A good Indian Girl

Chapter 1

"How are you?" he asked, knocking once on the table before leaning back into the booth and crossing his arms.

She thought for a moment before answering. Three words? After all this time, he can barely look at me. How am I? She felt a knot form in her stomach. "I am good," she forced a smile, "How are you?"

"I'm great. Never been better." He leaned in, invading her space, "Now... what do you want?"

His coldness seared her heart, how could he be so cruel? "I-I'm...I'm sorry I hurt you," she pushed the words out, her eyes firmly fixed on the glass of water in front of her.

"I am sorry I let you," he spat and sat back to watch her. "It must suck that you won't walk away from here feeling relieved to have my forgiveness. I hope that one day I can, you know, forgive you, but if I ever do, I'm glad you'll never know."

Her eyes shot up to meet his. "Henry, I don't deserve your forgiveness, and I don't expect your friendship. It means a lot to me that you came and if you ever do forgive me just know that I am —"

His crystal-blue gaze became glossy and narrow, his dark brows furrowed nearly becoming one. "Don't. You don't get to be pitied. You can't take that from me too. Stop pretending to be so hurt. You're making a choice, you've made a choice, Anjali. Live with it."

Henry stood, zipped up his jacket, and examined her face. Her long black waves, sultry almond eyes, full lips, soft caramel skin, and her button nose that he loved. He slowly closed his eyes as if impressing her face in his mind, drew in a deep breath, gave her a quick, final nod, and walked out of the cafe.

Anjali watched his figure move farther and farther from her. She wanted to run after him, tell him how she felt and beg for his forgiveness. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't. She rested her head on her right hand and thought of how she loved him, how happy he made her, how funny and kind he is. She could see his wide smile, feel his strong arms, and smell his woody cologne. Then she remembered him sitting across from her, hating her, and knew she would never see him again.

If only he could understand that she was just doing what was required of her, what she knew to be correct. These traditions and expectations were older than her and everyone she loved. She was not rejecting him. She was simply being a good Indian girl.