She could feel his eyes on her as she led him to the kitchen. She told herself it was the cold coming in from the door as she rubbed the goosebumps on her arm. Three years of odd jobs and errands meant he moved through her kitchen with the ease of someone who knew where everything lived — the hooks, the kettle, the drawer with the teaspoons. He turned on the tap, inspected the drain, went out to fetch the tools from the garage, returned and went to work.

Claire leaned against the counter and watched him. She’d known he had a massive crush on her. The way his eyes found her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The lingering. The readiness to help that was slightly more than friendly. She’d felt flattered and left it exactly there, in the category of things that were nice to know yet irrelevant.

Roshan was different from most young men his age. The way he listened when you spoke, actually listened. The care and respect with which he treated people — it was just the way he was, perhaps something in his upbringing and the Himalayan culture he’d come from. He’d make someone a wonderful partner someday, she used to think. Some girl would get the quality of attention every girl deserved.

She caught herself watching him, her mind going where it wouldn’t have gone yesterday. Blood rushed to her face and she turned away, looking for something to do—anything that would distract her.

A spoon slipped out of her trembling hands and hit the floor loudly. She jumped back, her hands going to her mouth instinctively.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing at her from under the kitchen sink.

The words had tumbled out before she could decide how to reply. “Mark’s been having an affair,” she said without meaning to.

The kettle started hissing. She’d forgotten she’d decided to have tea. Roshan ignored it, ignored the leaking pipe, everything. He stood up, wiping hands on his jeans and took the few steps that let him face her properly, from a respectable distance. The hiss intensified. She could hear the steady drip from the pipe. Who cared.

She collapsed on the nearest chair, hiding her face in her hands.

“I found out this morning,” she added. “Just before he left on his trip, while he was in the shower. His phone rang and—” She choked.

“Claire—” Roshan sat on the chair next to hers.

“Don’t.” She shook her head. “I don’t want sympathy. I’ve spent twenty years being careful and sensible and—”

She stopped. Looked up at him. Her eyes were pleading. Asking a question silently.

“He’s a fool.” Not a reassurance. Not flattery. Just a statement of fact, as he saw it.

“Words.” She mumbled, looking down where her phone sat, face down.

“No, I mean it.”

There was a charged silence. She kept fidgeting with her fingers.

Roshan settled on the chair across the table. “So, what happens now?”

Of course. Three years of odd jobs, their hospitality, access to the house, income — he was wondering if a divorce meant all of that disappeared.

“I don’t know,” she said, “haven’t come to grips with it yet.”

She went silent for a bit. Then looked up at him, with a different question in her eyes.

“I want — I feel like — I need to do—oh forget it.” She stood up and started pacing the kitchen, fidgeting with her fingers.

“What?” Roshan said, genuine concern in his voice.

She stopped and turned to face him, her body seemed to calm down as she looked at him from two feet away like a shutter had gone down, blocking out the outside noise.

She took a step. “I want to do something stupid, Roshan. Something really stupid.” She was sure he could hear her heart thudding.

The kitchen felt very quiet. Like everything in it was holding its breath.

Roshan gulped. Then he looked up at her with an expression that was—hopeful?

“What kind of stupid?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

She took his face in both hands, bent forward and kissed him.

Continue the story in The Best Stupid Decision.

All images are AI generated and do not depict any real person.