“Heather said she wanted to meet alone. What can I do?” Isha nervously brushed a few dark strands of hair out of her eyes.I spotted a stray thread on the bajot and brushed it off into my hand. “It’s because of what you two did in college, isn’t it?” I opened the cupboard and carefully let the thread fall into the trash.“Absolutely not,” Isha said, tucking her sewing kit into a sequined pouch. “Like I said, it only happened once. It was stupid. God, I should have never told you.”I looked past my ...wife to the photograph of Heather and Isha on the wall. They were wearing matching Misk-U sweatshirts–cut to reveal their midriffs; Heather had her arm around the subtle curve of Isha’s waist, her fingers bent, pressing into Isha’s fair, but darker skin. “Sure,” I growled.“Whatever. You’re in my light.”I grumbled and stepped aside.Isha held her mother’s sari to the light and squinted.I leaned in. “She’ll never know,” I said, tracing my finger over the microscopic irregularity in the weave.“Of course she will.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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