Chapter 11 #2
I blinked up at him, my vision blurry. Tears. I sniffled.
“Here,” came Cass’s voice at my other side.
I turned to find her holding out a box of tissues.
I pulled one out with the arm that wasn’t in Raj’s warm grip.
I needed that grip. Needed the warmth and strength of his hand.
I knew it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to hug me here, so I appreciated whatever I could get.
I wiped at my eyes and nose, then took another breath.
“Jesus fuck,” Hart muttered, one hand tugging on the end of his braid.
I was glad that at least I’d developed the habit of narrating what I saw as I saw it—it took more concentration to be able to do both things at once, but it at least meant that I didn’t have to re-narrate it after the memory was over.
Not that a memory like that one, or the death of the third victim, which I’d already seen, was ever really going to be over.
You don’t forget them—once I’ve been inside someone’s head, their memories become mine, in a sense.
Not that I think I’ve been that person—I know I’m not—but that whatever they’ve experienced, I’ve now remembered.
And while I knew full well which memories were mine and which weren’t—at least, I was pretty sure I did, although I suppose if I ever do lose that sense of me-versus-thee I won’t know that it’s happened—that didn’t stop my brain from summoning up those memories as though they were my own.
If I ever walked down the street past the alley in which Odell Jones—that was his name, although I didn’t know it from his thoughts, of course—had died, I would recognize it, and it would bring this particular memory rushing back.
They were also always potential fodder for nightmares, too, of course. Nightmares that I tried very hard to keep to myself.
“You okay?” Raj whispered, a slight edge to his voice.
I knew at least some part of him wanted me to say no. I nodded, instead. “Let’s keep going.”
I let Raj drive me home—I could hardly have refused, especially since the FBI building was a lot farther from my apartment than Beyond the Veil, well out of walking distance—and then I let him bundle me upstairs and make me dinner.
He’d rooted through my cupboards and come up with macaroni and cheese which he’d augmented with broccoli and cauliflower from the freezer, chicken breast, and a sauce he’d made out of both the powder and something else he’d scrounged from somewhere.
It was actually quite good and tasted a good deal more like real food than any boxed mac-and-cheese concoction I’d ever come up with.
I’d probably have been more grateful if he’d fussed less while he brought it to me.
And if I hadn’t been so exhausted that the act of lifting a forkful of noodles, chicken, and vegetables to my mouth felt like weight training.
The fact that some of Raj’s fussing—about me having over-extended myself—was likely based on the truth only made me more irritated by it.
I should have been more grateful. He was making me a hot meal, making sure I was rehydrated, tucking a blanket around me to make sure I stayed warm, bringing me tea, and then making cookies with some of the dough in the freezer, bringing them to me still warm with a mug of milk.
Taking care of me.
I just wasn’t in the mood to be taken care of.
I didn’t know what I was in the mood for, if I’d been able to be honest with myself. Every nerve, every neuron felt raw, scraped, and rubbed with salt and lemon. Everything was too much.
Including Raj.
Especially Raj.
It probably wasn’t a very good index of my character that the person I cared most about and most wanted in my life was also irritating me the most precisely because I wanted him to somehow know exactly what I wanted when I didn’t know myself.
I tried to keep my dissatisfaction to myself.
I failed.
“Do you want to tell me what else is bothering you?” he asked, pulling over my office chair and sitting with his own bowl, sensing from something that I didn’t particularly want to cuddle up with him in the bean bag.
“No,” I replied.
“No?” He sounded surprised, his brow furrowed. “Rayn, something else is clearly bothering you.”
I sighed. “You didn’t ask if something else was bothering me. You asked if I wanted to talk about it.”
He pressed his lips together, clearly displeased. “If you don’t want the FBI to ask you to consult anymore—”
I set my fork in my bowl rather more abruptly than I needed to. “That isn’t what I want,” I interrupted. “I don’t like it, but I do like being able to help with cases. To make a difference. I don’t want to stop doing it, even if it’s… hard.”
Hard was a terrible word for what it had been. Awful. Horrific. Heinous. Also terrible words. I wasn’t sure there were words. But I hadn’t lied to Raj—I didn’t want to stop doing it.
“Then what?” he asked me.
I stirred my pasta, trying to decide what to say, how to explain what I couldn’t even understand myself.
I gave up and shook my head.
Raj stood, set his bowl on the seat of his chair before coming over and crouching beside me. “Rayn, I just want you to be happy.”
I met his golden-brown gaze, seeing worry reflected back at me. I probably shouldn’t have said what I did, but, in my defense, I was very tired, both hungry and not-hungry, and anticipating at least one or two sleepless nights in my future.
“I don’t think I know what that is.”
It wasn’t hyperbole. I knew what it meant to be contented, to not be stressed or anxious or upset or sad. I knew the satisfaction of getting work done or successfully solving a puzzle or completing an assignment. I wasn’t sure I knew what it meant to be happy.
Raj looked like I’d struck him. Shock. Pain.
The second one surprised me.
“What do you mean, you don’t know what that is?” he asked, his voice soft and low.
A sound gurgled in the back of my throat. “I don’t know what it feels like to be happy,” I told him. “It’s not like I’ve had much experience with it.”
“You’re not happy… with me?” he asked, and the question made me realize that I probably shouldn’t have admitted it to him. I also understood now why it had pained him—because if he did want to make me happy, and he wasn’t, then that meant that there was something wrong with us.
Of course there was. Because there was something wrong with me.
There always had been, most likely, but it was hard to remember far enough back to know whether or not I’d been happy as a child.
The intervening years were like a thick fog or glass darkly, and I couldn’t make out what things had been like on the other side of Tranquil Brook.
I sighed, staring down into the beige and green of my pasta. “I’m not unhappy,” I replied, just as softly. “I—I don’t know if I’m even capable of feeling happy.”
The pain on his face was replaced with confusion.
“You…” He trailed off, not finishing the question.
Then his cheeks darkened. “Of course you…” He stopped.
Swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I… forget sometimes. That your life hasn’t exactly been…
typical.” He was speaking slowly, carefully. Thinking his way through what to say.
I couldn’t decide if I appreciated the thought or was annoyed at the fact that he felt I had to be so carefully managed.
I sighed again. “I’m in a bad mood,” I told him. “And I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to eat and try to sleep. Please.”
Raj looked as though he wanted to argue with me, but then nodded. “There’s more if you want it,” he said, his voice still low and unhappy, but not as much as it had been.
I nodded. I knew I probably should, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to. I loaded my fork and ate, chewing.
“Do you want me to leave you alone tonight?” Raj asked, not looking at me. I knew what he wanted me to say. I didn’t know if it was also what I wanted.
I thought about him leaving. About spending the night alone.
I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stay, but I definitely didn’t want him to leave.
I shook my head.
The tension immediately went out of his body. “Okay.” He nodded. “Okay,” he repeated. Then he drew in a long breath. “Can I sit down here by you?”
I nodded again. I didn’t need him to sit close to me, but I thought maybe he needed me to let him. Needed to think that I wanted him here.
I suppressed a wince as I realized that I’d basically told him that he didn’t make me happy. Fortunately, he’d moved to get his bowl, so his back was to me. The last thing I wanted him thinking was that I didn’t want him near me.
He settled on the floor, leaning his weight into the side of the beanbag, his shoulder brushing mine. A slight tingle of warmth slid through me at the contact. Maybe I needed him close to me more than I’d realized.
Guilt punched through my gut. “Closer?” I asked him.
He snuggled closer, and I shifted so that I could lean into his shoulder, feeling my own muscles ease a little at the slight vibration in his chest as he let out a soft hum. “Better?” he asked, and there was warmth in his voice.
I nodded, my head against his shoulder.
“Good,” he murmured softly. “Now eat.”