Chapter Thirty-Six
HENDRIX
I am a horrible doctor.
I am an even worse girlfriend.
It’s been over a week since I received Hendrix’s final test results from Eric, and I haven’t said a word. When he asked if I wanted him to be the one to talk to him, I told him I would handle it.
But I haven’t.
Like a coward, I keep hoping Hendrix will check his email and see the message telling him to check his patient portal and then bring it up himself. But I saw that man’s inbox one time…
That email is dead and buried and will never see the light of day again.
I need to tell him. Every day I don’t tell him is not only a breach of trust but also a violation of the oath I swore as a doctor.
I wipe away the tears from my eyes, hoping the heat from the shower will camouflage the red splotches on my face. The band put on an amazing show tonight in Boston, and tomorrow we’re heading to New York.
I’ve never been to New York City.
Two weeks ago, I was looking forward to this show. Hendrix was going to take me to the Empire State Building and Times Square. We were going to eat hot dogs from a street vendor and ride the subway.
But now, everything feels so up in the air. Like I’m walking on thin ice, and it’s starting to crack beneath my feet. Any minute now, it’ll break, and I’ll be swallowed whole.
I dry off and wrap a towel around myself. With a deep breath, I open the bathroom door to the suite and glance around. Hendrix is sitting at the ornate wooden desk with a frown on his face. Papers are scattered in front of him. He lets out a deep sigh.
He’s reviewing the contracts again.
My stomach clenches. This is why I haven’t told him yet. Because as soon as I do, everything changes.
“Make a decision yet?”
His head swivels around until those soft blue eyes meet mine. They seem to roam and linger over every inch of me, like he just can’t help himself.
“No,” he answers with a look of defeat. I grab one of the fluffy white robes the hotel provided and swap it for my towel. I take a seat on the edge of the bed.
“What seems to be the holdup?”
He turns the chair around so he’s facing me. He stretches out his long legs, wearing a pair of black joggers. No shirt. His hair is messy, as if he’s been running frustrated fingers through it.
“I know which offer I should take,” he says.
“Seether is a huge band. Almost as big as Manic. Their following is loyal, and their music is edgy and complex. The tour schedule they’ve put together is insane and super ambitious.
They’re collaborating with a ton of other bands, and it could be really great for my career. ”
I swallow hard, my heart feeling like it’s been put in a vice. “It sounds exactly like what you’ve always wanted.”
“Yeah.” His voice trails off.
I watch his expression fall. “You don’t sound so sure.”
“I…” He pauses, takes a deep breath before his gaze meets mine.
“I need to know what happens next, Zara. With you and me,” he clarifies.
My pulse quickens. I fist the hem of my robe as my throat starts to tighten.
“Because I don’t think I can sign any of these contracts without knowing you’ll be there by my side. ”
I start to cry.
His eyes go wide, and he mutters a curse. Suddenly, he’s off his chair and kneeling at my feet. “I didn’t mean literally by my side, Cupid. I don’t expect you to give up your career for me. I just want to know I’m not going to lose you, ’cause—”
My tears turn to sobs. He’s being too nice. His words are too kind.
“I’m so sorry,” I choke out. My chest heaves with every word. “I’m so sorry.”
“What?” His eyes are frantic. “Why?”
“Oh god.” I wipe away the moisture around my eyes as I try to speak through the tears. “I don’t deserve you.”
“What are you talking about?” He runs his fingers through my hair. His words are calming, but I can hear a faint tremor in his voice. “Please, Zara, baby. Talk to me.”
I meet his gaze. He looks wrecked. Ruined. He misunderstood me. He thinks I’m panicking over what he said, how he wants me by his side, how he can’t do this without me.
Could I fuck this up anymore?
I brush away more tears and face him. I’ve hidden the truth from him for far too long. No matter how he reacts, I can take it.
For him, I can take it.
I suck in a deep breath. “Eric called.”
I watch the words register, and then it’s like an avalanche. His expression shifts from acknowledgment to disbelief, then falls into outright fear. “When?”
“Last week.”
Fear morphs to shock. “Last week?”
A tear slips down my cheek. “Last week,” I confirm.
“But I—” He looks away, stands, and then sits beside me on the bed. I notice his hand tighten, like he’s already mourning something he doesn’t fully understand yet. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t Eric?”
“Because I asked him not to,” I explain. “I told him I would take care of it.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Is it bad? Do I have cancer of the hand or something?”
“No.” I shake my head with a pained laugh. “No cancer. In fact, everything came back normal.”
He lets out a relieved exhale. “That’s good, right?”
“Normally, yes. And if it weren’t for one specific symptom, I’d probably just say you have early-stage tendonitis or maybe arthritis and give you some exercises to do to keep it from getting worse. But there’s one symptom that doesn’t fit tendonitis.”
He stares at the floor momentarily, and it seems to sink in. “It only happens when I play?”
I nod, feeling the emotions starting to clog in my throat again. “That, and the fact that there isn’t much pain associated with it.”
“Just a dull ache sometimes,” he agrees.
“Eric and I believe you have a condition called focal dystonia. It’s a neurological disorder.
Rare, but not unheard of among musicians.
People in task-specific professions, like writers or athletes, are also susceptible.
Your brain essentially misfires during precise movements, causing your hand and fingers to become unresponsive.
That’s why it only happens when you’re playing or mimicking a chord sequence. ”
His gaze remains fixed on the floor. I want to reach out, pull him into my arms, and hold him, but I can’t get a read on him without looking into his eyes.
Does he hate me yet?
Will he ever trust me again?
“You said you and Eric believe I have this focal…whatever. But you’re not sure?”
“No, neither of us can make an official diagnosis. You’ll need to see a neurologist for that.”
His voice sounds so far away. “But both you and Eric are fairly certain?”
I nod, feeling overwhelmed with guilt at this admission.
“I had my suspicions when I suggested we go see Eric in Seattle, but I didn’t want to freak you out.
When I watched you play in LA, I just knew something wasn’t right.
I didn’t tell Eric because I was worried I might be jumping to conclusions, but when he called me last week with the final test results, he brought it up.
He told me he had a patient with similar symptoms about a year ago. ”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me?”
My lip starts to wobble, and I have to bite down on it to keep from falling apart again.
“Because I wasn’t thinking like a doctor,” I answer.
“I once told you how I dreamed of becoming that woman I saw in the mall, who could raise her hand in a crowd and help in an emergency, who could help people. But when it came to protecting someone I—” My voice catches.
“Someone you what?” His gaze finally meets mine. It’s intense. His blue eyes are blazing. “Someone you what, Zara?”
“Someone…I love,” I finally say. “I love you, Hendrix.”
“Fucking hell.” His voice is hoarse as he rubs his eyes into the heel of his palm. “I need to get Zander a fruit basket.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head and…smiles. “Just—god. Say it again.”
I start to cry again. “You don’t hate me?”
“Why would I hate you? I fucking love you, Zara.”
“You do?”
“Are you kidding?” He pulls me onto his lap. His body is warm, familiar, and safe. It feels like home. “I think I’ve been in love with you ever since you turned me down in college.”
“But what about the diagnosis and the contracts and—”
He places a single finger on my lips. “Someone very wise recently told me to take a look at my life and figure out the one thing I couldn’t live without.
” I stare into his eyes as he brushes a tear off my cheek.
“I’ll give you a guess, Cupid. It’s not fame or money.
It’s not even music. It’s you. My heart has been waiting ten long years for you, baby.
And I’m done waiting. So whatever future lies ahead, we’ll tackle it together. ”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my whole damn life,” he assures me. “Now, say it again.”
I smile, feeling like I’ve just been given the greatest gift in the world. “I love you.”