by Alisha Rai
She’d slept with men and lived her life how she’d wanted to, and she’d enjoyed herself. Surely that took a certain amount of courage.
She had value. A lot of it.
“We make a pact right now,” Rana said, her voice growing stronger. “The things we do, the decisions we make, may mean that we won’t measure up in other people’s eyes. But the three of us, we stick together. That means we support each other.”
“Devi’s asleep,” Leena pointed out. “She can’t pact with us.”
“I’ll tell her about the pact tomorrow. You know she’ll be on board.”
Leena nodded slowly. “Okay. I…I guess my future’s up in the air now too, huh?”
“You need us as much as we need you,” Rana said brutally.
Leena looked at Devi, and her face softened. She loved the baby of the family as much as Rana did. “I’ll lay off her. I promise.”
“Good.”
“And if Mama and the rest of the world turn their backs on us tomorrow…”
Two years ago, Rana would have made a face and sneered. A week ago, Rana would have caved, toeing whatever line her mother put in place. Tonight, she considered the possibility. “We deal with it.” Rana brushed her lips against the top of Leena’s head. “It is what it is. And we…deal. Together.”
Leena gave a loud sniff, and then plucked at her borrowed top. “I like this shirt. It’s so shiny.”
Rana craned her neck. “It’s too small on me anyway. You can have it.”
“I don’t know where I’d even wear it,” Leena fussed. “I don’t go anywhere.”
“Maybe you should.”
Her sister lifted her chin. “Maybe I should. I…like the way it makes me feel.”
She’d liked the way she’d felt around Micah. Not New Rana or Old Rana, just plain old her. Her chest ached at his memory, for herself and for him.
She pressed her hand to her stomach. That was life though, right? Painful, sometimes. Maybe he had done her a favor, and she’d thank him later. It seemed unlikely, now, but perhaps it would happen.
She’d love again, but only when she found someone like Micah, who never made her feel like she was lacking. The way she felt whole right now, holding her sister close.
This was who Rana was. Drama queen, crybaby, seductress, friend, goofball, sister. She relaxed into the couch, trying to get comfortable in her own skin. It was an awkward fit, and it would take some getting used to, but it felt…right. She’d missed herself.
For the first time in a year, Rana breathed.
Chapter 20
When Micah had been a child, their neighbor had had the saddest-looking pug. Sometimes the pug’s owner would dress it in sweaters and skirts, and the poor thing would stare at Micah as if its life couldn’t get any more pitiful.
Right now, he was feeling way more pathetic than that sad, whining, bulging-eyed pug.
Micah had a canvas in front of him, but he was sitting there more out of habit than an actual desire to create anything. His agent had called and asked if he would be interested in doing another show in a few months. A bigger publicity push, more guests, larger city.
He had told the other man he would think about it. He should have been delighted another gallery had approached him. That meant someone somewhere thought his latest work held some promise.
Sadly, he was too focused on his own misery to work up much enthusiasm. Or to turn his attention to what he might actually create for the show.
Nothing with Rana in it.
He avoided looking at the right corner of his studio, where all of the sketches of Rana were stacked in a neat pile, along with about three separate canvases. He hadn’t been able to continue the one he had started of her when she was here, so he had picked another pose, but that had also been difficult. Same with the third.
It wasn’t like before, where he had felt sucked dry of creativity. If anything, he had too many images and thoughts jumbled up in his head, straining to break free. He wanted to do nothing but sketch and paint Rana.
It was simply too painful.
It’ll get better, he tried to assure himself. It had only been a couple weeks. The first period after a breakup was the hardest.
As if the heavens were agreeing, a mighty boom of thunder sounded. The rain was coming down in sliding sheets, a late-afternoon thunderstorm. Rain here wasn’t like back home. It was violent and hot.
He didn’t bother glancing out the window. His studio was always dark now. He’d found brand-new blinds on his doorstep the day after he’d dropped a hefty check in Rana’s mailbox. They’d come with a note, scrawled in feminine handwriting. I’m sick of having to keep my curtains shut.
He’d installed them within the hour. They’d been closed ever since. An apt punishment for him. She was right, she shouldn’t have to be the one to close herself off. Not when she’d been so open and welcoming.
He might be miserable, but he was well aware he was the problem. Any other man would have clung to the promise of Rana’s love with both hands, not shoved her away.
For her own good. She deserved better than him. She deserved everything.
That didn’t stop him from loathing himself for not being everything she needed. Or from worrying over whether she was okay. Had she fought with her mother again? Was she still upset over the ending of their affair? Christ, the way she had looked at him. Like he had broken her heart, seconds after her mother had done the same.
Without her his days were bleak once again. He had little to look forward to. He kept wanting to talk to her, tell her things that would make her laugh.
He slept better with her. He ate better with her. Most importantly, he felt better with her.
How had she wormed her way into his life in such a short period of time? How was that even possible?
His phone’s tiny ring filled the air, and he jolted. He wished he could throw the damn thing away now that he and Rana were over, but he couldn’t. His mother would have a heart attack.
He fished the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the tiny display, mostly out of some perverse need to assure himself Rana wasn’t calling to tell him she lov—
Nope. Definitely his mother. Who had called the previous night. With a sigh, he picked it up. “Mum.”
“Micah,” she said, and he could hear the trace of relief that was never far. Oh hello, dear, I’m so happy you’re not dead.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing much. Just thought of you, figured I would call and say hi.”
Micah nodded, though she couldn’t see him. “Wonderful.”
“Have you called back George yet?”
He leaned back on his stool. He had told his mother about the possibility of a new show. “Not yet. I’m still thinking.”
“Well, don’t think too hard, dear. This is an excellent possibility for you.”
His mother had never so much as had an opinion on his career before the attack, recognizing that a nurse was probably not the best person to tell an artist how to run their life. Now… “I said I’ll think about it,” he said, with more bite than he’d intended.
His mother paused. “Did I call you at a bad time? Are you painting?” Her voice dropped, though why, Micah wasn’t sure. “Is that sweet girl there again?”
Micah had managed to avoid speaking about Rana with his mother, generally by changing the subject in response to her heavy-handed hints. This was far more than a heavy-handed hint. He couldn’t ignore a direct question. “No. We, ah, finished our sessions.”
“Oh. Does that mean… Well. Micah, it was fairly obvious you were otherwise involved. No model would be at your home at all hours. Are you…not?”
Micah massaged his temple. “No. We’re not.”
“Oh.” Disappointment. So much of it.
His jaw clenched, and he tried to hold back the rebuke, but it came out anyway. “Stop it.”
“Stop what, Micah?”
“Stop thinking of it as a setback. It’s not.”
“I didn’t—”
He ignored her flustered words. “Relationships end all the time, and no one considers it backsliding. It’s not another signal that something’s wrong with me.”
“Micah, I never said—”
“You were thinking it. Every time you call me, I know you’re thinking it. About how I’m not who I was before, and the person I am now is some beast that needs to be placated or pacified. Well, I’m not. I’m not who I was before, but I’m not weak. I’m not broken.”
She was silent for a long minute. “You’re not weak,” she whispered. “But sometimes I feel like I am.”
He ground the heel of his palm into his eye socket, hating the regret. Maybe the words had been building up for a while, but he could have articulated them better. “Mum, I apologize.”
“Don’t. You’re right. Your father’s been saying this to me for a while, that it’s not healthy how obsessively I call you, that I might be smothering you. I—I figured you could stand a little smothering. I didn’t think my worry would hurt you so much.” Tears clogged her voice.
Great. That was two women who cared for him who he’d recently made cry.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t finished. “Sometimes I think I’m going to burst with my worry. I never felt like this before the attack. You know that. I raised you to be independent, but now all I wish is for you to be back here, in our home, where I can keep you safe.”
He gentled his tone. “No one can keep anyone safe, Mum.”
“I could try. I could see you every day. I could make sure you eat. I could cut your hair for you. I could make you go to therapy.”
He winced.
“You think I don’t know you’re lying to me about going? I don’t even know why.”
The white canvas was blurry in front of him. “I don’t either.”
“You know it would help you.”
“I know.” He licked his lips. “Maybe because I know it would help me.”
“That makes no damn sense, Micah.”
His mother so rarely swore. How could he explain something he didn’t even understand? “It’s like…I had no choice in anything that happened. The attack. The hospital. The therapy.” He swallowed. “How all of it made you and the rest of the family and all my friends feel. All of that was out of my control.”
Her breathing was loud. “But you could control where you moved. And what you ate. And whether you went to therapy.”
He rose from his stool, suddenly restless. “I’m sorry, Mum. I really am.”
“I don’t think you’re broken. I miss how blissfully oblivious I used to be, is all. And I miss how happy you were with your life.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and paced to one end of the wall. “I miss that too.” But now that he thought about it, life wasn’t complete misery now. Why, when he’d been with Rana, he’d been downright blissful. Even with all of his hang-ups and baggage.
“Your father’s been pestering me to go to some group-therapy thing. Maybe I’ll go.”
“That sounds good.”
“And…maybe I won’t call you as much. Would you like that? Would that make things easier for you?”
He shut his eyes. “Maybe we could be like we were before. Where we called when we had something to talk about.”
“Yes.” Her laugh was nervous but real. “I only want you to have someone you can talk to, my dear. That’s why I’ve always pushed therapy. I just know it helps to have someone who understands. If I didn’t have your father…” She trailed off. “Well, I don’t know how I would have managed.”
His eyes were drawn to his blinds. “I’ll— You may have a point. I’ll think about it.”
He expected her to pursue the topic, but surprisingly she retreated. “Very well. I—I’ll let you go then.”
“I love you, Mum,” he said hoarsely.
“I love you too, dear. I’ll call you...in a few days. Or next week.”
He smiled. “Sounds good.”
After she hung up, he leaned against the wall for a while, trying to marshal his thoughts. They were too chaotic and jumbled for him to get a solid hold of them.
He frowned down at the phone when it rang again in his hand. Hadn’t they just talked about some distance—?
The sight of the international number stopped him cold. He recognized it because he’d gotten rather good at avoiding it.
His finger hovered over the decline button, but he hesitated. She would only keep calling him until she got a response. Especially since he knew who had directed her to call him.
He picked up the phone. “Paige.”
There was a shocked silence on the other end. “Micah,” the caller finally said. “I didn’t expect you to actually pick up.”
“You called me though you assumed I wouldn’t answer?”
“Yes. So I could tell my therapist and your mother that I tried.”
That pulled a small smile from him. “My mum called you, didn’t she?” Of course, the woman might say that she would back off, but her worry and nurturing ran deep. It would take time for her to learn that he didn’t need her smothering to survive.
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
Yeah, his mother had told her to call him. I only want you to have someone you can talk to, my dear. Who better than the woman he’d shared his trauma with?
“How are you?” he asked, his voice automatically gentling.
“Well. And you?” Her voice had softened as well.
Skittish horses. That’s what they were, circling around each other.
“It’s been a while.” He had seen her and answered some of her phone calls in the aftermath of the attack. She’d been justifiably upset, certain he hated her, and though he had been battling his own demons, she’d been his model for years. They’d been good friends, often grabbing a pint together when they weren’t working. He hadn’t wanted her to feel that way.
After the first year or so, he’d slowly stopped responding to her. It hadn’t been personal. He hadn’t really wanted to respond to anyone. All his friends did was remind him of who he wasn’t anymore.
He could imagine her sitting in a chair now, her muscular legs curled up under her. A competitive swimmer all her life, she had a unique body he’d loved painting. The last time he’d seen her, she’d lost a bit of weight, but she’d still looked strong.
“It has.” She paused for a beat. “How do you like the expat life then?”
“America is…different.”
“I imagine it’s like the Wild West. No one cares where you’re from.”
“Americans are surprisingly nosy, for all of that Wild West heritage,” he said dryly. “But it is easier to be…lost.”
“I bet. London is small.”
Yes. That had been the problem exactly. Sometimes it felt like everyone knew him and what had happened. “It’s always warm here. Even the rain is warm.”
“Now you’re trying to make me leave too.”
Micah didn’t laugh, and neither did Paige. They both knew she couldn’t leave—her elderly mother depended on her greatly, and he was certain that hadn’t changed. “There are things I miss about London,” he said instead. “But this is what I didn’t know I needed.”
“That’s good, Micah. I—I’m so happy you like it there.” She paused again. “I’m getting married.”
He flinched, doubling over slightly as if he had taken a blow to his solar plexus. He recovered at once, breathing shallowly through his nose, holding the phone away so she wouldn’t hear. “Congratulations.”
“My therapist said…well, I wanted to call you and tell you personally.”
“That’s kind of you.” The words scraped out of his throat.
“I felt like I owed it to you…” She trailed off.
He shoved his thumbs into his eye sockets. This. This was why he hadn’t been able to speak with her, though he knew he ought to. Her pain was a raw, gaping wound, far too similar to his. He w
anted to run from it, even as it scraped over him, releasing all of his demons.
“You owe me nothing, love,” he said gruffly, slipping back into the casual endearments he’d once traded so easily with his friends.
“If I hadn’t been dating that monster, you wouldn’t have been hurt,” she whispered.
Shrill screams rang in his ears. He had been so in shock, he hadn’t even felt the final blow cutting across his face. But he could well remember seeing Paige through a veil of red as he watched her deceptively small boyfriend haul her away.
He focused on his blank canvas to ground himself, tearing himself away from that memory. She needed reassurance. “If that monster hadn’t been a monster, I wouldn’t have been hurt,” he responded.
“I had no idea he would snap like that. I could have made it clearer you and I weren’t sleeping together, I…”
Micah raked his hand through his long hair, abruptly annoyed with its length. It felt far too thick and heavy on his head, stifling him. “You saved my life. You were the one who got away from him. You were the one who called the police. If that ambulance hadn’t come in time, I would have been dead.”
“You wouldn’t have been in that position if it weren’t for me and my terrible choice in boyfriends.”
He stopped. Nothing he said would make her believe she wasn’t to blame. Maybe she would carry this guilt with her until her dying day. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Nothing.
She was talking, but he couldn’t comprehend her words. “Will we ever be like we were?” he asked abruptly, interrupting her and unable to care. He had a feeling he already knew the answer.
She hesitated. “Before…he did what he did?”
“Yes. Will we ever be like that again?”
“I…I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like it.”
He wasn’t a talker. But the words were pouring out of him, spurred by the one person who might possibly have a solution. “I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to snap out of this.”
“Snap out of what?”
“Snap out of…this.” He gestured his arm around him, though she couldn’t see. “Like I’m on some sort of quest to get back to human and I just have to collect enough points or golden coins, and one day I’ll wake up and everything will be as it was.”
