Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(82)

“You haven’t been sleeping, you haven’t been eating, you look like you’re pacing even when you’re sitting still. This is me, Trisha. Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Work just sucks right now.” That was a blatant lie. Work was spectacular. The research study was giving them the exact results they had expected, which never, ever happened. The only thing at work not going well was Emma’s refusal to get surgery. But Trisha hoped her trip to Monterey today would generate some solutions on how to fix that.

Nisha set her spoon into the empty ice-cream cup and sank back against the pillows. “Fine. But listen, no one can see what’s going on inside you if you don’t show it.”

How could anyone not see what she was feeling? It felt like it was bursting out of her skin. “You saw it,” she said, immensely grateful that Nisha hadn’t asked for details.

“Sweetheart, of course I did. You’re my Shasha. Listen, you know you’re not like anyone else, right? If you want someone to see what’s inside you, you have to put yourself out there. The rest of the world is not programmed to decode you. You’re adorable and all, but no one can see that if you keep scaring everyone away.”

What she wanted right now was to scare Nisha away. She scowled.

To no avail. “Trust yourself,” her big sister said kindly. “You know how you’re fearless with your work? Well, work isn’t the only thing that requires you to be badass. Sometimes life does too. Letting people know you is scary. Especially for us. We don’t do well with trusting outsiders.” She paused, and a world of silent shared fears passed between them. “But when something feels right, you have to have the courage to let it happen, to tell people how you feel. Even when someone’s broken your trust before.” It was the most forgiving thing Nisha had ever said about what Trisha had allowed Julia to do.

The idea of telling anyone—least of all DJ—how she was feeling about DJ bloated the bubble of panic in her chest. But the thought also strangely relieved the pressure, just the tiniest bit.

Trisha picked up the tray and got off the bed. “You need anything else?”

Nisha shook her head and studied her like a mother hen.

When Trisha put the bowl in the dishwasher and went back into the bedroom, her sister continued to watch her, arms crossed across her still-flat belly.

“I need to go to Monterey today to check out a tactile art program for a case. I’m on call this evening. I’ll be back before then. Will you be okay? I’ll leave you a sandwich for lunch and I’ll bring dinner from Ashi?”

“Of course.” Nisha slid back under the sheets. “Is ‘tactile art’ a euphemism for a booty call?”

“Shut up! I’d never leave you alone for a booty call. Also, ew!”

Nisha laughed. “One of these days, Trisha, one of these days.”





Chapter Twenty-Four


The drive to Monterey was one of Trisha’s favorites. The Rajes owned a beach house in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Growing up, Ma had insisted on the family getting away for weekends at least once a month. That time spent lying on the white sand, catching the blue-gray surf, breathing the salt-laden air, and having family friends come up for house parties had been a needed respite in their madly hectic lives.

It was a place Trisha associated with everyone letting their proverbial hair down. Yash in shorts, Nisha and Ashi in T-shirts. Vansh, in . . . what he always wore. He was the only one in the family who didn’t feel the need to dress as though he were ready for a TV appearance all the time.

She remembered when Ma had tried to throw one of his T-shirts away once. “It has a hole, beta!” Ma had said.

“Yes, but it also has dirt from Malawi on it and raindrops from Djibouti. Do you have any idea how rare rain in Djibouti is?”

Trisha’s own sanctuary from her family’s clothing issues was her scrubs.

Today, of course, with Nisha at home, Trisha was dressed in a “buttercup” pantsuit that her sister had declared “fresh and powerful without being threatening.” It was naturally a suit Nisha had picked out for her. Which could be said about pretty much all the clothing Trisha owned. Nisha was showing distinct signs of fashionista withdrawal lying in that bed. She did own the loveliest pajamas—all organic cotton cut to fit her body perfectly—and she still wore “a touch of tinted gloss” in bed. There was no way she would let Trisha leave the house in scrubs unless she was going into surgery.

“It’s offensive to meet a blind person dressed sloppily,” Nisha had said.

Trisha wasn’t sure if saying that in itself wasn’t offensive.

But Nisha knew about these things, because the suit actually made Trisha feel somewhat put together, after days of feeling like she was in pieces. As for the other thing Nisha had said—Trisha had spent the entire car ride hurtling miserably between the possibility and the preposterousness of the idea of herself with DJ Caine.

Just as Trisha got on Highway 1, her sister called. “Don’t forget to pick up muffins from Tangent. I just called and Naomi said they’re open for only another hour. So do it now, on your way out.”

Tangent was a little café right outside Laguna Grande, just a few miles from the beach house. It was one of those cute wooden shacks that was so eclectic you forgot where you were when you entered it. It could easily have been Hawaii, South Africa, Brazil, anywhere in the world.