My Last Love Story by Falguni Kothari

strength, emotionally, I was a vulnerable kitten.
    “We need to have an early lunch, baby. Your appointment with Archer is at one o’clock.”
    I’d been about to pour myself a glass of orange juice, post-yoga, and my hand froze in midair. My head snapped toward my husband and I was greeted by his gym-shorts-clad backside as he rummaged in the fridge, pulling out leftover food containers and piling them on the counter.
    Zayaan, who’d been working at the breakfast bar with several tomes and photocopied scrolls and sheets of scribbled pages spread in front of him like the sands of time, stood up to reorganize his makeshift desk to make room for our meal. He shrugged when I glared at him, indicating that he was as puzzled by this turn of events as I was.
    “I don’t have an appointment. I didn’t make one yet,” I confessed, my hands suddenly twitchy. I set the jar down, flexed my hand a couple of times, and then picked it up again.
    I’d meant to make the appointment. And I would next week. Or, sometime next month. I’d thought and thought about it since Thursday, and I was nearly convinced…
    Damn it. Why can’t I just tell him how I feel about having his trust fund baby?
    Nirvaan popped the lids on the containers and dumped the food into pans and skillets for heating. He turned around and smirked. “I made it.”
    Three succinct words, spoken softly, but they hit me like a ton of bricks.
    Like a robot, I finished pouring juice, set the table, and served lunch. I ate little, for I’d lost my appetite.
    My husband didn’t trust me to handle this. My stomach hollowed with guilt. He was right to mistrust me. But did he have to be so high-handed all the time? Sudden anger churned my blood.
    Lunch was over quickly, and the guys helped me clean up after.
    As we were pressed for time, Nirvaan and I shared the shower. My dream of wallowing in a warm tub of water, followed by a siesta, evaporated along with my yogic calm. Neither one of us spoke or so much as smiled when our hips bumped or when our slippery, soapy skin made contact. It was telling in itself, for Nirvaan never passed up an opportunity to tease me about how love was best served naked .
    Nirvaan knew he’d twisted my arm. He knew he was being irrational about the baby. Maybe we both were. Our silence was our stand and our apology. But neither one of us was willing to relent.
    It took me longer than my husband to get ready. When I walked out of our bedroom, head high and haughty like a martyr’s, I found the guys in deep discussion by the door. I sat on the sofa to slip on my heels. It didn’t strike me to ask why Zayaan looked angry now or why my husband was still barefoot until it was too late.
    Nirvaan claimed he was tuckered out and wanted a nap. “Was a long weekend, baby. And my head’s starting to hurt.”
    He was lying about the headache. By now, I could tell with some certainty when my husband was tired or felt under the weather and how severe or mild those ailments were. I’d seen him in various stages of sickness for five years—more, if you counted the periodic coughs and colds and fevers we’d nursed each other through since our engagement.
    “If you’re not well, Zayaan should stay home with you.” I touched his cheek. Nothing. It didn’t feel hot or cold or clammy. I was right. I could’ve called him out on it but didn’t think it was worth the aggravation.
    I wondered what Nirvaan was up to. I didn’t think I could bear any more surprises that he seemed to enjoy springing on me these days.
    He kissed my forehead, my nose, and gave me a brief peck on my lips. “No way. Blood and doctors freak you out. Someone needs to hold your hand for the tests and drive you back and forth. And I’ll be fine…once I sleep. I’m going to knock myself out with some NyQuil.”
    I didn’t tell him it was his blood, his pain and suffering, that freaked me out and not my own. Nor did I point out that no one but a husband should hold his