Take a Hint, Dani Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  She wanted to laugh—she was supposed to laugh. Or to smile and say, Oh, gosh, you’re right! and realize perfection had crept up on her. Except it hadn’t. It couldn’t. That wasn’t how life worked. Instead, discomfort crept up her throat, warm and prickling, as if she was up to her neck in hot water.

  “No,” she said slowly. “These things don’t change overnight. I—I’m still bad at relationships.” Of course she was. She had to be. She’d only just decided yesterday that they were going to do this thing, and talking about Mateo reminded her that she was 100 percent fuzzy on the details of how.

  How the hell was she going to give the man she cared about so deeply the kind of relationship he wanted? Her lungs felt five sizes too small. She sat upright, just to get a little more air.

  “Danika,” Zaf said softly, sitting up beside her. His hand on her shoulder felt heavier than usual. “You’re not bad at relationships. You’re lovely. You’re smart, and sweet, and generous, and you make me smile, and you listen when I need you—when anyone needs you. So don’t—”

  “Stop,” she said tightly. “Just stop, okay? I know I have positive qualities, Zafir, of course I do. Just like I know that I’m antisocial and abrasive and occasionally boring, and utterly inflexible, and—and not perfect. Not even close. I’m trying, here, but don’t get your hopes up. I’m not going to turn into someone else.” She hunched her shoulders, focused on the sheets in front of her—but she couldn’t stop sneaking desperate glances at Zaf from the corner of her eye. Watching his face fall at her words, even though it hurt her. Like picking a scab.

  Some distant part of her brain pointed out the sudden changes in him, a clinical list: He’s stiff. He’s worried. He’s not smiling anymore. He’d been smiling all fucking morning, even when they talked about the hardest thing he’d ever gone through—but she’d just wiped the happiness clean off his face. She was fucking up already, acting like this, but she couldn’t make herself relax.

  “I don’t want you to be someone else,” he said firmly, but she caught the barest edge of panic in his voice, too. “That’s what I’m saying, Danika. I—” He hesitated, then forged on. “I love you as you are. Exactly as you are.”

  Her thoughts slammed to a stop. “What?” she said weakly. Or maybe her voice just sounded weak over the roar of her pulse in her ears.

  He eyed her steadily. “I think you heard me, sweetheart.”

  Her mind stuttered over various explanations and couldn’t find a single one that seemed reasonable. She opened her mouth with no idea what would come out, choking on a tide of anxious fear before croaking, “How?”

  “I—what?” Beside her, Zaf looked painfully uncertain.

  “How could you love me?” Because now she’d managed the question, she realized it was the right one to ask. The only one to ask. “When would you even get the chance to start? I mean, I know I’m a good time, don’t get me wrong.” Her attempt at a laugh came out disturbingly bitter. “But I’ve spent the last month pushing you away, using you for sex, and boring you to death with various work-based neuroses, so when, exactly—?”

  “Stop it.” She could see he was trying to stay calm—but she also knew him well enough to see the tension in his jaw, hear the slight edge to his voice. “You’ve spent the last month making me happy, making me come more than I thought was humanly possible, and carrying out a ridiculous scheme just to help me and my business. And you really don’t see why I might love you? Sweetheart, loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. If only she was ridiculous enough to believe that, despite all evidence to the contrary. If only it sounded remotely like a fact instead of a fairy tale. But she wasn’t, and it didn’t, and her heart—her heart didn’t just fall. It collapsed.

  “Oh God,” she breathed. Realization was finally dawning, slow and terrible, like a bloodred sun in some postapocalyptic nightmare. She scrambled to her feet, dragging the sheets with her.

  “Danika, whatever you’re thinking right now, I can tell by your face that it’s absolutely wrong.”

  Except she wasn’t wrong, because it all made sense. This was the only logical explanation. “I know what you’re doing, Zafir.”

  He stared, apparently at a loss. Because of course he wasn’t doing this on purpose. He’d never do a thing like this on purpose. “What—?”

  “We’ve been faking it, and sleeping together, and blurring all kinds of lines. So we both—we both got confused, and did this.” She gesticulated wildly, as wild as the panicked rush of her pulse. “And now you’re romanticizing everything, trying to turn us into some epic love story, trying to make me something I’ve never been—”

  “Are you serious?” he demanded.

  “Don’t act like I’m not making sense,” she snapped, searching the floor for her clothes. “Just—just ask yourself for a second if what you’re feeling is really about me or if it’s part of the . . . the story you want to weave for yourself.” And then tell me. Tell me the truth, and make it good, and make me believe it, and then I can calm down and get back into bed and stop—stop feeling like I’m dying—

  Zaf stood with a curse, stabbing his legs into a pair of sweatpants. “Danika, the first night we slept together I left your place in fucking knots because I knew I had feelings for you and I couldn’t see how it would ever work out. I thought the best I could hope for was just getting over you. You think that’s the kind of thing I romanticize? It’s not like you’re the easiest option!”

  She stopped in her tracks and turned to stare at him. “You’re right,” she whispered, because if she spoke any louder she might . . . she might cry. “I’m not the easiest option at all.”

  He looked stricken. “I didn’t mean it was a bad thing! It’s the exact fucking opposite. I am not just stumbling into this.” He walked toward her slowly, the way you might approach a wounded animal. They’d woken up together, and he’d told her she was perfect, and that he loved her, and instead of it being the sweet, romantic moment he deserved, she’d turned it into this.

  Jesus fucking Christ, couldn’t she have just said thank you and made him some coffee?

  “I love you,” he repeated softly. “And it’s not in spite of this or that. It’s not because I don’t see you as you are. It’s not because I want you to be someone else. I just . . . love you.”

  He didn’t, of course. He couldn’t. He was deluded. And she wanted to be deluded with him, she wanted that so fucking badly, but—but it wouldn’t last. It never did.

  Would Zaf still think he loved her when she fucked up, when she started to buckle under the pressure of his expectations? When she made everything hard all the fucking time just to see if he’d bend or break, if this or that time would be the last straw? In that moment, she could visualize a thousand ways her rough edges might wear away his shine, and she just—

  In every relationship she’d ever had, someone was ruined and someone did the ruining. Danika didn’t want to play either role. Not with him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He knew what she meant. He always knew what she meant. “Don’t. Danika, don’t.”

  “This was a mistake.”

  He stepped back as if she’d slapped him. His expression crumpled like paper, and her heart did, too. “No,” he said. “We’re—we’re trying. Try with me, Dan. Give me something.”

  “We tried,” she corrected, because she had to get the hell out of here before the first tears came and snapped her in two. “But trying didn’t work.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Four hours later, Zaf was standing on the rugby pitch, waving good-bye to the last of the lads, mentally patting himself on the back for pretending to be a real, live human during the length of a Tackle It session.

  In reality, he wasn’t human at all. He was a thousand shattered pieces, and for the first time in a long time, he honestly couldn’t see a way to glue himself back together.

  Trying didn’t wo
rk.

  He couldn’t forget the look on her face, the horror and fear and disbelief when he’d told her he loved her. Why the fuck had he told her—when he knew how scared she was, when she’d just admitted how badly her twisted ex had fucked with her head—that he loved her?

  Because he’d wanted her to be okay again, to stop worrying. He’d seen her panicking, and instead of remembering that she was Danika and she needed time and space, he’d treated her like she was someone else—someone who’d be pleased with a big I love you moment. Zaf realized that when he cared about something, he had a tendency to be . . . rigid. To draw harsh lines and stick to them, to follow the path he knew. But she’d asked for baby steps, and he’d fucking sprinted. Since when did following the perfect script matter more than the woman he actually wanted to be with?

  Trying didn’t work.

  He was still struggling to swallow that fact, its thorns drawing blood in his throat, when he looked across the field and spotted a familiar reed-thin figure haunting the edge of the pitch. Mint-green hijab, cream blouse and trousers, with matching mint-green shoes peeking out. Hollywood sunglasses and a tiny, glossy handbag. Hands on her hips and a posture that said, Ugh, grass.

  Kiran.

  Something in Zaf crumbled, just a little bit. He strode over and snatched her into a hug, lifting her off her feet.

  “Watch it,” she groused, whacking him with the handbag. “You’re crushing my silk.”

  He hugged harder. And she, despite her supposed annoyance, hugged back, grounding him like an anchor.

  Kiran’s blood siblings, all sisters, were scattered across the globe: an engineer in Toronto, a scientist in Nairobi, an artist in Lahore. But Kiran was the type who found family everywhere, one of the shining silver links that held the shitty world together. She’d loved the Ansaris, loudly, from the start. And Zaf loved her, too.

  After a while, she whispered in his ear, “Sweetie, are you crying?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m leaking masculine pain from my eyeballs.”

  Kiran laughed. Zaf tried to, since that had been the point of saying it, but he couldn’t quite make himself. Because he hurt. He was hurting. Just thinking the words chipped away at some cold, concrete dam inside him, and the full force of his technicolor feelings spilled out like the world’s most violent waterfall. Fuck, he thought. Nope, no thanks, don’t want that. But it came anyway.

  “Ouch,” he muttered, and put Kiran down so he could rub his chest.

  She peered up at him, concern creasing her brow. “Zaf. What the hell happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” She shot the word back at him with a spade of skepticism.

  Jamal strolled over, which was a surprise, because Zaf had been so out of it he’d kind of forgotten his friend was even on the pitch. “I called Kiran because you looked like you were dying and you wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “You’re a snitch,” Zaf muttered.

  “And when I was leaving,” Kiran interjected, “Fluffy told me that if you’re upset it’s probably because you’re in love with your fake girlfriend.”

  “Your daughter,” Zaf said, “is also a snitch.”

  “Or you’re just really obvious,” Jamal supplied.

  Kiran pointed a finger at him. “You’re not helpful. Go and finish clearing up.” She hooked her arm through Zaf’s, which might have been awkward if they didn’t have years of experience navigating the height difference, and tugged him off down the field. “Let’s walk.”

  “All right,” he sighed, leaving Jamal huffing indignantly behind them.

  After a few strides and long moments of silence, she nudged Zaf in the ribs. “And talk. Let’s walk and talk.”

  “About?” he asked dully, as if he didn’t know.

  “Stop being annoying before I hit you with my bag again.”

  Really, what were sisters even for?

  Making you feel human when you’re teetering on the brink of abandoning your mortal name and moving into a box in the woods.

  Well, yeah. There was that.

  “This morning I told Dani I loved her. And she didn’t believe me.”

  Kiran stared at him. “Oh. Oh, dear. How long have you two been dating for real?”

  “Er . . . At that point, about twelve hours. Depending on your perspective.”

  Kiran stared at him some more. Then she whacked him with her bag.

  “Ow. What? I talked!”

  “Let me guess. You sprang all the emotional stuff on her before she was ready, she reacted badly, and now you’re moping around like someone peed in your cereal.” Kiran threw up a hand, which contained the Bag of Terror, and Zaf tried not to flinch in response. “Men.”

  “I know I messed up,” he said. Holy fuck, did he know. There were stones in his rib cage, burning coals in his belly, cement blocks set around his feet. He felt as if a part of him had been hacked raggedly away. The only thing keeping him upright was the knowledge that he’d weathered worse storms, and that he’d survive. That he’d always survive.

  But that didn’t stop him fucking hurting.

  “I don’t think she’s ever going to want the things I want,” he admitted, the words almost choking him. “She told me from the start, and I acted like I got it, but . . . Part of me hoped that if I showed her things could be good, she’d change her mind. And that’s just fucked up. Dani was the only one who could change her mind about us, and maybe she was going to, but I couldn’t give her the time she needed to do it.” He paused. “Or maybe she wasn’t changing her mind at all, and she only spent the night with me because Inez Holly told her to. One of those.”

  Kiran’s eyebrows flew up. “I’m not entirely sure what that last part means, so I’m going to ignore it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Wish I could ignore it,” he muttered. Trying didn’t work. The words haunted his mind again, and this time he noticed they were taking on the familiar, taunting cadence of an anxious fixation. He took a breath, and another. Kept talking, because sometimes that was the only way to untangle his own knots. “Bottom line is, I think I hurt her, going too far, too fast. And I definitely hurt myself. I don’t know if we can do this, and she’s positive we can’t, so . . . maybe that’s that.”

  “Oh,” Kiran murmured after a while. “I see. I’m sorry, Zaf. I’m really sorry.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “Are you going to . . . talk to her?”

  “I don’t know.” He wanted to. More than anything, he wanted to go after her and make everything right—because that’s what he was supposed to do. That’s how you got to a happily ever after. Except Zaf’s desire for a happily ever after, and his idea of how love was supposed to look, had pushed him into this mess. He thought for a moment longer, then shook his head. “I’ve chased her too hard for too long, and all that did was make her panic.” Zaf knew panic. He knew the squeeze of fear, knew the way it left you shaken and unsure of who you were, and he didn’t ever want to cause that feeling in someone he loved again. Just the idea made him physically sick. “I don’t know what else to do except leave her the fuck alone.”

  “If you’ve overwhelmed her,” Kiran said slowly, “that might be a good idea. I know sometimes you worry about things being . . . right or wrong, ruined or perfect. But there are shades of gray, too, Zafir.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah.” He wanted to learn those shades—or rather, to get better at remembering them. He knew he could do it.

  But one thing would never change: Zaf loved Danika in bold black-and-white, stark and completely unsubtle, no shades of gray to be found. He loved her absolutely and he loved her uncompromisingly. And if that was all wrong for her, he’d just have to deal with the loss.

  Ah, he was so fucking screwed. But at least he wasn’t alone.

  Zaf came to a stop, turning to face his sister. “Kiran . . . have I ever said thank you?”

  She blinked, raised her eyebrows. “For what?”

  “For staying wi
th me. Back then. When Dad and Zain—when they died. I tried to make you leave me alone. Or hate me. But you wouldn’t.”

  “Well,” she said with a smile, “you’re impossible to hate.” Then her expression softened. “You stayed with me, too, you know. And Fatima, she couldn’t ask for a better uncle.” Kiran reached up to put a hand on his cheek. “You’re my little brother, Zaf. I love you. I don’t leave you. Your mother and I, Jamal and Fatima, we’re all a family.”

  A family. A broken one, true, but broken didn’t mean ruined. He and Danika had broken clean in half this morning, but nothing about her was ruined, either. Because the world wasn’t split into unhappy endings and happily ever afters. There were blessings everywhere and a thousand shades of joy all around him.

  Every shade should be savored.

  * * *

  Danika wasn’t entirely sure what death felt like, but she was certain her current state must be close. True, nothing had actually harmed her. And yet, the minute she’d slammed Zaf’s front door behind her, she’d felt as if several vital organs had been wrenched from her body all at once. As if they were trapped on the other side of that door, slamming against the wood to reach her, and she could feel every last bruising smack.

  Now, for what felt like the thousandth time today, a sob racked her shoulders, and the hollow of her empty insides ached.

  Beside her, on Chloe’s vast, marshmallow-y sofa, Eve grimaced. “Oh dear.” She speared Sorcha with a grave look and murmured, “You did the right thing to bring her here.”

  “No, she didn’t.” Dani sobbed (yes, sobbed, again—her tear ducts appeared to be malfunctioning) from beneath a wad of Kleenex.

  “And to call me,” Eve continued.

  “No, she didn’t.” Dani glared across the living room at her best friend. “When have I ever ratted you out to your sisters, you traitorous . . . lizard!”

  Sorcha arched her magnificent eyebrows. The effect was quite severe. “If I ever call you in a flood of tears and request an emergency rescue from the back of some random chip shop because I’m crying too hard to walk home, I give you formal permission to contact whichever of my sisters you wish.” She paused. “Except Aileen. Don’t you dare call Aileen.”