After the call, we sat on opposite ends of the couch, my legs tucked beneath me as I sipped on warm sakura tea reserve imported from Japan. Daniel’s treat. I delighted in the light pink blooms blossoming in my cup.
“Well, that was pretty much what happened with my anxiety attack.”
“That sounds like an extremely difficult time with work,” he said sympathetically. We would never truly understand the stresses of each other’s jobs, but both had their sharp edges.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m meant to be a doctor.”
“If I recall, your brain is wired for medicine. You’ve always seen the human body and microbiology components as machines. You wanted to dissect and heal since you were in middle school. You’re the person who rallied for a zero-hour Anatomy & Physiology class and graduated high school at sixteen with a definite plan. Don’t let a few bad days and a few idiots unravel the determination that you’ve had since you were a kid. You’ll make mistakes, Pree. You’re not perfect, no one is, and although you hold yourself to incredibly high standards because you take your responsibility and privilege seriously, you can’t beat yourself up for every mistake. But the fact that you do shows how much you care. Mistakes are just that. They don’t always reflect your skill or intelligence.
“Sometimes you can’t control emergencies any more than you can control illnesses. They’ll happen, but you’re equipped and prepared to handle them. No one could ask for a better doctor. And you can’t control how patients and families react to bad news. You can’t stop or repair every bad thing that happens. You did your best and sometimes, unfortunately, you’re the one who bears the brunt of patients’ frustrations and anger. Some of them will never get that, but that shows that you’re strong and humble and considerate. You’re an amazing doctor, and from where I’m standing, you’re doing it right.”
I blinked away tears, mumbling, “Thanks, I truly appreciate your words, but it doesn’t diminish the fact that a patient lost her baby.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why things like this happen.” He rubbed my knee, and I relished his comforting touch.
Research showed that humans were meant to be touched, craved it from infancy, lost part of themselves when touch was absent for too long. I never related, couldn’t comprehend it until now. I’d gone most of my life with limited touch before Daniel, but with him, I’d found myself hungering for more and more. When he was gone, I was deprived. Over the past week, that hunger had returned.
His touch was both pleasure and calm, both exciting and comforting.
I wiped away more tears, the product of my anxiety, Laura’s loss, and Daniel’s tenderness. “People think it’s easy, that being a doctor is all about prestige and I’m the one who needs to get over bad times. As if I mean things to be a big deal, adding drama. Like maybe I can control my thoughts more? Like they’re a faucet that can be turned off at any point. But it’s not easy. It’s like a million arrows hitting me and some of them penetrate my armor. Some things will haunt me forever.”
“Do you agree with the therapist that talking it out with your parents will help? Letting them know how some of the things they might say, or allow others to say, affects you?”
I nodded. It was more about me getting to the point of telling them that these seemingly tiny, abstract comments hurt me when I’d done much worse to hurt them.
He added, agreeing again with the therapist, “Removing yourself from stressful situations when possible is helpful.”
“I can’t do that at work. I have to face it. Maybe at mandir I can just avoid or walk away if I can’t make a difference.”
“And this…Yuvan guy? Sounds like an ass,” he said bluntly and took a sip of tea.
I scowled.
He shrugged. “What? C’mon. You can’t stand his touch. He’s oblivious to your anxiety. He causes you anxiety. He makes condescending remarks. Wanting you to be everything in order to be a perfect wife while he has no intention of making his own changes?”
I blinked at him, feeling my RBF coming on. “Is Alisha so perfect?”
He opened his mouth to respond without a beat, but instead clamped it shut.
I rolled my eyes, savoring the warm cup in my hands. Explicit images of Alisha touching Daniel exploded in my thoughts like fireworks.
“How serious are you two?” he asked.
“He wanted to get engaged soon,” I replied nervously, trying to swallow those words.
He harrumphed and muttered, “Shit.”
What did he mean by that?
“I mean, congrats.” Yeah, like that didn’t sound critical and bitter. Not when his jawline hardened into a sharp knife edge or when his nostrils flared.
I fidgeted with the ruffled edge of the decorative couch pillow resting against my hip.
“Have you slept with him?”
My gaze shot up. “No. Obviously. Besides my touch aversion, we’re not that close. I mean, we’ve been dating, talking, but nothing more.”
“But you’re getting engaged?” he pushed.
I shrugged. Breaking things off wouldn’t seem final until I’d told my parents what I’d done.
Daniel ran a finger over the back of the couch. “You don’t seem particularly excited about an impending engagement. Have you kissed him?” he asked, clenching his jaw in the slightest.
“No.”
He sighed, as if relieved, or maybe agitated. “You’re considering marrying a man you haven’t even kissed?”
“Touch aversion,” I grumbled.
“But not with your soon-to-be fiancé. Even we touched. A lot. Like, all the damn time.”
“Yep,” I gritted out, seething at the reminder that I grasped at straws with Yuvan, no matter how good we looked on paper. What better way to face that nugget of truth than having my ex shove it in my face?
He went on in a more tender tone, “He has no idea what you feel like, what you taste like?”
My skin flared hot remembering all those times Daniel had touched me, kissed me, made love to me. “We probably shouldn’t be talking about my love life.”
He held his tongue for a good five seconds. “Preeti. Your touch aversion is toward strangers and people whom you’re not that close to. If you can’t stand being touched by this guy, maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about marrying him.”
“No one really asked for your opinion.”
“Why are you getting engaged to him?”
“Why do you care?” I retorted, my voice rising.
“Because I still care about you,” he spat. “Even if I’m mad at you or don’t understand why you do the things you do, I do care about you. I don’t want you making a huge mistake like marrying someone because, what? Some random guy just came along and said, ‘Hey, let’s get married’?”
“That’s not what happened.”
“I know about your culture and family traditions. We dated a long time, remember? But I sort of expected something in the vicinity of what we had. Romance, love, touching, kissing, being comfortable enough to hold hands. Not clenching your teeth and balling your hands into fists every time he tries to hug you. What are you going to do when you have to make love? Does he even understand touch aversion?”
“Yeah, let’s change the subject. Daniel, who are you dating?” I snapped. “Let’s talk about Alisha.” Oh my lord. I didn’t want to hear him say that he’d been with someone else, that he was seriously dating her.
“Are you jealous?” He smirked, part playful, part baiting.
“No!” I rasped. Stop torturing me.
“Being petty?” He leaned toward me, brows cocked. Definitely baiting.
I jumped onto my haunches and leaned toward him, my skin blazing. “Hey! You started this whole mess about who’s dating whom.”
“I definitely wouldn’t be considering marrying someone who couldn’t stand my touch.”
I groaned to keep from screaming. “I don’t need your judgment. Especially not after an anxiety attack. I don’t appreciate it being added to my list of areas where I fall short as a person.”
“Hey. Hey,” he said softly. “Wait a minute.” He reached out to my hand, the one clutching the pillow between us in a death grip. “I don’t mean that you are deficient or anything less than extraordinary, Pree.” His fingers slipped in between mine as my hand relaxed.
“We can’t act and talk like we used to.” I glanced down at our interlocked fingers. His touch scorched and soothed, as chaotic a reaction as my warring feelings over him. I felt like a balloon being filled with air, stretched to the point of capacity with an inevitable explosion on the horizon.
“Bet he can’t even get this close to you, can he?” he asked softly, running a thumb over the back of my hand.
When I didn’t pull away, Daniel inched closer. My eyelids fluttered and my breath hitched. His closeness set my skin on fire, had my stomach tying into knots.
Daniel lifted my hand in between us and pressed our palms together. Mine was small and delicate; his large and protective.
“How’s the anxiety?” he asked.
“Better,” I replied, hypnotized by his touch.
“Even though we sort of just had a fight?”
I scowled.
He let our hands drop back to the couch.
“Please. No more about me tonight. Tell me what happened with your dad.”
He held my hand and leaned his head back. Was it weird that I wanted to crawl onto his lap and lick his throat? Press myself against him and feel him between my legs?
No. Stop that.
He lowered his chin. “My dad can be an aggressive bull at times. Okay, most times. All we do is butt heads. I tried talking to him. He won’t listen, won’t change. I do almost everything he wants, and I’m never good enough.” He paused and glared at the wall ahead, past his desk, and added calmly, “I don’t need to be here. I have dozens of firms trying to get me. I could even go out on my own.”
I squeezed his hand. “Don’t ever say that you’re not good enough. Don’t ever let someone else make you feel less than what you truly are, which is amazing and wonderful.”
He swiped a thumb across my hand, sending lightning bolts straight to my core. “Thanks for listening. I know it can sound dumb: a grown man who feels inadequate in his father’s eyes.”
“It’s not dumb. It’s serious and has a huge impact on you. I wish your dad could see your worth. I wish he didn’t make you feel less than worthy. I’d tell him myself, except he scares me.”
He chuckled. “He has that effect on people. I finally told Jackson. He thinks I should leave if Dad won’t back off. Brandy agrees. But my grandparents wouldn’t be happy if they knew I was thinking of leaving.”
“Don’t leave…” I found myself saying.
He tilted his head toward me with imploring eyes, his question more of a whisper. “Why not?”
Because I want you to stay. “Your grandparents love having you here, and you shouldn’t let your dad drive you away from the business. If that’s what you want.”
He shrugged. “I want the family business, but there’s no resolution if Dad doesn’t meet me halfway. At least I have my music. It’s good therapy. I’ve played the hell out of that thing since I returned.”
“Do you want to play now?”
“Yeah, actually. Might help both of us.” He stood and went to the corner where the guitar rested against his desk and brought it back to the couch, tuning along the way. “Music helps me find my calm these days.”
“Is that why you’re so good at playing? You’ve been needing a lot of calm?”
He nodded slowly, as if my question had a loaded answer.
Daniel watched me as he played, his gaze intense and lingering, searching my soul for anything and everything. No one looked at me the way he did, like he saw so deep inside me that he could read my thoughts and emotions.
Music healed us as I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the couch.
He sat beside me. He gave ample space if I wanted to move away; instead, I tilted against him, our arms crushed against each other, my head gently falling to his shoulder. I sighed, content. Daniel strummed and the apartment filled with soft notes.
“Thank you for playing for me,” I said. “It really is the only thing that makes me feel better.”
“Anything for you.”
“You mean that?”
“Mm…are you about to ask me something I might regret?”
Every fiber of my being warned against this, and yet every fiber of my being yearned to keep him close to ward off the creepy-crawlies in my head. He was the breath I needed, the balm for my anxiety.
“Can you…sleep in the bed again?”
He looked down at me, searching my face, his nostrils flaring with a deep breath. He brushed his knuckles across my cheek. “Of course.”
