Jilted
A Love Letters Novel
Kristen Blakely
Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Contents
Jilted
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Kindled
Love Letters
About the Author
Jilted
Can love ever measure up to perfection?
Jon Seifer is almost everything to me. He’s the security that anchors me and the love that raises me up.
However, I was, at birth, promised in marriage to an even more amazing man who holds a medical degree from Harvard Medical School, works as a cardiac surgeon at Mayo Clinic, and hails from the lofty Brahmin caste.
Like me.
And he is a good man. A man I could love given half a chance. Everyone agrees he’s perfect for me.
And everyone knows that I—an overachiever from birth—would never settle for anything less than perfection.
So where does it leave Jon…?
Chapter 1
A loud crash of shattering plates and glasses jolted through Blue Moon Café. A handful of customers looked around—the newbies and out-of-town folks, Anjali Bhanot thought with a smile. The café’s regular customers—practically fixtures—did not seem to notice the racket, probably because they were borderline deaf from too many late nights at the café. Indeed, she could hardly hear anything above the low-decibel buzz of conversations and the music blasting from the ancient jukebox.
“That better not be my Captain Crunch French Toast,” Jonathan Seifer said. “The service here isn’t any better than I remember.”
“It’s peak dinner hours on graduation weekend. What did you expect?” Anjali placed her hands over her boyfriend’s. Their eyes met across the table, and his mouth tugged into a grin that made her insides swirl with anticipation. “Thank you for coming down for my graduation.”
“Graduating from medical school’s a huge deal, Dr. Bhanot.”
“Not yet.”
“In two days, you will be.” He raised his bottle of beer to her. “Congratulations.” He did not need to tell her he was proud of her. She could see it in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the expanse of his smile. He grasped her fingers and squeezed them gently. The brilliance of his smile faded, glazed by a layer of wistfulness. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know.” Their daily phone calls and frequent video conversations did not compensate for separation required by the business he ran in Westchester, New York, while she attended the Johns Hopkins Medical School in Baltimore. Fortunately, because of their overlapping years in college at the Johns Hopkins University—he was younger than she was—they had only been apart for two years.
Two years too long. Did he count down every day between his visits the way she did? Did he know that the days she spent with him always seemed brighter, more vivid, as if he finely tuned her awareness of the world and all its sights, sounds, and scents?
She had never been able to explain it, but he had.
“Love,” Jon had pronounced when she explained the odd physical phenomenon to him several years ago. “You’re in love with me.” He thumped his chest, a wide grin on his face, but the stunned expression in his eyes gave way to awe as he tilted her face up for their first kiss.
Perhaps love was as magical for him as it was for her.
Whatever it was, it had kept them together for six years, beginning with their first date after the salsa dance class he taught when he was a freshman and she a junior at Johns Hopkins. It sustained them even after he graduated and returned to Westchester to open an alternative health center. The startup flourished into one of Westchester’s fastest growing businesses, employing several chiropractors, massage therapists, and nutritionists. It was hard for Jon to get away, and her full days at medical school were no less challenging, but it made their daily calls and their occasional weekend get-togethers all the more precious.
She would have looked forward to the upcoming week with undiluted joy if it were just Jon. But as it was—
Dread crept like a cloud across the horizon, dimming the light of the sun. Her parents would be arriving tomorrow. Not ready. I’m not ready for this.
Panic closed a fist around her throat. For six years, she had known that this moment would come, but she had tried not to think about it. The problem was too tangled, too messy, and it hadn’t made sense to unravel the Gordian Knot when time and chance might have solved the problem.
Well, they hadn’t, and now she would have to face up to the fact that she had procrastinated on a truly critical conversation. “Hi, Mom and Dad. I’d like you to meet Jon Seifer. We’ve been dating for six years.”
There was no possible scenario, not in a million alternate worlds, where that conversation would end well. If her parents did not flip out, Jon would. And she would deserve it.
Why on Earth did I put it off for so long?
At that moment, their waitress appeared with Jon’s order of Captain Crunch French Toast, served regardless of day or night, and Anjali’s vegetarian omelet. She chuckled at the bliss transforming his face when he took his first bite of French toast. “Ah, I’ve missed this too,” he said. “Nothing like it anywhere in Westchester, especially not for dinner.”
“For an alternative health nut, you eat highly questionable food.”
“Chiropractic and massage therapy does not make me an expert in vegan, free-ranging, gluten-free, pesticide-free, pleasure-free meals.” He winked at her.
The music pounding through the café changed into a 80s hit, and Anjali glanced at the jukebox, her gaze flicking over the bright colors and funky artwork displayed on white brick walls. “Do you know that we’re ordering the exact same thing we did on our first date?”
“Yeah. It was pretty magical.”
“Is that why we always come here when you visit me?”
“Nah, it’s because I really like the Captain Crunch French Toast.” He flinched and grinned when she tossed a balled-up napkin at his head. “You wore a white blouse that made you look like a sheepherder. You know, wide collar, almost off-shoulder, with lots of ruffles.”
She had that blouse still, but— “Sheepherder? Really? I like that blouse.”
“I do, too.” Jon’s grin widened into a leer. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Lots of happy memories taking it off.”
Anjali giggled. She stared at Jon as he cut his French toast into smaller squares and drenched them with maple syrup before piling on a mountain of whipped cream. His golden blond hair and blue eyes gave him the look of a cherub who had accidentally grown up. The impish gleam in his eyes and the wicked slant of his grin confirmed it.
His hands, however—his fingers long and strong, nails cut short—were heavenly, as she well knew. She had spent countless hours beneath them as he massaged oil into her skin and coaxed the knots in her back into supple relaxation. She often drifted to sleep, lulled by the assurance of his presence
as much as by the soft background music of harps and cellos. When it was just the two of them, it was easy to shut out the world she had come from, the world she had hoped to leave behind.
The world that was about to catch up with her.
Anjali swallowed hard through the lump in her throat. I put it off because I never imagined we would last as long as we did. Well, the moment of reckoning had come. Time to face up to the fact that I’ve been a cowardly little chicken. “Uh, Jon…”
He swallowed a slice of French toast. “What time do your parents get in from London?”
She choked on the answer even though his question gave her the opening she wanted.
“Tomorrow morning. I’ll be picking them up from BWI.”
“Great. Do you want me to come by during the day?”
“Uh, I think they’ll want to rest after their long flight. Maybe later?” Damn it, I’m still doing it. Pushing off the confrontation.
“I’d like to take them out to dinner.”
“I’ve already told them that I’m taking them out to dinner.”
A slight furrow formed between Jon’s eyes. “And not me?”
Anjali’s fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the table. “I think their first dinner here should be just…you know, family. We might have things to catch up on.”
The furrow deepened. “Are things all right with them?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“I don’t know. You put me off when they came to the U.S. four years ago for your undergrad graduation ceremony. You put me off again two years ago when my mom offered to pay for my ticket to London as a graduation present.”
“We were both so busy. I was in second-year medical school. I couldn’t take off for the summer.”
“Not even for a week to show me where you grew up?”
She shook her head. “Look, it’s in the past. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“No, but I’d still like to meet your parents. Who knows when a chance like this might come again?”
Anjali’s smile wobbled. She would have been happier if the chance had never risen. “Perhaps after graduation?” It would give her three days to work her courage up to breaking the news to her parents. Then she would have to explain to Jon that her parents had been completely in the dark for the past six years as to her relationship with him.
She mentally cringed. It was never meant to be a secret. It just seemed easier not to talk about it.
She doubted her parents and Jon would see it that way.
The frown on Jon’s face unexpectedly gave way to a smile. “You’re stressed. I know just the thing. You need a massage.”
That she did. “I always do.” The tension headaches felt like permanent parts of her physiology.
“You’re going to have to earn that massage, though,” he warned.
She arched an eyebrow.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice the clubbing clothes and your favorite dance shoes.”
Anjali laughed. “I miss dancing with you, and no number of Skype calls can make up for it.”
“It’s been ten weeks since we last hit the clubs. Any longer, and I’ll forget how to dance. Legends or Marimba?”
“Marimba. Better music.”
“Yeah. Finish up, then.” Jon gestured at her omelet. He extended his feet beneath the table. Their ankles brushed and remained comfortably nestled against each other. Anjali felt her lips curve into a smile that mirrored Jon’s. Their six years together had created a vocabulary of private jokes and gestures infused with meaning that made sense only to them. It helped her pass the weeks between his visits and layered emotional intimacy onto their video conversations. This time, the familiarity anchored her and welcomed Jon into her daily routine as if he had never left.
Their late dinner was leisurely in spite of Jon’s passing comment to “finish up.” Their time together was too precious to be rushed. He regaled her with stories of his colleagues at the alternative health center. “It’s practically a soap opera.” He sipped his iced tea. “The two massage therapists are practically falling over each other trying to land a date with Marisa.”
“Your new business partner, right?”
He nodded. “The fact that she’s got a newborn barely seems to faze them.”
“Why would it, unless that newborn has a jealous father attached to it?”
Jon shook his head. “He was in the Army, killed in action in Afghanistan about a year ago. Marisa found out she was pregnant a few days before she was informed that he’d been killed. Sad, really, but her family stepped up and helped her through it.”
“Her family? What about his? Were they married?”
Jon frowned. “I think so. Marisa doesn’t talk much about his family, though. I don’t think they liked her.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t approve of the side of the tracks she came from.”
Anjali rolled her eyes. “Do they realize how little control people have over which side of the tracks they’re from?”
“There you go, being logical again. That’s so sweet.”
She smirked at him. “You mean naïve, don’t you?”
“You said it, darling.” He reached over the table, stabbing his fork into her leftover omelet. “Anyway, Marisa has told the guys at the office she’s not interested.”
“It’s not working?”
“No. She’s tried English, Spanish, and body language. I don’t think they’re fluent in any of those languages, at least not where the word ‘no’ is concerned.”
Anjali laughed. “I hope they’re not giving her any trouble.”
“I told her I’d be happy to knock some heads together if they did, but she hasn’t taken me up on that offer. I did tell you that she bought into the center, right? You’ll meet her when you come up to Westchester.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you hear back from the Westchester Medical Center yet about your residency application?”
She shook her head. “Soon, I hope.”
“Hope you get it.” His grin flashed. “It’d be awesome to have you close by.”
Anjali nodded in spite of the niggling fear lodged in her chest.
“Who else did you hear from?”
“Mayo Clinic, Cleveland Clinic, and Hopkins, of course.”
“Of course.” Jon nodded. “They would be crazy to not make you an offer.” He drew a deep breath. “Are you sure…about Westchester, if you get the offer?”
“I told you. If Westchester comes through for me, I’m taking it.”
Jon shook his head. “It’s just that—Mayo, Cleveland, Hopkins, those are big names in health care. Westchester is a tiny regional hospital.”
“I want to be near you.”
“I know.” Jon reached across the table. His hand was warm against hers, and his touch steadied her fluttering nerves. “It’s a risky career move—a gamble, really, picking a regional hospital over one of the big name hospitals. I just want to be sure you know what you’re doing.”
“I do. I love you, Jon. You know that.”
He grinned. “Don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I’ll take it for the high praise it is.” He left a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and tugged her to her feet. “Come on. Off to Marimba.”
The Latin dance club was a tiny dive tucked at the end of a narrow alley. The bouncer, a skinny Hispanic man with the unlikely name of Snake, waved them in without charging an entrance fee. “Hey, welcome back, man.” He and Jon exchanged a clasped handshake before he leaned in to press his cheek to Anjali’s. “You tell Petey I said to give you free drinks at the bar, all right?”
Jon laughed. “You know we drink soda when dancing.”
Snake snorted. “You serious dancers are lousy drinkers.”
Jon pointed at his legs. “Feet. Alcohol. Pretty girl on high heels. Bad combination to screw up, but thanks, man.” He ushered Anjali into the club ahead of him.
She squinted until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Most clubbers slou
ched against the walls, but several had ventured out to dance, lured by the music of the live band. The syncopated beat of the conga and timbales pounded against her chest as Jon drew her out onto the dance floor. His right hand held hers as his left hand grasped her waist. She smiled—she could not help it; the music drew it out of her as her feet moved easily to the beat. The back-step-forward-hold-forward-step-back-hold rhythm had stumped her in her first salsa lesson with Jon. It came naturally now, as easily as the sway of her hips and the toss of her head.
Her heart thudded in time with the beat. Her short skirt whirled as Jon spun her away from him, and then reversed her spin, drawing her back into his arms before dropping her into a dip. Anjali’s long hair skimmed the floor. Utterly fearless, she threw herself into the salsa trick; Jon would never let her hit the ground. He twisted to the side and let her fall, catching the back of her neck against the back of his ankle. Dimly, Anjali heard the applause of the crowd as Jon kicked up gently, propelling her to her feet. He caught her fingertips and twisted her into a triple spin. The pulse of the music pumped adrenaline and endorphins through her veins, transforming her body into a creature of pure spirit—strong, free, and utterly alive.
The expression in Jon’s eyes—the breathtaking combination of love and awe—both anchored her and lifted her. She was herself—the truth unvarnished—but she was also everything she wanted to be. It was the music; it was the dance. No. It was Jon. He was the world he had opened to her, the security that grounded her, and the love that raised her up.
“I love you,” she mouthed, knowing he could not hear her over the roar of the music.
His lips shaped the words. “I love you.” The tenderness in his eyes was like tinder to wood. It blew her apart and stole her breath as he spun her into his arms and lowered her into a dip. He followed her motion down, curving over her to breathe a kiss on her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, not because she was afraid of falling, but because she wanted that closeness, that connection.
Jilted: A Love Letters Novel Page 1
