Squad Games

I watch my best friend’s wife slip out of her heels and press her bare feet into the grass. The party is three hours deep, everyone drunk or pretending not to be, and the lawn of Samrat’s farmhouse is littered with bodies and bottles. Vinita doesn't notice me watching. She’s too busy laughing at something Kajal said, her head thrown back, throat exposed, the kind of laugh that makes you want to know what caused it.

I look away before I get caught.

“You’re staring again.” Roni drops onto the bench beside me, his shoulder knocking into mine. He’s holding a beer that’s mostly foam.

“I’m not staring.”

“You’re staring at Vinita. You’ve been staring at Vinita since she walked in wearing that dress.” He takes a long pull from the bottle. “She’s married to Vinit. Our Vinit. The guy who cried at the end of *Toy Story 3*.”

“I know who she’s married to.”

“Then stop looking at her like you want to find out what she sounds like when she comes.”

I shove him. He laughs, loud and stupid, the way he’s laughed since we were fourteen and he discovered that saying the wrong thing at the right volume got him attention. It still works. A few heads turn. Meher catches my eye from across the patio and raises an eyebrow. I shake my head. She shrugs and goes back to her conversation with Anushka.

The thing about having the same friends for fifteen years is that everyone knows everyone’s tells. Meher knows I shake my head when I’m lying. Roni knows I stare at Vinita when I’ve had enough to drink that my judgment slips. Vinit knows that when I go quiet, I’m thinking about something I shouldn’t be.

Vinit is not here tonight. He’s in Bangalore for a conference. He asked me to keep an eye on Vinita.

Some favor.

The bonfire is roaring by the time Sahil breaks out the whiskey. Not the cheap stuff. The good single malt he saves for occasions that justify the price tag. He pours me a glass without asking, the amber liquid catching firelight, and I take it because taking it is easier than explaining why I shouldn't.

“To another year of putting up with each other,” Sahil says, raising his glass.

We drink. The whiskey burns going down. It’s a good burn. The kind that reminds you you’re still alive.

Vikram starts telling the story about the time we got locked out of the hostel in Manali, and everyone groans because we’ve heard it a hundred times, but we let him tell it anyway because that’s what we do. We let each other repeat ourselves. We let each other get drunk and sentimental. We let each other pretend that nothing has changed even though everything has changed and we’re all just too scared to say it out loud.

I finish my whiskey and pour another.

Vinita is sitting on the other side of the fire now. She’s pulled her knees up to her chest, her dress riding high on her thighs, and she’s listening to Soniya talk about her divorce with the kind of patience that makes me wonder if she’s actually listening or if she’s just good at looking like she cares. I’ve seen her do both. I’ve seen her hold space for people’s pain and I’ve seen her check out completely while maintaining perfect eye contact. She’s a magician that way.

The fire pops. Sparks rise into the dark sky and disappear.

“You should talk to her,” Roni says. He’s back. I didn’t notice him leave.

“I talk to her all the time.”

“Not like that. Not about anything real.” He’s not laughing now. His voice is lower, almost serious. “You’ve been circling her for two years. At some point you have to land the plane or walk away from the airport.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor.”

“It’s a terrible situation. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

I don’t answer. I watch the fire instead. Watch the way the flames eat the wood, turning solid things into ash and memory. There’s something honest about fire. It doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is.

Vinita stands up. She stretches, her arms above her head, the hem of her dress riding up just enough to show the curve of her hip. She says something to Soniya, touches her shoulder, and walks toward the house.

I wait ten seconds. Then twenty.

“I need to piss,” I say to no one in particular.

Roni snorts. “Sure you do.”

I ignore him and follow her.

The farmhouse is old, built by Samrat’s grandfather, full of rooms that don’t get used and furniture covered in white sheets. The kitchen is the only part that feels lived in. That’s where I find her. Standing at the counter, pouring herself a glass of water, her back to the door.

“You following me?” she says without turning around.

“I needed water.”

“There’s water by the fire.”

“I wanted cold water.”

She turns. Her eyes find mine and hold. She’s not wearing any makeup, or maybe she is and it’s just subtle enough that I can’t tell. Her hair is down, dark and thick, falling past her shoulders. She looks tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night. The kind that comes from carrying something heavy for too long.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I’m fine.”

“Vinita.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She takes a sip of water. Her hands are shaking. Just a little. Just enough for me to notice.

I step closer. “You’re not fine.”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp, a blade held up between us. “Don’t do the thing where you pretend to care so you can get close to me.”

“I do care.”

“You care about the idea of me. You care about the version of me you’ve built in your head. The real me is married to your best friend and has a mortgage and a dog that throws up on the carpet when she eats too fast. That’s who I am. Not some fantasy.”

I don’t know what to say to that. She’s right. She’s completely right and that’s what makes it worse.

“Vinit doesn’t touch me anymore,” she says.

The words land like stones in my chest.

“What?”

“He doesn’t touch me. He hasn’t touched me in nine months. Not a hand on my shoulder. Not a kiss goodnight. Nothing.” She sets the glass down and wraps her arms around herself. “I didn’t tell you that so you could make a move. I told you because I’m tired of pretending everything is fine when it’s not.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because you’re the only one who ever looks at me like you see something worth looking at.”

She crosses the kitchen in three steps. Her hand finds my chest, flat against my shirt, right over my heart. I can feel the heat of her palm through the fabric.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” she says.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. It’s been written there for two years.” Her thumb moves, a slow circle against my sternum. “But I’m not going to be the one who starts something she can’t finish. If you want this, you have to be the one to take it.”

She holds my gaze for three full seconds. Then she lets her hand drop, steps around me, and walks out of the kitchen.

I stand there for a long time. The refrigerator hums. A cricket somewhere outside keeps up its steady song. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Roni appears in the doorway. He looks at me. He looks at the empty glass on the counter. He looks back at me.

“Well,” he says. “That looked like a conversation.”

I don’t answer.

“You going to do something about it?”

I think about Vinit. I think about fifteen years of friendship. I think about the way Vinita’s hand felt against my chest, the pressure of her palm, the weight of her words.

“I don’t know,” I say.

And I mean it.