BooksBarbecue
Back Side by Side Save as PDF
Chapters (50)
  1. Cover Page
  2. Half Title Page
  3. SIDE by SIDE
  4. Dedication Page
  5. Epigraph
  6. Part I: Fall
  7. 1.
  8. 2.
  9. 3.
  10. 4.
  11. 5.
  12. Part II: Crawl
  13. 6.
  14. 7.
  15. 8.
  16. 9.
  17. 10.
  18. 11.
  19. 12.
  20. 13.
  21. 14.
  22. 15.
  23. 16.
  24. 17.
  25. 18.
  26. 19.
  27. 20.
  28. 21.
  29. 22.
  30. 23.
  31. 24.
  32. 25.
  33. 26.
  34. 27.
  35. 28.
  36. 29.
  37. 30.
  38. 31.
  39. Part III: Rise
  40. 32.
  41. 33.
  42. 34.
  43. 35.
  44. 36.
  45. 37.
  46. 38.
  47. 39.
  48. 40.
  49. Acknowledgements
  50. About the Author

They always say tell the truth. Tell someone. They never say be careful about who you tell. They never say the people you tell might be ignorant or awkward or unwilling to help you. Still, they say tell. Tell someone. Tell your dark truth. Even though the people you tell may use your truth against you.

22.

The stones are in their beds. But Kavita is not. She is not a Stone. The combination of insomnia, jet lag, and the quiet rage that quakes her insides has kept her from finding any rest. Defiant, she invades her in-laws’ well-stocked liquor cabinet and pours herself an inch of Glenfiddich—no water, no ice. Taking a generous gulp, she welcomes the sting at the back of her throat, which matches the blue heat cycling through her veins. Standing by the sliding doors that overlook the garden, she gazes up at the smoky night sky.

“Why am I here?” she asks Sunil. She hasn’t spoken to him openly since she arrived in London. Now, they are alone at last. She knows it is safe enough. Leaning into the silence, she dilates her ears in the chance that he might finally answer her.

“All along, I’ve known something bad was going to happen. But I never dreamt of this.”

The awful words unspool inside her head.

No one knows about him.

No one knows about him.

No one knows about him.

And mix with Nirav’s words too.

I can’t believe how selfish you are.

Not everything’s about you, Kavita.

Is this her reward for pushing aside exhaustion and crossing the cold Atlantic? Smiling although she has lost her joy. Cooking even though the thought of finishing a meal repulses her. Supporting them in their grief while they openly deny hers. Is this her reward for giving, and then, despite the inch of water left inside her meagre well, ladling out a little more?

She takes a deep sip, and another. Then she reaches for the bottle and pours the same again

Yes, she gave.

And it cost her.

Shame hollows her midsection—round, chilled, empty. A shiver rattles along her bones.

She forces down the drink with a few strained gulps, pushing through her gags for the promise of warmth shining at the bottom of her glass like an ice cube, an end to the unforgiving hoarfrost at her core. She relives the scene and its confusion, seeing all the things she should have said and done at the time. Why didn’t she speak up? Why is she always too slow to act?