “You’re brilliant. I already thought that before, but now I know for sure.”

I give a small, noncommittal smile and reach for my water. “Thanks.”

The word comes out clipped. Too clipped. I feel it the moment it leaves my mouth.

Lucian’s smile falters—just slightly. His eyes search mine like he’s trying to trace where he lost me.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

I nod. “Yeah. Just... a little tired. Long day.”

His eyes linger a little too long. I look down at my plate, pushing around the eggplant I haven’t touched since the first few bites.

“I get it,” he sighs rather heavily. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

I look up at him, a sad smile marring his face. It stirs something in me. Maybe it’s not the time for me to provide my perspective on that night. But I could try to understand him better so that I could bring it up in a more controlled way in the future.

“I want to get to know you,” I say flatly, setting my fork down. “Because the only lasting interaction I’ve had with you was from that night. And it wasn’t a good one.”

He freezes. Not visibly. Not to a stranger. But I see it. The tiny pull of his brows, the pause of his breath.

“Not a good one,” he echoes, like it physically costs him to say the words.

“Yeah.” I meet his eyes firmly but soften my tone. “And if we’re going to sit here and get to know each other, I need to understand who you are beyond that night.”

A beat of silence. The clink of silverware on plates around us. The low murmur of conversations from nearby tables. But here, between us, it’s dead quiet.

Lucian leans back, jaw tight for a moment. Then he lets out a long breath and nods, just once.

“I’m all yours, Rohi. What do you want to know?”