8. KAVI

8

KAVI

I'm in another café, preemptively apologizing to another donut. This one has no jelly. Less temptation for me to lose my mind on a pastry, though I still might do it because?—

I need to call Tyler. Soon. Now. In a few more minutes.

Dad needs you to do this for him. He expects it.

I want to say no and not do it, but I don't know how to.

Because my dad will keep insisting, saying that his coaching career is on the line and that any game the Blades lose is because I didn't return at least one of Tyler's phone calls.

What can I even say to that? I don't have a career or a reputation that needs protecting like he does. I've not earned anything close to that.

Just get this over with, I tell myself. You can do it. It's not like Tyler is some monologuing villain I should fear.

You plucked an in-grown off his thigh. His salty ball-sack was once in your mouth. And remember when he thought New Zealand wasn't a real place for the longest time?

Not letting myself overthink this (more than I have), I ring him. My throat goes dry because dehydration hits me all at once. Yes, that's what happens.

"Babes." The gruff voice is admonishing. "I can't believe you haven't called me back until now."

That opening makes my mouth pinch. I was expecting him to throw himself at my mercy, especially considering he's the one caught with another woman, but no. I'm to blame?

"I-I wasn't ready to hear your apology," I argue.

"How about the flowers, chocolates, jewelry and that serenading singer? I've been apologizing, but you haven't let me clear up your assumptions."

There's no background noise on his end. That surprises me. His team won tonight. That always means they celebrate together, but he doesn't seem to be with them. Almost as if he's learned his lesson?

A vague, nonsensical thread of hope floats through me.

"Nothing happened at that party," Tyler insists. "That woman was hoping to fuck me. You know how pushy these puck bunnies get."

"W-wait." My voice trembles so I clear my throat. "No, I heard you tell Dmitri you were in an open relationship!"

"Dmitri? Since when are you and Lokhov on first-name terms? And we haven't even talked about why you were in his hotel suite that night. That makes no sense to me."

My hand finds this table's butter knife. With my hand, I push the donut away to keep it safe. "Is that what you're worried about? My actions? No… Actually, maybe I'm not ready to talk about this with you."

"Hold on," Tyler cries out. "We're supposed to get married. If we can't talk about our issues, what's the point? What you aren't letting me clear up is how I lied to Lokhov because I knew it would get him riled up. Obviously, we're not in an open relationship."

Why would that rile up Lokhov…?

Customers walk around my table on the way to the register. While I wait for them to pass, my brain yells:

He cheated! You know he did!

"You are the only one for me," Tyler continues when it's quiet again. "Always have been and always will be. We're soulmates."

His words are perfect. It's what every woman wants to hear, but my brain remembers something else.

"You said my lips were fat."

There's a pause, as if Tyler knows this one thing could detonate the call. "That was… a very wrong choice of words. Sorry."

"You should know how I feel about that kind of language. It's always been my hard boundary."

As a woman in my twenties, I've seen very thin bodies in my movies and on red carpets, and I've seen the rise of bodies where everything—booty, boobs, and lips—is bigger except , of course, the waistline because it's never the waistline, and I swear it just goes back and forth between the two. Like we're in some cyclical hell where turns are had. Sometimes you're in the beautiful shapes group, and sometimes you're supposed to hate yourself. And for someone who is pear-shaped like me, you're supposed to hate yourself all the time.

No one talks about how we all have stretch marks, hair on our knuckles, dimples, freckles, divots, and bodies not only changing with age, but changing every week because a uterus can hang out lower when you're on your period.

Young Kavi Basra decided a long time ago that she refuses to play that game. I've got no idea where that absolute confidence comes from, but it's inside me. Opinions that you wish to project onto me about my size or shape are unsolicited and rejected.

My body isn't open for beauty commentary.

Tyler knows that, but I tell him again. "I told you, if I ever feel insecure in that way, if you ever make me feel insecure in that way, the relationship couldn't last. I—can't?—"

"Last?" Tyler huffs. "Babes, I don't know how you can say that. I'm the reason you've got this much."

The donut is stabbed. "Excuse me?"

"Not talking about your body. Of course, you're hot. Everyone knows that. But I'm the Captain of the Seattle Blades. I bring a lot to the table and…"

He stops, but I can finish for him.

What do you bring?

Embarrassment slides down my back. I squeeze my eyes close. What can I say to argue with him?

For the last few years, he has been pulling me along in his life. I've got nothing built of my own.

That's why I was so careful to be the perfect fiancée. The number of congratulatory blowjobs this man has gotten has given me lockjaw. I hate mornings and I hate cooking even more, but I've gotten up early to make Tyler pancakes in bed. I manage his cleaners, assistants, and buy overpriced flowers so his apartment stays lovingly staged, because if I say I'm too busy to help because I'm watching photography tutorials online, I'm patted on the head for my non-priority priorities.

My eyes snap open. Suddenly, I see myself in the reflection of my butter knife, and I'm furious—and scared. That this sentence is going to come up for the rest of my life.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and ask him. "What am I?"

"No, babes. You tell me, so I can understand. You are… ?"

Nothing.

"It's okay," he soothes like a bird licking the wound it pecked open two seconds ago. "You don't have to be anything. Just be my fiancée again. I can't promise women won't throw themselves at me because it happens all the time, but I'm coming home to you. Don't you believe that?"

My mother's words echo inside me.

Men make stupid mistakes all the time.

"I love you, babes. Don't you love me?"

"You want to be open?" I ask, because I can't let it go. Did Tyler make a mistake? Was he actually cheating or do all his explanations make sense?

"I—I?—"

"Do you want to try to be open?" I repeat. "You can be honest with me. Just help me understand."

Tyler's silence is him wondering if this is a trap. It is. But a braver, stronger, more confident woman has hijacked my tongue. I'm now pretending to be the Cool Girl fiancée. The one he wants to have secret body issues, so she spends her life making up for it by bending to his fantasies.

Down for everything. Understanding to a fault. My voice is spun sugar now. "I would understand, babes. Because, well, a man like you has needs."

"It might solve everything, don't you think?" he finally, very softly, says.

But then my silence makes him backtrack. "Only if it's your idea! And we both agree. You know I respect you. Let's talk about it in person. Your parents said you're in Vancouver. Send me your location."

"No."

"That's unacceptable, babes."

"I don't care. I've really heard enough. Besides, I can't look at you right now. It's—we're over, Tyler. For real. We have to be. Bye."

The last few words rushed out. I was afraid if I didn't get them out now, I wouldn't later.

Before he can speak, I hang up.

My head clunks down on the table.

You don't love yourself enough, Tyler once told me in high school, back when he first started flirting with me. Good thing you have me now, he said afterwards as if his biggest thrill was christening me with confidence.

I'm the Captain of the Seattle Blades, and you are ? —

Leaking tears into a tablecloth. Dignity has flown out the window.

Is this a mistake? Did I make the wrong choice? Should I just feel lucky to be his future wife? Is it the best I could hope for even if he'll push me into being in an open relationship?

Not lifting my head up, I shift over to rub my nose against the folded napkin to my right. At least, there's no snot.

Still, I'm sitting in a café alone in a city where I have no one because my parents are out to dinner with fancy people, and I'm dodging my newly dumped ex, feeling like a huge failure.

What sucks is how I still can't finish the sentence without cringing.

Kavi Basra is… what?

Kavi Basra is caught having a mental breakdown by Dmitri Lokhov.

I almost feel him before I see him. Maybe the tall shadow of his body has a corporeal presence or the sounds of heads turning catches my attention. When I finally lift my head, unexplainable sparks jump through my body.

I wish for it to be an alarm. Annoyance. Desolation, even.

Not anything frisson-like.

Actually, I would rather he not be here at all. But despite shaking my head like a rattle, he doesn't blink out of existence. So is the scowling, intimidating defenseman here for a donut?

Coffee?

To gawk at the clownish spectacle that is my life?

Something is put down on a chair. Belatedly, I recognize my backpack. Right. I messaged him to meet me here, but he never replied.

His shadow darkens as he sets both hands on the table. Lesser mortals would cower under his glare, but I'm transfixed because his hand moves again. A calloused thumb goes and touches the top of my cheek.

He brings it back to be inspected.

The residue of my tears is on Dmitri's skin.

And just like that, he's murderous again.