Jilted: A Love Letters Novel

by Kristen Blakely

  “Bharat and I had conversations just fine, yesterday. You made it awkward at lunch today—”

  “You’re blaming me?” He scowled. “Right, of course.”

  “I’m not blaming you. I screwed this up—”

  “There we go.”

  “But you’re not helping.”

  He shook his head. His eyes locked on hers. “If I weren’t here making things awkward, would you even have brought this…this issue of your engagement up with your parents and with Bharat? Or would you have quietly said yes when he proposed?”

  “I…” Stricken, she let her gaze fall. Tension, like a straightjacket, wrapped around her, stifling movement, choking off her breath.

  “You would have, wouldn’t you?” Jon asked quietly. “Damn it!” His voice snapped with rare anger. “Do you have any idea what this does to me? Knowing that the girl I dated, that I loved for six years, who tells me she loves me, would have accepted a proposal from a man she hadn’t seen in eight years if I hadn’t decided to be here this weekend?”

  Would she?

  She would have, wouldn’t she? Without Jon’s counter-influence, without his awkward presence at meals, reminding everyone that he was a part of her life, she could very well have caved in to the pressure of what her parents, his parents, and everyone they knew expected from her and Bharat. They had been childhood friends. He was not a bad man. From a marriage perspective, no one could do better. She would have been a fool to say no.

  She would have said yes.

  She would have broken Jon’s heart and his trust.

  Even with him here, the odds were high that she would end up breaking his heart. She sank down on a wooden bench, oblivious to the people walking past her, pausing to stare at the Monet paintings on either side of her. Jon stood in front of her, his hands jammed into the pocket of his denim jeans. His lips were set in a straight line. The veins at the side of his neck pulsed. He was angry, no, furious. And he had every right to be.

  “This…thing—” Oh, damn, she couldn’t even say marriage. “—to Bharat isn’t inevitable. I just need to find a way to tell my parents and his.”

  “And tell Bharat? Or is he without an opinion in this situation, just like you?”

  “He’s in the same situation.”

  The tautness around Jon’s eyes relaxed fractionally. “I didn’t realize that. So he’s not the enemy?”

  Anjali shook her head. “No, he’s not.”

  “Even though I’m competing with him?”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  “You know what I mean. If you break your engagement—however informal or unspoken—with him, people are going to start looking for the guy you broke your engagement for.”

  “It’s not a competition,” Anjali repeated. “If I break away, the repercussions are just too huge for me to do it just for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because relationships don’t last. Let’s be practical. I love you, but we’ve seen marriages with love fall apart. If I walk away from what appears to be a highly compatible relationship with Bharat—at least on the surface—I have to do it for me, whatever the future may hold.”

  Jon cocked his head to the side. “That’s a remarkably mature perspective.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it.” Anjali pressed a hand to the nervous swirl in her stomach. “I haven’t been saying much, but I’ve been thinking hard.”

  “I wish you’d done it sooner.”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t want to, for starters. It was easier to pretend it was a situation I wouldn’t have to deal with. I mean, you and I could have broken up any time in the past six years.”

  “You were counting on a breakup to not have to introduce me to your parents?”

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Then how should I say it? I didn’t know you were that much of a coward.”

  “I am. I hate fighting.”

  “Then why do you end up arguing with me all the time?”

  “I don’t know. You bring that out in me.”

  Jon chuckled; the bitter sound was subtly touched with humor. “It’s like you’re a different person with me.”

  “I am a different person with you. I feel freer to think and feel, and to say what I think and feel. I didn’t even realize it was possible to be this way until I left home and came to Hopkins. During my first two years at Hopkins, I was just too shell struck by everything I saw around be to even dare be a part of it. And then I met you.”

  “I inspired you to emerge from your shell? Was it the salsa dancing or the alternative-health career track?”

  “No, it wasn’t inspiration.” Anjali shook her head. Wonder crept into her voice as, for the first time, she examined—really examined—her relationship with Jon. “It was safety. You made it safe for me.”

  “You know, most men would rather be called exciting than safe,” Jon said, but his tone was light. The smile was back on his face. He sat beside her; their shoulders brushed.

  He did not reach for her hand, and she knew why. Bharat was on the far end of the galley, out of earshot but certainly within visual range. Jon was trying not to make her situation worse. Ache stabbed her chest. He was the wronged one in the situation, the man caught completely off-guard, and yet, he was watching out for her, trying to push her to stand up for herself without pushing her off the cliff.

  Did Jon know how amazing he was? She expelled her breath in a shaky sigh. “Women can only get excited if they know they are truly safe; otherwise it’s fear, and there’s nothing exciting about fear.” She met his eyes. “I’m trying to sort this out.”

  “I know you are,” he said, but she heard the doubt in his voice. She had known him too long and too well to miss the scarcely audible tremble of uncertainty.

  She glanced up and looked at Bharat who was slowly making his way across the room toward them. He had not yet proposed, but she was almost certain he would. Graduation. He’s waiting for graduation.

  Which meant that she had less than twenty-four hours to find a way out of the marriage trap closing around her.

  The afternoon sun was blazing hot when Jon, Anjali, and Bharat emerged from the air-conditioned coolness of the museum. Jon dug his sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them over his eyes, as Bharat glanced around.

  “Is that ice cream over here?” Bharat pointed to a vendor cart at the corner of Art Museum Drive. “Anjali, could you get us some ice creams, please?”

  Her eyes widened with surprise, but she walked off without a word.

  Bharat stared at her back. “If you’d asked her to get the ice creams, you’d have received a sassy comment in return.”

  “Yes,” Jon said. Together with a toss of her head and a naughty wink.

  “I’ve been watching her,” Bharat continued, to Jon’s surprise. “I saw her in the restaurant and in the museum. I see how she talks to you, and how she talks to me.”

  Jon was grateful the sunglasses concealed any surprise his eyes might have displayed. “Which do you prefer?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still struggling to take it all in. This side of Anjali—the woman who gestures with her hands and talks with her whole body, who argues back, eyes flashing—I’ve never seen it before, and I’ve known her all my life.”

  “You can know a name and recognize a face without really knowing the person.”

  Bharat’s chuckle was a rueful sound. “Touché. I’ll confess that I didn’t really know Anjali before. I took it for granted.”

  “The relationship?”

  “Certainly the expectation of a relationship.” His gaze lingered on Anjali. “She’s intriguing—this Anjali, the person she is when she’s with you.”

  Oh, shit.

  “What are you to her?” Bharat asked Jon.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “A valid one from the person she’s been promised to.”

  Jon scowled. “Do you know what century we’re in?”

&nb
sp; “It’s traditional where we come from.”

  “Not all traditions are great. Didn’t you Indians do the wife-burning thing once before?”

  “Suttee? Both illegal and out of style.” Bharat was not fazed.

  “How is this any different?”

  “If you can’t see the difference between an informal marriage agreement between two families and sanctioned murder or suicide, then you’ve got a problem.”

  “What I see is a woman who isn’t given a choice. Different situation, but the premise is the same.”

  Bharat’s face tightened. “Who are you to her?”

  “If you’re not going to take ‘it’s none of your business’ for an answer, then try this: ‘ask her.’”

  “What?”

  “If you want to know what I am to her, then you’ll have to ask her.”

  Bharat’s brow furrowed.

  “What so confusing about that?” Jon asked. “You want to know what she thinks or feels about me, ask her. I’m not in the habit of speaking for Anjali.”

  “The way you’re suggesting we do.”

  “Her mother does, certainly. Do you?”

  Bharat frowned. “What is she to you, then?”

  “Breathtaking. Six years into our relationship, she still takes my breath away every time I look at her or think of her.”

  Bharat seemed unmoved. “This spark of attraction you have, will it last a lifetime?”

  “What do you mean?’

  “There’s more to a successful marriage than love.”

  “So what’s the secret?”

  “Compatibility in lifestyles, education, traditions, expectations.” Bharat sounded smug. “I know I am entirely compatible with Anjali. Are you?”

  Chapter 6

  Of course Jon was compatible with Anjali. Why wouldn’t he be? They had attended the same college and taken similar classes. They both enjoyed salsa dancing. Their favorite restaurant was the Blue Moon Café. They both came from middle-class backgrounds. They both spoke English.

  How much more compatibility did they need?

  Bharat was obviously just trying to psyche him out.

  Or not, he thought as he sat down in Anjali’s living room, surrounded by Indians. He had never felt conscious about being different; at dinner last night, despite being the only non-Indian at a table of Indians, he had not felt out of place, probably because the room was also occupied by others.

  However, Anjali’s house no longer felt like home. Anjali’s mother served a drink she had prepared—icy cold, mango-flavored, overly sweet, and much too thick to be milk-based, but he couldn’t imagine what it might be.

  “It’s a mango lassi,” she told him.

  “It’s…delicious.” He hoped the lie wasn’t too obvious. “What is it exactly?”

  “Traditional yogurt drink.”

  “I see. Like a milkshake.”

  “Better. It’s blended with spices.” Her smile was wide but her eyes were narrow.

  Rather like a wagging tail on a growling dog. Which end was he supposed to trust?

  The end with teeth.

  “You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?” she asked. “I’ve prepared a meal with all of Anjali’s favorite foods. There’s more than enough.”

  Well, he wasn’t going to let the underlying hostility chase him away, especially if he had a point to prove to Anjali about his compatibility. “Yes, I’d be glad to.”

  “Excellent. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.” Anjali’s mother looked over her shoulder. “Anjali, Esha and Dev were just saying that it’s been a long time since we’ve seen you dance. What about now, before dinner.”

  Anjali’s frown was a tiny furrow between her eyes. “I don’t think—”

  “You’ll be too full to dance after dinner, and who knows when Esha and Dev will be back here again. Come on.” She hustled over to Anjali and made shooing motions with her hands, practically driving Anjali into her bedroom. “You have your costume, yes? Does it still fit?”

  Her incessant chatter vanished behind Anjali’s closed bedroom door.

  Jon glanced at Bharat, but he was talking to Anjali’s father. Jon stared down at the glass in his hand and slowly turned it around, his fingers streaking through the beads of moisture. Several minutes later, Anjali emerged from the room.

  Jon stared, mouth agape. She wore a hot pink sari with a lime-green under tunic. Gold trim embroidery made the silk glisten in the florescent lights of the living room, and heavy gold chains adorned her neck, wrists, and waist. Her long hair had been gathered back into a low bun at the nape of her neck. Mascara accentuated her eyes, and her lips were a burnished red.

  She was suddenly and immediately an exotic stranger.

  When the CD churned out Indian music and she began dancing, Jon forgot to speak. The wild abandon of her body twisting to the rhythmic beat of salsa was replaced by the precise fluidity of Indian classical dance. Jon was enough of a dancer to recognize absolute control and brilliant mastery, even if it wasn’t salsa.

  Bharat leaned over and spoke in a whisper. “She’s performing the Bharathanatyam, a sacred dance, formerly performed only in temples. Every movement is deliberate; the angle of her head, the placement of her hands, even the movement of her eyes tell a story.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, and incredibly challenging to make that much precision and control look as fluid and effortless as flowing water. She’s obviously kept it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bharat gestured at the carpet, and for the first time, Jon noticed how it was bare in certain spots. “She practices frequently. It shows.”

  Tension knotted in Jon’s chest. Why hadn’t she told him? Did she think he wouldn’t understand or appreciate it? Didn’t she realize how amazing she was to master Indian classical dance on one hand and salsa on the other?

  He glanced around the room. The others watched her dance with easy appreciation, but without the awe that seemed to have consumed him. His awe stemmed from lack of knowledge, lack of familiarity.

  After six years, he had no excuse. He stared at her. The knot of tension turned to ice when he realized he would have hardly recognized her if she had suddenly appeared on stage in theatrical, ethnic makeup.

  Bharat’s comments on compatibility did not seem as snide or as unwarranted anymore.

  Why hadn’t she told him everything of who she was?

  What else didn’t he know about her?

  The overwhelming scent of spices rose from the dishes in a tangled medley and assaulted Jon’s senses. He caught a whiff of cardamom and cumin, but could not distinguish the rest. The curries scalded his mouth upon contact. He gasped and fumbled for the glass of water, but Bharat slid another glass of mango lassi into his hand. “It helps with the heat.”

  Jon took a big gulp and waited for the flames behind his eyes to subside into embers. “Thanks,” he wheezed. He gave the pale yellow curry a narrowed-eye look. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so hot.”

  “Color and heat aren’t related.” Bharat laughed. “Proceed with caution. Mixing it thoroughly with rice helps, or you could try eating it with this naan.” He handed over a basket of fried unleavened bread.

  Anjali giggled, and Jon cast her a quick, rueful glance. She was enjoying the spiciest curries without water or lassi breaks. Seated between Bharat’s parents, she seemed relaxed, conversing easily with the both of them. Jon caught snippets of a complex medical topic that he scarcely followed. Before long, both Bharat and Anjali’s father joined in the conversation that quite effectively shut out both mothers and Jon.

  Anjali’s mother leaned over, and Jon braced himself for the sugarcoated venom he was certain would emerge from her mouth.

  “It’s wonderful how easily Anjali can talk to them,” she observed. “Her father was right in letting her finish medical school before getting married. She and Bharat have so much more in common now than before.”

  He could not help himself.
“What did they have before? The same neighborhood? Same friends?”

  Her eyes widened. “They’re both Brahmin,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Brahmin?” The word popped out. “The caste?”

  She gave him a regal nod. “Of course.”

  “I didn’t realize you still paid attention to those kinds of things.”

  “Of course we do.”

  “But it’s the twenty-first century.”

  “What has time to do with the core underpinnings of a well-run society?”

  “A society that differentiates people based on who they were born to?” Outrage burst into his voice, silencing the medical conversation on the other side of the table.

  Anjali looked alarmed, her eyes wide and vulnerable.

  “This is ridiculous.” Jon slammed his fork down on the table with more force than he had intended. “Bharat is from the same caste as Anjali, so that automatically makes him better than anyone else who might come along, without any consideration for who that other person might be?”

  “It’s not just the caste,” Anjali’s mother said. “We are not so shallow. It’s his education. His job. His prospects. His parents. His upbringing. Even his age.”

  “His age?”

  “He is older than Anjali. More mature. He will make a good provider for her.”

  “What about how they feel for each other?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Feelings are nice, but they do not increase lifelong compatibility. Far better to have a couple committed to each other and to making the marriage work.”

  “People who love each other will be committed to making the marriage work.”

  “It would be unwise to overlook the other incompatibilities. They never disappear, lingering like cracks in the foundation. Different races—”