Megha frowned as her gaze settled fully on the newcomer. Whoever this guy was, he needed to have his eyes checked. Her skin could best be described as ashen right now, as in dabbed with grey ash instead of translucent powder, and the dark circles under her eyes must look like veritable, abysmal moats. Not to mention the network of blackish veins on her forearm—even heroin chic wouldn’t come close.
“The tropical sun fried your brain or something? Shut up, man!” Magnus said as he approached the guy.
There—he was crossing the ‘t’s now. They were just friends, so she wasn’t ‘his’ Megha by any shot, long or short. A pang registered in her heart at this reckoning, but she swallowed the pain down and forced her spine upright. First impressions must still count for something, right?
“I smell a rat here,” the man said, before he smiled and then pulled Magnus into a hug.
“Piss off,” Magnus told him as they broke away. “Don’t you have more important things to do? Like introduce us to your fiancée? Where is she?”
“Yes, Lars,” Elsa Trammell said as she approached him and offered her cheek for a dutiful kiss. “Didn’t you bring Simmi along?”
Megha’s frown deepened. Lars … This must be Lars Rutherford, Magnus’ and Stellan’s other best friend. The third in their triumvirate. The trio had made quite some tabloid headlines back in the day, when they’d all been party animals. Aside from Magnus, the other two seemed to have settled down and left those frat boy ways behind them to bite the dust.
Truth be told, even Magnus no longer struck her as a party-goer. In the past few weeks, since taking over the shop, he’d shown himself to be a responsible man with a remarkably sensible head for business on his shoulders. Guess he’d grown up, too. Better late than never, right? Still, she missed the ‘old’ Magnus, the goofy one. He had been harmless and fun and sweet, whereas this iteration … She had lost her heart to this one.
The voices around her, which had already been a cacophony as everyone had stood to greet Lars, rose up when a beautiful young woman entered the room. She had short dark hair, cut in a choppy pixie, with pearlescent skin. In fact, she appeared to be glowing from the inside, making her fragile bone structure appear even more delicate, like she wasn’t someone from this world.
“And here she is, everyone,” Lars was saying. “Meet Simmi Moyer, the woman who has made me the luckiest man alive.”
At this, the woman—Simmi—blushed and lightly punched him in his side. She smiled, then, and reached out to kiss Elsa Trammell’s cheeks before embracing Magnus in a warm hug.
Megha squirmed. All right, she shouldn’t be here. This was a family moment. The man had brought his fiancée over for the first time. She was marring the picture. She should’ve been out of here a long time ago, truth be told. But first, she needed to get out of this dress and then go look for her own clothes. She refused to leave here in Agneta’s cast-offs.
With soft steps, she turned and made it back into the other room, where she changed out of the gown and laid it gently on a sofa to not crease the fabric. Once back in her borrowed clothes, she darted a look around, trying to spot another door so she wouldn’t have to go in the great room again. No such luck. On a sigh, she made it out and stopped on the threshold.
“You should’ve stayed in the dress,” Elin told her as soon as she spotted her.
She snorted at that. “I don’t think the stylist would’ve appreciated me getting back to Daimsbury in her precious and I’m sure very pricey designer frock.”
“Getting back?” Agneta shrieked. “No way. You’re staying for dinner.”
She had definitely overstayed her welcome by now. “I think it would be best—”
“Nonsense. You are staying for dinner, and that’s final.”
Megha gulped and almost bowed to the old lady when she’d finished laying down the law. Guess she really had no way out now.
“Am I late?”
Stellan Elriksen strolled in, dressed in casual jeans and a light green polo shirt that brought out the aquamarine tones in his eyes even more. Drat, but the man was gorgeous. All three friends were, in fact. She pitied the poor women they’d set their sights on, because these females would stand no chance before such exquisite masculinity. She sure hadn’t, never mind how much she had resisted, or tried to.
But if she were to be honest, it’s when Magnus’ heart had gotten involved that she’d fallen for him. Not for his good looks. She’d also venture a guess that it must have been the case for this Simmi woman, too—she didn’t appear simply besotted with Lars, which one could ascribe to physical attraction alone, but she seemed genuinely in love with him. You couldn’t love someone without getting to see their heart and soul first.
Speaking of Lars’ fiancée, a sneaking suspicion entered her. That name … it almost sounded Indian. Though Simmi looked Caucasian through and through. It baffled her, and the notion refused to leave her throughout dinner, which was a loud and boisterous affair filled with laughter and the family regaling Simmi with tales of the three Musketeers, as the boys were known to their close ones.
The courses came and went, but she still didn’t have much of an appetite, so she picked just enough from each plate to make it seem like she’d been eating. With everyone so busy with their guests, no one really paid her any attention, which was just as well. However, Magnus, seated next to her, would often glance her way and prod her fork-laden hand towards her plate. She’d give him a soft smile then and take a small bite, which would pacify him, at least until the next moment when they’d repeat that silent dance again.
It had hurt her as much as it had warmed her heart to find him caring. Because this was all a fantasy. It just wouldn’t last out there in the real world.
She later on found herself on a sofa, everyone else mingling around the room with tiny coffee cups in their hands. She’d begged off the caffeine, knowing it would hinder her sleep that night. After the extreme tiredness following a chemo session, insomnia always came for her.
Someone plopped down next to her, and she was startled to find Simmi seated by her side, a wide smile on her gorgeous face.
“Let me guess,” the woman started with a tinkling laugh. “They must’ve asked if you had no shame in you, cavorting with a gora ladka.”
Megha’s eyes grew wide. Had she really heard those Hindi words meaning ‘white boy’? Had her suspicions been right?
“You’re Indian?” she asked.
Simmi laughed and nodded. “On my mother’s side.”
“But you look …”
“White. Yeah. My dad was white. French origins.”
Hence the name. Something registered in her then. Lars was more similar to Magnus than Stellan—the first two having Swedish mothers and British fathers, as opposed to Stellan whose whole lineage consisted entirely of Swedes. That someone from Lars’ privileged background had ended up with an Indian woman … It didn’t matter that Simmi was mixed-race. A hint of brown in you, and you would never be considered as anything else but that darker colour.
Could there be hope, in that case, for someone like Magnus and— No, she was getting ahead of herself. Best drop that line of thought altogether.
“So, what was it you got to hear?” Simmi pressed on.
Megha blinked, suddenly lost.
“You and Magnus, silly.”
Them confirming they had a similar background had already meant they could become bosom buddies ribbing each other; she got that. But Simmi had it wrong.
“Uhm, we’re not together,” she said.
Simmi frowned. “Could’ve fooled me.”
She forced a little smile. “We’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
This was getting a tad uncomfortable now. She needed to shift their attention to something else. “What did you hear when your family found out about you and Lars?”
Simmi sighed. “The usual. No shame. Chasing after a dream. Putting on airs and getting ahead of myself and above my station in life.”
Megha nodded. “Tell me about it.”
She’d been lucky her relationship with Liam had been under wraps. Otherwise, she, too, would’ve heard this kind of overdone dramatization from her aunts and other relatives.
Simmi reached out for her hand. “I hope I’m not too forward, but Lars told me about you. I’m sorry. About the cancer.”
The woman sounded genuine. By now, Megha had reached the point where she could pick up the nuances in people’s words when they spoke about her cancer. Some sounded uncomfortable. Others like they were digging for dirt. Many were even flippant about it—sorry was what you said under such circumstances. But she had a feeling Simmi meant it whole-heartedly.
So, she smiled. “Thank you.”
“He also told me about the clinic. I saw the article yesterday, by the way. That’s how you met, right?”
Back onto less loaded territory. “I work at their shop in Daimsbury.”
“Oh, I hear it’s a gorgeous place. I’m sad we won’t get to see it during our visit.”
Simmi sounded genuinely contrite. “Why not?”
“Our flight leaves late tomorrow afternoon. And I have to be back at work on Monday morning.” She winced. “Seems like I’ll be heading into the office straight from the airport.”
Megha frowned. “What do you do for work?”
Must be something important, for her to need to get back to her desk ASAP.
“Corporate lawyer, for a big conglomerate in Mauritius.”
Well, that would do it, for sure. As she sat there looking at this vibrant young woman who couldn’t be much older than her, it struck her how different they were. A light burned bright in Simmi’s eyes when she spoke of her job—she seemed to love the never-ending rush. Megha had never wanted that for herself. She’d been content with a quiet, simple life in the village. Many thought she had no ambition, settling for being a sales girl in a jewellery shop. But she loved the contact with people, helping them choose the perfect piece. And with her owning a third of the restaurant, having used the inheritance she had received from her grandfather in India to invest in her father’s business, she didn’t require more. Her life was going to be a smooth and somewhat dull journey, and she’d been fine with that.
Until cancer had come along, and Magnus on its coattails.
Thinking of him made her seek him out with her gaze. She finally spotted him on the terrace opening onto the private courtyard, a glass of Scotch in his hands, one hip pressed to the railing as he spoke with Lars and Stellan.
Lars stood facing the interior of the room, and he looked up then. A smile crept up his face, his gaze fixated on someone inside. Megha turned her head towards Simmi. She, too, was smiling, that glow back on her face as she exchanged a loaded look with her fiancé.
No one would have to tell anyone in their surroundings that these two were in love. It was obvious to the naked eye.
Megha’s heart clenched. She wanted this. And not with just anyone. No, she wanted Magnus to look at her like Lars was looking at Simmi. She was certain she, too, would light up if and when his adoring gaze would land on her.
She darted a peek at him, but he wasn’t looking in her direction. It appeared he and Stellan were totally taking the mickey out of Lars.
Just as well he hadn’t looked back …
Suddenly, she couldn’t stand it to be in this room any longer. To be near to him yet knowing she would never get close enough to him, in that personal space Swedes hardly ever relinquished unless to those they loved with all their heart.
A glance at the After-Eight-style clock on the mantel showed her it was already past eleven. Too late to get someone to take her back to the village. She’d have to spend the night. Again.
Megha stood and made quick work of excusing herself, claiming post-chemo fatigue to still be plaguing her.
Tomorrow, first thing, she’d be out of here.
***
By the time he’d gone back inside, she’d already retired to bed. Something inside Magnus clamped onto itself and settled in his gut like a heavy stone when he found himself alone in the big room. Because she wasn’t there. His family and best friends were here, yes—and minus Carl and his lot, his brother having been posted to the British High Commission in Pretoria, South Africa. Good riddance—but as long as she wasn’t around, that didn’t make a difference. He’d come to crave her presence, to even actually need her around him.
What a damn circus his life had turned into.
His legs itched to be let loose, so he could rush through the corridors and go to her bedroom, where he would find her and finally feel the dead weight compressing his chest and preventing him from breathing come off him. Because her mere presence took care of that.
Bloody hell!
Sleep refused to come when he got into bed, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. Knowing solace wouldn’t make an appearance, he threw the sheets off and got up, his feet finding their way to one of the many terraces opening over and onto their inner courtyard.
The breath whooshed out of him when he spotted a female silhouette bent over the balustrade, her forearms pressed to the stone railing. Her dark hair glimmered under the moonlight; it wasn’t one of his sisters but Megha.
For a long while, he simply stood there and basked in the sight of her. She had her back to him, so he couldn’t see her face, but she appeared pensive. A gust of wind blew through her hair, and she reached out and pulled the locks back. But he also saw what happened next, his heart growing leaden. Because as she ran her fingers through her hair, a thick clump remained in her grip when she pulled her hand back.
She was losing her hair to the chemo. It was happening already, just after her third cycle. Some people went through their whole chemotherapy regimen without going bald. Seemed she wouldn’t have that luck …
He didn’t catch it at first, but the more he squinted, the more he saw it. Her shoulders, softly wracking. With sobs, probably. She must be crying.
And she was alone … She shouldn’t be alone.
That’s how he found himself making his way out through the French windows. She didn’t hear him, so he continued on quietly and stopped behind her. His hands came up, landing gently on her bare upper arms, making her startle. She jumped, whipped her head around, and when she saw him, tried to wipe the tears on her face. Except she did that with the hand still clutching her fallen hair.
He knew this would make her crumble to pieces. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her into him, her back to his front. She stiffened at first, then, it was as if a switch went off inside her, and she let go. If he hadn’t tightened his hold around her, she would’ve slipped to the ground. Without her realizing what he was doing, he unfurled her closed hand and plucked the strands of hair from her grip, letting them drift behind him into the shadows.
“Shh,” he crooned in her ear. “Everything will be okay.”
She seemed to strangle on a sob. “No, it won’t.”
“Of course it will,” he reassured. “You got this.”
He yearned to tilt his head and press a kiss to her forehead, to show her with his lips and his touch and even his body how much he wanted to make this right for her. When his boxers grew constricted, he shifted on his feet. It wouldn’t do to scare her with his hard-on pressing into her. Bloody hell, but how he wanted her, though. He needed her presence to breathe, but his body needed hers to soothe it, to give him something physical and tangible to hold on to.
But he couldn’t do this. Not when she was in this state.
So he simply held her, pressing his cheek to the side of her head, basking in the grounding feeling of having her in his arms. Because that’s all he would get.
She took in a deep breath, hiccupping on a sob. Then, she spoke.
“Magnus, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
He nodded softly, then hummed an answer close to her ear. When she remained silent, he took in a deep breath. “You can talk to me, Megha.”
Long seconds passed, but he relished the silence broken by the swish of the soft summer breeze. He had her, in his arms no less, and that’s all that mattered.
She shuddered as she took in another deep breath.
“It doesn’t feel like it’s going to get better, you know,” she murmured.
If he hadn’t had his face so close to her lips, he wouldn’t have made out what she’d said.
He wanted to tell her that it would be fine, that she would make it, win this fight. A part of him kept him back, though, telling him she needed to talk, to vent, to unload on someone. It seemed she had chosen him for that honour, well, so be it. He had seen her at her worst, after all, back when she’d broken down during her last chemo. A line appeared to have been crossed between them, ensconcing them in a circle no one else could enter.
If that was all he could have with Megha, he’d take it, and cherish it, too.
So he just stood there, with her in his embrace, his hands coming to rest on the delicate roundness of her shoulders.
“Sometimes, when it’s quiet, it’s like I can feel it growing,” she said.
“What is growing?” he asked, at a loss now.
“The cancer.”
A fist landed in his gut. That’s how she felt? He wanted to tell her she was imagining things … but at the same time, he wasn’t in her shoes. He had not even one bloody clue what she was going through.
“In the silence,” she continued. “It’s like I can pick up a sinister whisper, words telling the cancer to return, to grow back, like rain feeding the bad weeds and making them multiply.”
He heaved in a deep breath. Bloody hell … “The doctors said they caught it all, though.”
She nodded. “Yes, but what made it come in the first place? What if it comes back?”
“There are ways to check, aren’t there?”
“It’s just … it’s something that will never go away, a fear that will remain with me for as long as I live.” She sighed. “I was lucky I actually found the lump, got to it when I did. But what of other places where I won’t be able to feel it? Like in my ovaries. You can’t go self-examining that, can you?”
Something told him she was getting ahead of herself while something else told him he was being the arse for even thinking of dismissing her concerns. He had to help her here, not be a jerk.
“Ovarian cancer?” he asked. “You tested positive for BRCA mutations?”
A soft nod gave him the answer. He hadn’t known that; her BRCA genes had a flaw—the ones that were supposed to work at tumour suppression able to go awry for no bloody reason and thus bring on another cancer.
Megha shivered in his arms, making him wonder if he should take them inside. It was the very late hours of the night, and the air had gotten slightly chilly. However, she remained glued to her spot when he attempted to move. Okay, so she wouldn’t budge. He pressed closer to her, enveloping her slight frame more in his embrace. Hopefully, the heat from his larger body would be enough to warm her.
“I don’t want to go under the knife again, Magnus.”
“Why should you?”
“I can have preventive surgery, have my ovaries and fallopian tubes removed, just like I did with the other breast.” She sighed again. “But even that doesn’t eliminate the risk completely. And …”
“And?”
Long, silent seconds ensued.
“I … I want to have children one day, you know.”
At this, he smiled. She would make a great mother with her no-nonsense but still caring attitude. In fact, he wanted a woman like her to be the mother of his children.
Whoa! He’d known he was a goner, but this much?
Actually, yes, this much and more. He had fallen for her hook, line, and sinker. He wanted a forever with her, to spend the rest of his life with her. To be the Jasper to her Eleanor.
Most of all, he wanted to make her happy.
So he deposited a soft kiss onto her temple. “You’ll make a wonderful mother.”
She snorted. “If I live long enough.”
“You will,” he said, injecting conviction in his tone. “You will become an adorable grandma, driving your long-suffering husband crazy and making your kids fear you and love you and respect you all while you spoil your grandkids rotten.”
She laughed. “You better wish me good luck finding a man who’ll take me without boobs.”
He took in a deep breath. “Breasts aren’t everything that make up a woman, Megha.”
She nodded after a while. “I’m not going to get reconstruction, you know.”
First time he’d heard that, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. The woman had had no qualms cutting off a piece of her to spite the cancer—no way would she give it any ground to return. Getting new breasts would mean no longer having an unmarred expanse where she could check for lumps every month.
“Fakies are overrated, too, you know,” he quipped.
Another laugh escaped her, which made him smile. It hadn’t even sounded derogatory this time.
“I won’t go under the knife again,” she continued. “I’ve been speaking with women who have had mastectomies but have opted out of reconstruction. There’s this closed group on Facebook. They’re living their lives without breasts, happy that way, going about their business without feeling any less because of their surgery.”
She didn’t say it, but he heard it. These women didn’t feel any less womanly despite not having had reconstructed boobs fitted onto their post-cancer bodies.
And if that’s what she wanted, the path she was choosing, he would give her his support.
“The measure of anyone isn’t quantified from their appearance, Megha. It comes from who and what they are in their souls.”
She hummed something like an agreement. Silence descended again, and they remained standing, locked in that embrace, for a long time. When he felt her starting to go limp in his hold, he slipped one arm under her knees and carried her back to her room.
As he deposited her in the bed, she reached out and clasped his wrist.
His breath caught at the touch, fire searing along every nerve ending in his arm to come scorch his entire being.
In the darkness broken by the soft glow of the lamp on the far table, he could still see her face, make out her features. She didn’t have to say any word, her wide eyes and parted lips speaking for her. Without adding anything, he nodded and slipped under the covers beside her.
He held her as she burrowed into him, her back to his front again, and he watched and listened to her fall asleep. Slumber eluded him completely. He wanted to lean forward and kiss her cheek, then roll her onto her back to claim her mouth while his hands ditched the scraps of pyjamas on her body. He yearned to caress all her skin before he took her and made her his, made her scream his name in ecstasy and then fall back into a limp but sated puddle on the mattress.
Alas, he couldn’t. She hadn’t invited him in for that—but the memo hadn’t travelled to his groin, it seemed. So with clenched teeth, he lay there, letting her sleep, and when the rays of dawn started to pierce through the slits in the curtains, he reluctantly peeled himself from her and got out of the bed.
Goddamn it, that’s where he belonged, with her … but she had no business getting embroiled with the likes of him. No, Megha was too good for that.
He had to do something about this. Anything. Because this couldn’t be allowed to go on.
He had rarely stayed the night with a woman, and when he had, the sex had surely been phenomenal and going on well into the early morning. He’d never done this, and certainly not for sentiments.
The things he would do for Megha …
But he couldn’t. For her sake. She deserved so much better—that long-suffering husband, for starters. And that wasn’t him. Would never be him.
He had to get away.
Because of her.
For her.