Page 5 of Everything She Wanted

“Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

“Nisha,” I say. I take in one last glimpse of ocean blue before I turn around and walk briskly away.

I look at my phone and see an Uber just a minute away, and before I know it, I’m jumping inside and away from him. I put my hand on my heart to help give myself a moment of calm. I feel flushed and foolish.

After the panic subsides, I realize I don’t even know his name. I know nothing about him, not really. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. That he was attracted to her, not me, the woman I was so desperately pretending to be. My mind tells me it’s for the best—but regret lodges itself in my stomach and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

1. The List

One Year Later

Every almost thirty-something girl wants:

a Bollywood movie-esque love that feels as good #IRL as it looks on Instagram

a matcha latte, half sweet (because of calories, obviously)

dolla dolla bills because we like expensive things

real friends (you know those special ones that hold back your hair while you vomit into the toilet)

a LinkedIn-worthy career, like Look at me, I’m killing it at adulting and now everyone back in Toronto is envious.

Other people have resolutions, but I make lists because a to-do list is much easier to check off than a resolution. I mean, don’t most resolutions fail by February, anyway? But a list I can constantly refer to and use to monitor my progress is just an incredible life hack.

“Nisha, extra-sweet matcha latte,” the barista calls out.

I take my drink from the counter and settle back into my booth. Out the window, the clouds hide the sun and it’s softly drizzling, making the morning even cozier.

I take out my fancy pen and hold it in position, ready to continue the list and reflect on my growth over the last year.

I’m making real progress on almost everything—besides the extra-sweet latte I’m sipping—who can make it through the day on half-sweet anyway? I cross ‘half-sweet’ off the list just as my phone rings.

Mom never calls this early. My heart beats frantically even before I hear her voice. I place my pen on the polished wooden coffee table, mentally preparing myself for the conversation.

“Mom, is everything okay?”

“You didn’t call me back yesterday. Why even have a phone if you never pick up?”

“Sorry, I had to work late.” I take a deep, calming breath.

“Work is more important than your mom?”

“No, of course not.” Then another one.

I won’t let her trigger me anymore. I have so much going for me now—even my mom must see that.

“Are you at work?”

“Not yet. Just getting coffee.”

“You should make cha at home and bring it to work, like I did for your father.”

I smile as I think about him and remember the soft cinnamon and cardamom fragrance that would drift into my room every morning when I was younger.

“I know, but it doesn’t taste as good as yours,” I say as she tuts at me. It’s true. I can never get the blend of spices just right.

“Did they promote you yet?”