He held his hands out, hiding nothing. “I can get other jobs. But I won’t have this time with you again, and I want to be here for you and our child.”
If she heard his genuine intent behind his impassioned declaration, she didn’t show it. Instead, she scuttled back in her seat until her back pressed against the car door. She glared at him with wide eyes, as if seeing him for the first time; and she didn’t like what she saw.
“You should honor your commitment to Renegades,” she said, her tone oddly devoid of emotion. “Go. You can be involved with your child when you come back.”
His blood chilled. What did she mean “involved with your child”? It sounded like she didn’t want any part of him.
“What are you saying?”
She sucked in a breath and wrapped her arms around her middle, shrinking back from him farther, if that were possible.
“You were there tonight. You saw what it’s like for my mom and me. She’s old, and this pregnancy will bring a lot of judgment and shame on her, from her closest allies who’ve been around for her when I wasn’t. So I should do the right thing. Embrace tradition rather than run from it.”
Icy trepidation washed over him. She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was saying . . .
“Manish has offered to marry me, and I should accept.”
She sounded like she’d rather have a root canal, and he knew in his gut she was lying.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you want to marry him.”
She couldn’t, and his gut instinct intensified. Did she feel guilty for abandoning her mom all these years and that was why she was doing this? But if so, why not raise the baby alone? Were the cultural implications of being a single mother in this day so dire? Was tradition so important to her that she’d give up what they shared in favor of marrying a man she didn’t love? Unless she did . . .
“Do you have feelings for him?”
When her lips thinned and she still couldn’t meet his eyes, a bark of harsh laughter burst from his lips. “You’re fucking kidding me. You can’t marry that guy. You don’t love him. You . . .”
He trailed off as realization hit. She didn’t love him either. She’d never said the words. She didn’t depend on him or need him. Hell, she wanted him gone for the next umpteenth months and it wouldn’t bother her.
He’d been about to say “you love me,” but nothing could be further from the truth. Considering he’d just realized he loved her when she’d announced her intentions to marry some other guy, his timing sucked.
He couldn’t tell her. Not now. It would sound desperate, a last-ditch effort from a guy who’d just had his ass dumped.
“You don’t understand tradition and cultural obligations,” she said, her tone tight with emotion as she placed a hand over her belly. “My mom was ostracized because of her mixed marriage, and in turn, I suffered, because we didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. Pia was my best friend, and I always felt like an outsider at every Indian function I attended. I want this baby to be loved and adored and accepted, and he or she will have all that being raised in a close-knit community.”
“With two married parents who don’t love each other?”
She flinched at his sarcasm. “I loved my first husband, and look how that turned out. Manny’s a lot nicer than him.”
Stunned at her callous about-face, he opened the car door. He had to get out of here before he said something he’d regret.
“You’ll always be a part of this baby’s life, Rory, so I’ll keep you updated while you’re away, and I hope you make it back in time for the birth—”
“How fucking magnanimous of you,” he muttered, slamming the door shut on the rest of her bullshit.
Maybe this was for the best. If she didn’t love him, they never would’ve worked out. This way, he’d get to work his ass off and earn enough to set up a trust fund for his kid and be as involved as he wanted.
Yeah, that would be his new plan.
So why did it hurt so fucking much?
Forty-Four
Since Samira had deliberately driven Rory away by telling him that monstrous lie about marrying Manny, it had been the worst month of her life. She missed him more than she could’ve imagined and spent an inordinate amount of time listening to soppy songs on a playlist designed for heartbreak and having the occasional crying jag she blamed on hormones.
Elsewhere, when she wasn’t blubbering at home, things were okay. Work was good, Pia and Dev were talking again despite still living apart, and the nausea that had plagued Samira during the early months of her pregnancy had vanished, leaving her ravenous most of the time. She’d been craving idlis and sambhar rather than pickles and ice cream, her yearning for the steamed rice cakes and spicy vegetable-laden soup almost making her reconsider her living arrangements and move back home.
But having Kushi whip up her favorite meals and having her in her face twenty-four seven were worlds apart, and she’d stayed put in Southbank. She’d instigated proceedings to sell her physical therapy practice in LA and had arranged for her apartment to be sublet. She’d even started browsing baby furniture online. Being busy should’ve helped ease her heartache. It didn’t, because every night when she lay in bed alone, with too much time to think, she remembered Rory’s stricken expression the night she’d lied to him.
She would never marry Manish, but Rory didn’t need to know that. Her heart had leaped when Rory had offered to leave his precious job to be with her throughout the pregnancy. She could think of nothing better than having him by her side to share in every new experience, every joyful wonder.
Until she realized what it would mean long-term.
He’d already told her how much the job meant to him. He could help those underprivileged kids and set himself up professionally for bigger roles. He’d been so damn keen to score the role, he’d flipped out when he’d discovered her coaching his rival. And she knew he needed the money from snippets of what he’d said.
So to walk away from that because of her and the baby? Ultimately, it would never work. He’d grow to resent her, and the baby, and she could never have that. She cared for him enough to never make him choose between her and his career.
She’d sent him two short texts over the last few weeks, updates about the glucose test she’d done and the later results. He’d responded with a short, sharp “thanks.” That’s what it would be like for the next few months until the birth, and she had to get used to it. Didn’t mean she had to like it.
Stepping into the Punjab sweetshop, she inhaled deeply, the heady aromas of ghee, milk, sugar, and cardamom never failing to soothe her. Smells of her childhood. Smells to comfort. She knew a lot of sugar wasn’t good for the baby, but she was feeling particularly morose today, nothing a few pieces of cashew barfi and carrot halwa couldn’t fix.