Chapter 28 #3
I slowly put my hand back on the vibrant orange cotton covering his chest, letting the slight nervousness of Raj’s thoughts slide past my own, keeping myself focused on the present. On him. “That you picked this shirt because you know I like bright colors,” I said softly. “And I am,” I continued.
“You… are?” He frowned, not following me.
I nodded. “You then thought that even if I were attracted to you”—My cheeks were on fire, now.—“I wouldn’t necessarily be interested in dating you,” I explained, the words surprisingly hard to say. “But I am.” I swallowed. “Interested.”
“Are you?” There was something low and rumbly in the words, and he stepped closer to me, one massive hand resting on the small of my back, pulling me a tiny bit closer to his body.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said softly, his breath brushing my lips before he kissed me again.
Kissing him was so much better in reality than in dreams.
We managed to stop after the second kiss, mostly because someone on the sidewalk made an extremely rude comment and suggested we get a room.
Raj stepped back, running one hand through my still-too-long hair. “Much as I would like to, uh, get a room,” he said, the skin of his cheeks darkening and his gold-brown eyes dropping, “I think we should take things a little… slower than that.”
I studied his expression, trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean.
I knew literally what he meant—that he wanted us to go out on dates, to get to know each other, to (hopefully) kiss and hold hands for a while before we got more physically serious.
To find out if we could get along in a different sort of way—as a couple—than the working relationship we already had.
But I wasn’t sure what that meant we would do.
I also understood that I shouldn’t push him.
Pushing people creates pressure and worry about inadequacy, and that can, in the long term, breed resentment.
That was something that Dr. Nayak had made very clear to us during our group sessions.
That some people would be ready for things before other people.
And we had to wait for everyone to be ready before we could push things any farther.
“Okay,” I agreed out loud. I could do slower. After all, slower was a lot faster than nothing at all, and I didn’t want to go back to that.
He stepped back, then bent and picked up my backpack. “Can I carry this for you?” he asked.
“I mean, I can do it,” I told him, cheeks still flushed. “But you can, if you want to.”
He let out a soft hum, shouldered my bag, then reached out and laced his fingers with mine—the unbroken hand, obviously. “Is this okay?”
I nodded, liking the feel of his slightly rough palm against mine.
We resumed walking, although I noticed that he slowed his pace, maybe to match mine now that he was attached to my hand, or maybe because his ankle had enough of walking quickly, I didn’t know. But I liked the thought that maybe he just wanted to spend time walking with me.
“Rayn,” he said after about half a block. “I want you to know that you don’t have to agree to anything I ask you to do.”
“Okay,” I said, not sure how else to acknowledge what he’d said.
“You don’t have to— to kiss me, if you don’t want to. Or hold my hand.”
“I do want to,” I insisted, frowning up at him.
He smiled. “I’m glad,” he said softly. “But I don’t want you to ever agree to anything you don’t actually want to do.”
“Okay,” I said again, then narrowed my eyes at him. “You, either,” I told him.
He blinked, his expression startled. “What?”
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, either,” I clarified.
He laughed, a huff of amusement. “Rayn, I’m much, much bigger than you,” he said, sounding amused. “I don’t think you could make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”
“I am a death witch,” I reminded him softly. “And unless you’re either a witch or warlock, I don’t think it cares how big you are.”
He fell silent, and a glance up at his features showed thoughtfulness. “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he said evenly. “Although now that you’ve brought it up, please tell me if you don’t want to do something first, rather than using magic.”
I was horrified. “I would never—”
He squeezed my hand. “I’m teasing, Rayn,” he said softly. “I know you wouldn’t use—Jesus—death magic on me just because you didn’t want to hold my hand.”
“I wouldn’t ever use death magic on you,” I insisted.
“I know. Which is why I wanted to make sure you knew that I don’t want anything you aren’t willing to give.”
I drew in a long breath, a little mollified. “Okay,” I repeated. “But I don’t want you to, either.”
Another gentle squeeze. “Deal.”
We’d walked in silence for another few minutes when I looked up at him again. “Can I ask a… sort of personal question?” I asked, a little hesitant.
“Of course.”
“Why do you and Hart give each other such a hard time all the time?” It was something I’d seen plenty, but didn’t understand.
Raj laughed. “Because Hart doesn’t know how else to show affection,” he replied, amused. “He’s completely internalized locker room culture.”
“Locker room culture?” I asked.
“Hm. So, locker room culture is the idea that men—or women, I guess—on a sports team thrive on rivalry and shit-talking. Since sports teams are one of the only places that men—and I do mean men—are allowed to show any sort of social affection for each other in American culture, rivalry and shit-talking are how most men express that affection, whether or not they’re on a sports team or are literally in or out of a locker room. ”
“Oh.” I thought about this. “Was Hart ever on a sports team?” I asked.
Raj let out a laugh. “God, I have no idea.”
“Were you?”
“Soccer, as a kid,” came the easy reply. “I was pretty good at it, but not great. My brother’s better.”
This was news. “You have a brother?”
He smiled. “Brother, sister, parents, yeah.”
“You don’t talk about them,” I half-accused.
He let out a long breath. “I know your family is… difficult.”
I snorted. ‘Difficult’ was one word for it.
His lips twitched. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”
“What are their names?” I asked him. “Older or younger?”
“Gibran and Meena,” came the answer. “Meena is the oldest, then Gibran, then me.”
“Are they in Richmond?”
“Nope. Gibran’s an accountant in Annapolis, married, two kids, Diya and Ved, Meena lives in Ocean City and is a Park Ranger for Assateague National Seashore.
Mata—my mother—says that Meena and I give her grey hair because we won’t give her more grandchildren.
” He shrugged, his expression wry. “But she’s just going to have to get used to only having two. ”
“What about your father?” I asked him, sensing there was something sensitive about this and wanting to change directions a little.
“Bapa really just wants everybody to be happy,” he replied with a smile. “Which means he mostly runs interference and reminds my mother she can spoil Diya and Ved even more than she already is.”
“Interference?”
“You really have no idea how families work, do you?” he asked, but his tone was kind, not critical.
I shook my head.
“Well… families, when they work the way they’re supposed to, anyway, are honestly a lot like me and Hart.”
“They pick on each other a lot?”
Another smile. “Actually, yeah. Because we know that the other people love us, so we can say things to them that would be rude or mean to other people—but you have to say it in a way that they know you’re saying it with love.”
“How do you do that?”
“Lots of ways,” he replied. “Like how Hart always calls me Tony.”
“For Tony the Tiger. The mascot on the Frosted Flakes box.” Hart had explained that.
“You got it.”
“So you call him Keebler after the cookie elf?” I thought I understood.
Raj grinned, showing those white teeth that were maybe a bit sharper than mine. “Precisely. And as long as we still do that, we know that we’re still friends. Even if we get angry sometimes.”
“Like how he usually calls me ‘kid,’ but when he’s really serious he calls me Rayn,” I said.
“Exactly like that.”
I thought about this. “You don’t have a name for me,” I observed.
His lips curved. “Not yet,” he replied. “I don’t know you well enough yet. But I will. And you’ll have one for me, too.”
I thought about this. “How come Mason and Ward don’t do that?” I asked him, then.
Raj shrugged. “It doesn’t work for everybody,” he admitted. “But Ward does call Mason ‘Mace’ sometimes. But since Ward is already a one-syllable nickname, it doesn’t make sense to shorten it even more.”
“Rayn isn’t very shorten-able, either,” I pointed out.
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Did you ever have a nickname?”
I shook my head. He did, obviously. Raj. Tony.
He squeezed my hand again. “We’ll find one.”
“Sylvia calls me sunshine,” I told him.
He laughed. “I like it. It has some irony to it.”
I grimaced. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I like it, though,” he remarked. “Does it bother you, that she calls you sunshine?”
“Not really, no,” I replied. “It’s just… funny. What sticks to people.”
“It is,” he agreed, then squeezed my hand again. “And who.”
“Who?”
“Yeah, who sticks to you.” He turned to look at me. “Even when you try not to let them.”
My cheeks flushed again. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he murmured. He lifted the hand held in his to his lips, pressing a soft and slightly tickley kiss to the backs of my knuckles. “I’ve decided I like you sticking to me.”