Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors

by Sonali Dev

  And something about knowing that about Trisha with such certainty made him restless as hell.

  “Are you going to get your finger out and tell me what happened?” Emma said looking up from her sketchbook.

  Sure. Right after she got her finger out and took her arse to the operating table. “Absolutely nothing.” Other than the fact that she was effectively trying to kill herself, and the most infuriating woman he’d ever met had propositioned him in the most insulting way possible and then acted like he had cut her off at the knees when he had pointed that out.

  Emma grunted, then jabbed at the paper, her stabs getting more and more forceful, until finally she tossed the sketchbook across the table. “Hell and bollocks!” she yelled as it went flying to the floor.

  He put his iPad down—he’d been calculating how many pounds of tomatoes he would need for the makhani sauce for the Raje dinner—and was about to retrieve the sketchpad, but she put out a hand to stop him and stood, her body tight with frustration. She took a deep breath and was halfway around the table when she tripped and with nothing more than a startled yelp fell facedown to the floor.

  DJ jumped up and was next to her in a second, his heart slamming in his chest. “Emma! Love, are you all right?”

  He gave her a hand and sat her up on the floor.

  Her shoulders were shaking. “I tripped. I fecking tripped! That wanker left his sodding shoes in the middle of the sodding floor!” She glared at Rajesh’s shoes, but her shoulders wouldn’t stop shaking.

  “Are you laughing, you cow?” he said, a laugh starting in his own chest. “You damn near killed me just now.”

  “That’d be funny, innit? If you died of fright before me!” She dealt him a soft kick on his shins then slumped back into the wall and shook with laughter.

  DJ reached for the shoes she had tripped over and tossed them across the room with far more force than necessary. They slammed against one of her many, many boxes covering the flat and slid to the floor. “I’m going to kill him. What the hell is wrong with him?”

  “Isn’t that the question to end all questions? Where would we begin?”

  They were both laughing hard now, unable to stop. And none of this shit was actually funny.

  “Truth is, I didn’t see those,” she said suddenly, throwing a pained glance at the shoes lying in a sad heap. DJ’s laughter dried up inside him. “I don’t see that well anymore.” Her voice was small. So terribly small. “It’s not all the time. But everything disappears suddenly. When I’m sketching or painting. It all just goes away.”

  He scooted closer to her. “I’m so sorry, love.” She let him put his arm around her and pull her close. Let him hold her. For all of five seconds.

  Then she shoved him away, with all her strength. “Why are you bloody sorry? Why is everyone so bloody sorry? It’s not like you bloody did this!”

  Rage and sadness, hot and pure, twisted in his gut, turning into acid he could taste. Who would have known you could taste your feelings? Taste the awful, acrid heat of them. “Your doctor should never have discharged you. This isn’t any place for you.” This stupid fecking pin-box-size flat. “You need to be in a hospital right now, not in a cupboard with some plonker’s clogs tossed about.”

  “Shut up, DJ. This isn’t Rajesh’s fault. Fun as it is to blame that wanker for everything, this is not his fault. And it certainly is not Dr. Raje’s fault either. Don’t be an arse. It’s not fair to blame her when I didn’t give her a choice.” She gave him another shove, but she looked a little less angry now, a little more gentle. “You have to stop trying to find someone to blame for everything, bruh’.”

  This was precious. “For everything?”

  She looked away, done with this conversation. “Forget it.”

  Oh, he most certainly would love to forget it. But she’d said it and now it lay on the floor between them like an uncooked chunk of meat they couldn’t just leave there. “Why did you bring it up if you wanted to forget it?”

  “Listen, all I’m saying is that this is no one’s fault.” She pushed herself off the floor and he suppressed the urge to help, because he didn’t need another dressing-down. “And other things that you can’t let go of aren’t anyone’s fault either.”

  He squeezed the back of his neck where a knot the size of a fist was forming. “Like what?” Whom did he blame that didn’t deserve it?

  Her response was an eye roll and a whole lot of silence.

  “Like our aunt?” he pushed. “Throwing us out on the street was not our darling aunt’s fault then?”

  She gave him a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Oh, that was most certainly her fault. But Dad dying without providing for us was not her fault.”

  He pulled his hand away from hers. “You’re right about that. That was all him.” All bloody him.

  Her eyes softened. She’d been too young to know Dad, too young to have memories of him, his smiles, his silly jokes, the way he followed Mum around the house like a smitten puppy, his ability to wrap you up and make you feel safe.

  “Yes. But isn’t it bloody time you forgave him for it?” She whispered it, but no whisper was soft enough for those words.

  “Forgive him for leaving a young wife and two children homeless, when he knew how much his family hated us? Did he think he was bloody immortal? Don’t tell me to forgive Dad. I’m not even bloody angry at him anyway.”

  She laughed—mirthless laughter had become their language now—and sank into the plastic chair. “You’re thirty years old, Darcy James!” She sounded exactly like their mother. “Isn’t it time you figured out how to deal with all that anger? Or one of these days, you’re going to blow up like a volcano and hurt someone entirely undeserving of it.” She grabbed her pencil and started picking at it.

  “Yeah, and you’re one to talk.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Aren’t you blowing up right now?”

  Her hand fisted around the pencil, turning her knuckles white.

  “Yeah, you’re bloody imploding, Emma Jane. You’re so angry you don’t even care who you destroy along the way.”

  Her eyes widened with shock. She was about to respond, but the doorbell rang and they both looked at the door.

  “That’s Julia,” she said, calming down so fast he felt like a prized lunatic for how much anger was still lodged all the way up his gullet. “It’s showtime.” Despite her best effort, sadness suffused her eyes and his anger fizzled.

  “You don’t have to do this, Emma.” The knot in his neck squeezed tight.

  Her only response was a bitter laugh. “A bit late for that, innit? Open the door.”

  He did as she said and found Julia smiling brightly, blond dreadlocks spilling over her bare shoulders.

  “Hullo there.” He took the tripod from her and she followed him inside.

  “Am I interrupting something?” she whispered, giving him a quick hug, as was her way.

  Emma shoved her hand at Julia before she could hug her, and they shook. “Yes, but I’m glad you are,” she said lightly. Had his sister always put up such a good show for everyone? She was excellent at it. No one else would see everything swirling inside her. But it was all he saw, maybe because it was inside him, too.

  Julia snapped the camera on the tripod. “He’s ready when you are.” She gave it a little pat.

  Emma threw DJ a look that told him exactly what she thought of anyone who talked about cameras like they were pets. He almost smiled.

  “Some pain perdu?” he asked, trying to buy his sister some time. He’d made some earlier.

  Julia raised one brow.

  “That’s fancy speak for French toast,” Emma supplied.

  “Sounds fabulous,” Julia said.

  Emma gave a bored grunt. “It’s all right.” But her eyes shone.

  DJ made up two plates, but took only one out and handed it to Julia.

  Emma took it from her. “Very funny. You can give her the one you’re hid
ing in the kitchen for me.”

  He shook his head and dropped a kiss on her idiot head.

  When he brought Julia her plate, she had turned the camera on and aimed it at Emma who was sitting stiffly on a beanbag.

  “So what made you decide not to have the surgery?” Julia asked.

  His temper flared again. Wasn’t she not supposed to do interviews anymore?

  Emma stared at her toes. “What kind of question is that?” Which wasn’t an answer but DJ had a feeling Emma no longer had a simple answer to that question.

  “It’s the kind of question our viewers are most interested in.”

  Emma stopped looking sad and glared at Julia. “Why are your viewers so interested in terminally ill people, anyway? Why are you? Have you ever wondered why you’ve chosen to tell these stories where there’s no longer any help to be had?” Once again he was struck by how wrong this was, this wanting to watch someone die, this curiosity about what that pain and fear might be like. It was unarguably barbaric and he hated that he hadn’t talked Emma out of it.

  Julia didn’t even bat an eyelid. “That’s good, that’s very good. So you’re angry that this has happened to you. Let the anger out. It’ll help.”

  “Oh, it’ll help, will it? What if I’m not angry at all? What if I’m tickled. It’s so droll that there’s shit growing in my brain that’s going to kill me.” She kept saying it was going to kill her. But it wasn’t. She threw DJ a warning glance—don’t you dare go there!—and he stayed silent.

  Julia looked at him. “Why don’t we get some of you today? Since it seems like Emma might need a moment.”

  Emma laughed. “Several moments, actually.” She bit into the pain perdu.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said to Julia, because when had he agreed to being part of this?

  “It’s nothing really. Just sit down and talk and let the camera pick you up. I won’t use anything that you don’t want me to use.”

  There was no way he was getting on camera and talking about anything, let alone his sister’s illness.

  “Leave him be,” Emma said, taking another bite. “I’m the one these people are interested in. Let’s start with me trying to send myself into a food coma.” She looked straight into the camera. “I just consumed a million calories of this before you got here, but I can’t stop. Because my brother puts crack in his food. Write his name down, DJ Caine. Anytime you get the opportunity to eat his food, run don’t walk.” She took another bite and chomped with exaggerated delight. “Did you know he’s catering the big fund-raiser for that hottie Yash Raje?” She waved the syrupy bread at the camera like a campaign flag. “Yash Raje for governor!”

  DJ squeezed his temples. Julia threw DJ a hurt look.

  Emma patted the giant beanbag she was sitting on. “Come on, bruh’, you might as well get in on this.”

  DJ sank down next to her, shaking his head.

  Julia settled herself into the other beanbag next to them. “When you heard she was sick, what went through your mind?”

  He threw a glance at the camera.

  “Don’t worry, DJ, this is just us talking. Ignore the camera.”

  Her blue gaze zeroed in on him as though he were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen, and he felt the corner behind him close in.

  “He was thrilled,” Emma said. “I mean what big brother wouldn’t be thrilled that his annoying baby sister was going to die?” Her bugger-off grin gleamed in her eyes.

  He started to stand. Enough was enough. The camera did not need to catch this.

  Emma held his hand and pulled him back. “He was angry, all right?” she said to the camera. “I was angry. We both wanted to burn the world down. It had taken us years, but we were both finally fine, we’d both finally built lives we loved.”

  Julia lifted her chin at him. “And then you had to leave everything behind.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” He hated that she’d made him say it with a camera watching.

  Emma’s grip on his hand tightened. She rested her head on his shoulder. “He was always a great big brother.” She looked up at him with her mismatched eyes, their parents’ eyes fused together. “DJ was twelve when he started working to help our mother take care of us. He didn’t buy new shoes if it meant I could buy paints. He never asked for a bloody thing, not once. But he made sure I had everything I ever needed. And now I’ve bankrupted him. All these years of working, and my medical bills, and the rent for this place have taken everything he’s worked for.”

  He almost opened his mouth, but she stopped him again.

  “You want to watch me die? Go ahead. I’ll leave these cameras on at my last breath if that’ll give you your kicks. But you’re going to have to click that donate button. Go on. Let’s see what you can cough up. Click it. Click it now. You’re not dying, you bastards, look at you, sitting in your home, staring at my—”

  Julia stood and turned off the camera. “This isn’t a joke, Emma. You told me you wanted to do this, and now you’re turning my work into some sort of mockery?”

  “Actually, you’re the one who told me I’d want to do this. You’re the one who told me I could make this what I wanted to make it, told me to let my anger out so I’d feel better. Now you want to tell me that my feelings are a mockery?”

  Something like unbanked rage flashed across Julia’s face. But it was gone so fast he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it.

  I know only too well what a skilled liar Julia is.

  Out of nowhere Trisha’s words came back to him.

  Had Julia seen Emma’s art? This was nothing compared to what she did with her iconoclastic humor there. He thought about the painting Emma had done for Trisha.

  Julia didn’t look like she would ever get that painting.

  She threw him a desperate look and he sobered.

  “You’re not being fair, Emma,” he said, evenly. “Julia’s time is valuable.” Then to Julia. “I’m sorry.”

  Emma shrugged, waved the last piece of pain perdu at Julia with an “Au revoir,” and sauntered off into the bedroom, munching on the sweet bread as she went.

  “It’s fine,” Julia said, her voice calm again. “I can edit around it.” The blue of her eyes was bright again. She unhooked her camera from the tripod and looped it around her neck. “I’m sure she’ll love it once it’s done.”

  That made him want to laugh. All the same, Emma had behaved badly with her. “I really am sorry. As you can imagine this isn’t easy. She has an appointment with her surgeon today and she’s stressed about it.”

  Julia’s smile tightened around her mouth. She folded up the tripod and headed for the door.

  DJ took the tripod from her. “I’ll walk you out.” Once they were out on the porch of the building, he asked her the question he’d been holding inside. “Can we forget about the video, please? I’m sorry if we wasted your time, but I think this was a mistake.”

  Her smile didn’t budge but something slipped in her eyes again, another flash of temper beneath the twinkle. Again, it was gone in the barest second. “Nothing about meeting you has been a mistake, DJ.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s not hurry to conclusions. As you said, Emma’s just in a bad place today.” She laughed a little. “If I were going to go see Trisha Raje, I’d be a raging bitch too.”

  He attempted a smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

  Julia’s smile lost some of its force, but she didn’t remove the hand from his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were catering Yash’s fund-raiser?”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “I don’t understand why you’re cozying up with the Rajes. Didn’t you hear a thing I said that day?”

  “I assure you there’s no cozying up going on. It’s just work. Which, as you can imagine, I really need right now.”

  She studied him for a bit, and this time he saw fatigue flash in her eyes. A tiredness he recognized only too well. “Take care, DJ. This is not a family who reacts well to people forgetting their place in th
e world.” And with that she hooked the tripod on her shoulder and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was instantly obvious to Trisha that something about Emma had changed. And that nothing about her brother had, or about how her own traitorous body—not to mention brain—reacted to him. But this was not the time to indulge her infatuated adolescent self. She returned his courteous nod, watched him move to a corner of the room and lean against a wall, and turned her attention to her patient.

  Emma shook her hand. Her grip was tight, her color not terrible. Her vitals were stable.

  She gave Trisha a careful smile. “How many surgeries this morning, Doctor?”

  Her patients almost never asked about her day and Trisha’s heart warmed toward this amazingly brave, albeit very angry, woman. “Just two. Light day.”

  That got her a full-fledged smile.

  “How have you been feeling?” Before Emma could get a snarky answer out, she added, “Any change in pain levels?” She had already put her on a pain management regimen. “Your vision altering in any way?”

  Emma threw a quick look at her brother, giving Trisha a glimpse of what they must’ve been like growing up. It made her think of Yash, and how he’d always stood up to HRH and Ma any time Trisha was in trouble. Until Julia.

  A frown folded between Emma’s perfectly arched brows. “I’ve had a few episodes where . . .” She scratched a spot on the blue hospital gown she was wearing. “Where I couldn’t quite see. Not the usual blurring I’ve been having for months, but just . . . well, everything just disappeared.”

  Trisha kept her voice even. “When was the first episode? How long do they last?” She hadn’t expected this so soon.

  “A few days ago, and only for a few seconds. It’s happened just a few times.”

  “May I?” She shone an ophthalmoscope into Emma’s eyes. But she already knew what it was. The tumor was squeezing the optic nerves.

  “You were supposed to call me if anything changed.” She heard the sternness in her own voice and Emma’s frown deepened. She didn’t care. It was important for patients to follow instructions. “As long as you’re under my care, you have to understand that it’s important that you do as I ask.”