Chapter 6: The Aftermath
The garage door groaned shut behind Raj, swallowing the pale morning light and sealing him in the damp, oil-smelling dark of home. He killed the engine and sat for a long time, the only sound the tink-tink-tink of the cooling metal. His head throbbed behind his eyes. He could still see the blue jersey in Priya’s hand, the terrible slump of her shoulders as she walked away.
He didn’t remember driving.
The door to the kitchen was unlocked. He pushed it open to a silence so complete it rang in his ears. The breakfast counter held a single bowl, a spoon stuck in the congealed milk and leftover cereal. Avi’s. Priya must have rushed out after him, forgetting it. A single bright red Lego piece sat beside it, a stark accusation of normalcy. The air was cold, over-air-conditioned, and carried the ghost of last night’s dinner—garam masala, cumin, the comfort scents now tasting of ash in his memory.
He walked through the pristine downstairs, a museum of their family life. The cushions on the sectional were plumped. The books were neatly shelved. A framed picture of them all at Niagara Falls, smiling under plastic ponchos, watched him from the mantle. He looked away.
His feet took him to the study, the one room that felt like his. He didn’t turn on the overhead light. The faint glow from the desk lamp was enough. It illuminated the mahogany surface: a stack of unpaid bills, a half-finished architectural schematic for a school extension, two whiskey glasses. One was his, from two nights ago, a faint amber stain at the bottom. The other was clean, untouched.
Priya never drank whiskey.
He sank into the leather chair. It creaked familiarly. On the corner of the desk sat a thick church candle, its wax puddled and reset in a soft, smooth mound. Priya lit it sometimes when she meditated. It was unlit now, cold.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
The vibration felt like a shock to his nervous system. He flinched. He let it buzz again, then a third time. Slowly, he pulled it out. The screen was a brutal beacon in the dim room.
A text notification. Bethany.
His thumb hovered over it. The guilt was a physical nausea, a sour heat climbing his throat. He should delete it. He should block the number. He should throw the phone against the wall.
He opened it.
‘My flight leaves at noon.’
A pause. The three dots pulsed. Another message popped up.
‘One last taste?’
An image loaded. It was her, of course. The angle was from above, the hotel sheets rumpled and white. Her bare thighs, the skin he’d traced with his fingertips just hours ago, curved into the frame. She was wearing his dress shirt from yesterday, one button fastened, the collar open. The edge of the photo caught the corner of her mouth, a suggestion of a smile.
Raj’s breath hitched. A violent, immediate heat flashed through him, a counterpoint to the icy shame. It was hunger, raw and undeniable. It was the memory of her laugh in his ear, the weight of her leg over his hip, the obliteration of being someone else, somewhere else, for a few hours. The hunger warred with the image of Priya’s red-rimmed eyes in the elevator.
His hands shook. He typed ‘I can’t.’ Deleted it. Typed ‘Don’t.’ Deleted it.
His thumb moved on its own. ‘Room?’
The reply was instant. ‘814. Still mine til 11.’
He looked up from the screen. His reflection in the dark study window was a hollowed-out ghost. Through the half-open door, he could see the empty living room, the neat couch, the forgotten Lego on the counter. The school schematic was due Monday. Avi’s game started in an hour. He had promised to be there. He had promised a lot of things.
The scent of garam masala drifted in from the kitchen, a faded promise of a family dinner that would never happen now. The unlit candle sat like a monument to the peace he had shattered.
He stood up. The chair rolled back and hit the bookcase with a thud. He didn’t look at the family photo. He didn’t look at the cereal bowl. He walked out of the study, through the silent house, back to the garage door. His hand was on the knob when his phone buzzed again in his other hand.
He didn’t look at it.
He turned the knob. The door opened to the dark, oil-scented void. He took a step.
The phone buzzed again, insistent.
He stopped. He brought the screen up. It wasn’t Bethany.
It was Priya.
No words. Just a photo. Avi, in his blue soccer uniform, his hair messy, grinning a gap-toothed grin at the camera. He was giving a thumbs-up. Behind him, blurred, were other kids in blue jerseys, a green field.
The world cracked. It didn’t break. It fissured right down the middle, right through the center of him. The hunger in his gut curdled, twisted, became something else—a vast, howling emptiness.
He stood in the threshold, one foot in the dark garage, one foot in the cool, silent house. The phone went dark in his hand.
From the kitchen, the refrigerator kicked on with a low hum.