Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  “I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry. I thought you were okay—”

  “You think I’m perfect. You taught me I was perfect. It helped me sometimes, but I still had this thing inside me, telling me the opposite was true. I was so close to perfect, in the places people could see, but there was something rotten at the core. I felt like goblin fruit. I felt like two people, or three, or five—”

  “No-one on earth is just one person, Jazzy.”

  For the first time ever, they didn’t eat much. But when he dropped her off at home later that evening, she felt better than she had in a long time.

  The feeling wouldn’t last, of course. But recently, she’d had this idea that if she was kind to herself—if she took all the steps she’d been so afraid of taking—maybe she could learn how to hold on to happiness.

  And she was determined to try.

  23

  Autumn

  “So how do you know Pinal?”

  Jasmine took a sip of her lemonade. “Technically, I know Asmita.”

  “Yeah?” The guy—Tom, his name might be—leant back against the leather seats of the booth. She let her gaze settle on him for a moment before looking away, focusing on the slightly sticky tabletop.

  He looked kind of like Rahul.

  Not a lot. It was the nose, and the glasses, and he had a nice smile. His eyebrows were very disappointing, though.

  Not disappointing. He doesn’t exist to please you.

  Right. Yes. Autonomous beings abound, and all that.

  “I do know Pinal,” she added. “Just, we only met through Asmita. And I’ve known Mita forever.”

  “Oh, I see.” He nodded.

  It wasn’t his fault he reminded her of Rahul. She’d already been thinking about him tonight.

  There was rarely a time when she didn’t think about him, actually. But it had gotten worse as summer ripened into autumn, because soon it would be the anniversary of his father’s death. And she couldn’t reach out to him then, not for the first time since… since everything.

  But she couldn’t leave him alone, either.

  So she had to talk to him. Soon. Except she was afraid.

  Acknowledging your thoughts and fears is good. Doctor Madison’s voice ran through her head, low and soothing. Once you acknowledge them, you can understand them, and understand yourself.

  This fear wasn’t hard to understand. She was terrified of reappearing in his life after months, and having him slam the door in her face. Not because of who she was, not because of some intrinsic flaw he saw in her. But because of what she’d done.

  Would he care that she was trying? Maybe, because he was a sweetheart and he cared about her. But that didn’t mean he’d be waiting patiently to offer her everything she’d rejected.

  And God, did she want what she’d rejected.

  It was hard for an awkward silence to fall in a bar with lively music and chatting patrons, but Jasmine managed to bring one down on she and poor Tom anyway. Still, he gave it his best shot. He leant across the table, a hand clutching his beer, and nodded towards Pinal and Asmita. “They’re cute,” he said.

  They stood at the bar, on the other side of the dance floor. The dance floor where most of the party was laughing and singing along to ‘Does Your Mother Know?’

  Pinal, the birthday girl, leant against polished wood, wearing the shiny, pointed hat Asmita had forced on her. Pinal’s arm wrapped around Asmita’s waist, and their faces were close, their foreheads and noses touching. Creating a world of shadows between them, a world where all that existed was the two of them. Jasmine stared, feeling almost voyeuristic. Voyeuristic and so fucking hungry. Starving. Her breath came heavier, as if the air were too thick.

  She tore her gaze away and looked over at Tom. “I’m in love.”

  He blinked. “You… are?”

  “Yes. I want to say that I’ve been in love for a long time, for years—but I don’t think I can say that, because love is kind and open and free and all these wonderful things that I… haven’t been. And loving is like a superpower, and I don’t want to claim a power that I didn’t have. But I have it now.” She nodded firmly. Found the familiar warmth in her heart, that warmth that was there purely because Rahul existed somewhere on earth, even if it felt like he was existing miles away from her. “Yes. I definitely have it.”

  Tom’s brows were arched in that way brows arched when a lot of information was being processed by their owner. “I… see?” He said. He didn’t sound like he saw at all. But then his brows sort of… settled. And he said, “So who do you love?”

  “My best friend. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “Why not?”

  “He told me he loved me and I couldn’t believe him. And I suppose I was scared that I couldn’t love him back. And he deserves to be loved back. A lot.”

  Tom nodded slowly. “Right. Big bust-up, was there?”

  “You know, you’d think there would’ve been.” She took a meditative sip of her lemonade and wished it were gin. “We argued, yes. Once. But the whole thing was more like… when you make the tiniest pin-prick in a balloon, and the air eases out, and sometimes you think you can hear it, but you look at the balloon and it seems okay—so you think it’s fine. But then, every so often, you look back, and the balloon is a little bit smaller. And by the time you realise it’s dying, there’s this hissing noise as the last of the air escapes, and then you don’t have a balloon anymore. You have a thing that used to be a balloon, and you wonder how a balloon could disappear without a bang.”

  “Huh.” He sat back slightly. “You’re pretty good with words.”

  “I’m having cognitive behavioural therapy,” she said, because she was practicing telling people and not feeling ashamed, since it wasn’t shameful. “There’s a lot of… word-age. I’m learning to express myself.”

  “Oh. Right.” Tom nodded again. He looked slightly shellshocked. He took a swig of his beer. Jasmine barely even liked beer, but she had to shove down the impulse to snatch it from his hand and take a gulp.

  “I’m going to go,” she said, “because I appreciate me for not sabotaging myself tonight, and I don’t want to push it.”

  He blinked. “Um… alright.”

  And now he reminded her of Rahul again. Taking life’s weirdness like a champ.

  As she stood, Tom seemed to jerk back to life. “Hang on,” he said, raising his beer. “Just so you know—I reckon if you said all that to him, this guy you’re in love with… it might be alright.”

  She smiled slightly. “Maybe. But I need it to be better than alright. If it was just alright, it would be like the balloon again. And if it wasn’t alright…” She grimaced.

  He seemed to think about that for a moment. Then he said, “If you say so. But I bet you’d win him over.” He downed his beer.

  Jasmine stood as if frozen. She stared at him for a beat too long, then forced herself to turn away, because if she didn’t, she’d just keep staring.

  So she directed her gaze to the flashing, multicoloured panels of the dance floor, flicking from white to red to blue, and her mind hung on the words, I bet you’d win him over.

  She’d never turned down a bet in her life.

  “It wasn’t a bet,” she mumbled under her breath, unable to hear herself over the music. “And even if it was, your inability to turn it down is not something to encourage. You need to take responsibility for your desires and decisions. You need to find your own courage.”

  She repeated various combinations of those words and concepts to herself as she paced beside the dance floor like a deranged Roomba. It wasn’t long before she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to find Asmita looking at her with clear concern.

  “Jas. You okay?”

  “Fine, poppet.” She made herself smile. Gave a thumbs up for good measure.

  Asmita looked gravely alarmed.

  Jasmine sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Sorry. I don’t want to take your attention from the party—”
>
  “There are, like, fifty people here. They can carry the party for five minutes while I make sure you’re not having a meltdown.”

  Asmita had done that often over the last couple of months—kept meltdowns at bay. But not so very often, recently, which Jasmine was secretly proud of.

  She patted her friend on the shoulder and said, “You are such a dedicated baby-sitter. I should make you muffins. But I’m not having a meltdown; I’m just…”

  What was she doing?

  Telling herself not to sprint across the city in platform heels in the middle of the night to bang down Rahul’s door and tell him she loved him.

  Why was she telling herself that, again?

  “I’m thinking about Rahul,” Jasmine said.

  Asmita nodded slowly. “Okay… Are you going to talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  Asmita’s eyes lit up. “That’s great, sweetie! That’s fantastic!”

  “Right now.”

  “Um… what?”

  “You don’t mind if I leave early, do you?”

  “Of course not. It’s not early, anyway. But, Jas, have you… thought this through?”

  “Not remotely. But it occurs to me that I am currently filled with the motivation to bite the bullet—to actually talk to him—and if I don’t, the feeling might pass. And if it does, I might not find it again.”

  Although, she suddenly wasn’t so sure that the feeling would pass at all. Tom’s casual words had sparked something in her chest that burned brighter with every passing second. Something that felt a lot like possibility, like putting an end to misery one way or another and getting shit done.

  She’d always liked getting shit done.

  Asmita’s slight frown faded. “Well. I suppose that does sound… reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?”

  “Yeah, not reasonable at all. Kind of bonkers, actually. But, you know.” She flashed a smile and nudged Jasmine’s arm. “I support you.”

  “Thank you, love.” Jasmine enveloped Asmita in a hug, burying her face against the other woman’s silky hair.

  She took the time to hunt down Pinal, too, and wish her happy birthday again, and give her a hug goodbye, even though nervous anticipation had her bursting at the seams. As soon as the farewells were over with—she saved a smile for Tom—Jasmine was gone.

  She stepped out of the bar and onto the wet street, the concrete gleaming under the streetlights, the air fresh with rain and slightly smog-tainted. It was cold. Her dress was tiny as ever and her shoes fucking hurt. The bar was in the centre of the city, surrounded by other bars, pubs and clubs, and it was fairly busy for a Thursday night. Rahul’s flat was twenty minutes away on foot, her phone didn’t have enough battery for an Uber, and she refused to pay green cab fare.

  She started walking.

  Walking had been a good decision and a fucking terrible one. On the one hand, she had plenty of time to think, to polish the apologies she’d spent months imagining until they shone like gems.

  On the other hand, time to think meant time to realise that she was being an arse.

  Plus, her feet were torn to shreds. She hadn’t been out in a long while, and her high-heel immunity appeared to have faded. She’d probably have blisters in the morning. Great.

  By the time Jasmine reached Rahul’s door, the last of her determination had evaporated like steam. She slumped against the wall beside his doorway, resting her head against the cool, white wall, and wondered what the hell she was doing.

  Before… well, before everything, she’d had a habit of showing up at Rahul’s in the middle of the night when she was wasted, and couldn’t get home, or didn’t especially want to. And he would drag himself out of bed and answer the door if she’d forgotten her key, which she usually did. And he’d put her to bed after pouring water down her throat, and she’d sometimes remember to thank him.

  So often, she was hit by all the ways she’d taken him for granted.

  But right now she was more focused on the fact that she’d accidentally repeated a negative pattern, coming here in the middle of the night and expecting him to open the door and listen to her shit.

  She put a hand flat against the cool wood and realised that she had missed his doorway. She wasn’t exactly surprised by that; over the last two months, she’d found herself missing the way he buttered toast, the little nerd strap he used to keep his glasses on his head when he ran, the ferocious growl he only used when criticising the Chancellor of the Exchequer—

  “Jasmine?”

  She stiffened. Her eyes closed. The sound of his voice, warm and soft and so fucking perfect, warmed her from the inside out. Her cheeks flushed a little and her stomach tightened nervously, because fuck, she’d just decided to leave, and she was stroking his front door like a fucking weirdo, and now, of course, here he was.

  Behind her.

  Waiting for her to turn around, probably.

  She should definitely turn around.

  She took a deep breath and faced him. He was exactly as beautiful as he’d always been, but it hit her harder than it ever had. Her eyes devoured him even as she tried, mentally, to preach temperance. Don’t take in too much at once; you’ll get dizzy. Only, she was already dizzy. It felt like she’d been trapped underground for months, and now she was finally seeing the sun.

  He stood before her in dark jeans and a pale blue shirt, the kind of blue that she’d always said suited him best. His hair was soft and loose, curling gently over his forehead—and there was that furrow between his brows that made her hyper-aware of her own heartbeat, and that firm set to his mouth that told her he was worried about something.

  Oh. Probably worried about the fact that she was staking out his flat after months of silence.

  He hadn’t called her once. Of course, she’d told him to leave her alone.

  So she had no idea if he was respecting her wishes, or following his own.

  “Hi,” she said. She sounded only half as nervous as she felt, which was still really fucking nervous. He didn’t say anything in response; just stood and stared.

  She began to feel self-conscious, which wasn’t exactly a familiar feeling. But she could identify it and call it what it was, even as her hand tugged at the hem of her dress and she fought the urge to touch her hair.

  He took a deep breath, his broad shoulders rising and then falling as he exhaled. His frown wasn’t letting up. Finally, he said, “Are you drunk?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I’m not—I haven’t—it was Pinal’s birthday and I—” What? Had a trite moment of oversharing with some random at a bar and decided to come here on a whim? There didn’t seem an easy way to explain a decision she barely understood herself. But she had to say something.

  The truth seemed best. Expressing herself honestly and putting everything on the table seemed best.

  “I’ve been wanting to come here for a while,” she said, “to see you. But I was afraid. And then tonight I got the courage at an… inappropriate moment, and I suppose knowing I could come kind of eclipsed the fact that I shouldn’t.”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” He asked softly.

  “It was inconsiderate,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s late. I wasn’t going to knock. I didn’t realise you were…” She nodded at him, as if a nod would substitute for words like out or busy or not needing me at all, just like I knew you wouldn’t.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m here now. So if you want, you can come in.”

  Fuck. She could hear her blood pumping in her ears, like the insistent rush of a waterfall. “Okay,” she croaked out. “Thanks.”

  He gave her a strange sort of look. Then he stepped towards the door, and she forced herself to turn away from him because, all of a sudden, he was so close. She wanted to study every hair on his forearm as he slotted the key into the lock. She wanted to touch him like she always had, casually, as if she deserved it. She wanted that in the way she wanted water when she woke up thirsty in the middle of the ni
ght.

  Instead, she followed him inside and crouched down to take off her shoes.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “if you can’t.”

  She looked up at him. “Sober, remember?”

  His lips quirked, barely, but the twitch shot through her heart like lightning. “Right. I forgot.”

  In that moment it sunk in that she was actually here, with him, finally. The urge to grin was natural and terrifying all at once. He might not smile back.

  She stifled a sigh of relief as she stepped out of the high heels, her sore feet pressing against the cool floor. He must’ve caught the sound, because he gave her another of those unreadable looks as he led her into the living room.

  She paused for a moment as she entered. After everything that had happened—all the things that had twisted, broken, transformed—this space should look different. Should feel different. It didn’t. Instead, the familiarity of it all wrapped around her like a blanket. She hobbled over to the sofa, ignoring the pain in her feet, and sat.

  He joined her, putting more than a body’s space between them, turning to face her. Jasmine resisted the instinct to curl up on the soft leather like she always had. She was just a guest now, and not an important one. She looked down at her knees for a moment, collecting her thoughts.

  When she looked up again, she was snared by the dark intensity of his gaze. For a moment, all she could do was stare as memories flooded her. Memories of all the times she’d been foolish. All the times she’d been happy. All the times she hadn’t even known she needed him.

  Then she turned her head away sharply, snapping the connection. Pulled herself together. Cleared her throat and started with, “I’m sorry.”

  24

  Autumn

  Rahul felt like he’d walked out of reality and into… what? A dream? Not quite. In his dreams, Jasmine showed up, and threw herself in his arms, and babbled some soap opera shit about always adoring him. The kind of crap he wouldn’t believe for a second if it came out of her mouth—would take as proof that she’d been abducted by aliens, in fact. But in his dreams, he swallowed it like water.