Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(47)

But the unexpected lightness in his chest made him think that he could. Some other time, he could.

Which was . . . novel, to say the least.

“I see,” Danika murmured, and he felt oddly certain that she did, at least a little bit. Her gaze was steady on his, and beneath the sadness, nothing had changed. There was no pity, no judgment ready and waiting to crush him. He was still himself, but the biggest relief was the fact that she was still Danika.

She would always be Danika. She would always be just fucking right.

Then she continued. “And I see what you meant, now, about your past, and not wanting to bring it into the present.”

He shrugged, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Well, what you and me are doing, it’s, er, changing associations, according to Fatima. Which helps.”

“Changing associations,” she repeated gently. “Interesting.”

He arched an eyebrow, because he could practically hear her mind whirring. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Just . . . I understand wanting to shift the narrative. But changing it completely—is that possible, in this case? I mean, your loss, and your anxiety, they’re at the root of why you started Tackle It. Aren’t they?”

He stared at her, unnerved by the ruthless way she drilled down into something he wasn’t always comfortable thinking about. “Well—I don’t know. Maybe. But it’s not—I’m not going to parade my family’s death like it’s part of the organizational ethos.” He realized he was sounding a little defensive, mostly because right now she reminded him of Jamal. And Kiran. And his own doubtful midnight thoughts, wondering if he was making the right decision by keeping things separate, or just the easiest one.

“Of course not,” she replied firmly, but her eyes burned into him as if she saw things he’d rather hide. She put a hand over his chest for a moment, just the lightest touch, as if she’d needed to reach out and check his heart was still okay in there. “I was just thinking, Zaf, that . . . you’re brave. Most people, when something scars us, we hide it. When you started Tackle It, you framed a scar in gold. Don’t you think?” She waited, as if she actually thought he’d be able to respond to that.

Sorry, no. He was too busy trying to figure out why those words unraveled the knots in his chest so easily.

After a moment of silence, Dani shook her head and gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Sorry, that was . . . weird. Very weird.”

“No. No, that was—” Truer than I know what to do with, and I think I need a moment.

“Inappropriate,” she supplied wryly, “and dangerously close to maudlin.” He could hear the discomfort in her voice, knew she hadn’t meant to get emotional with him. Danika didn’t get emotional with anyone, and usually, he’d lecture her about that—but right now, it didn’t seem right.

Because Zaf was beginning to wonder if he had some shit of his own to sort through. When he’d started therapy, he’d been determined—really determined—to heal. To move on from a grief so huge that it might crush him if he couldn’t find a way to fold it up and make it safe. He would never be over Dad’s and Zain’s deaths, but fighting the darkness in his head had been like . . . like his battle cry.

Was it possible to move on too hard? So hard you became afraid of even glancing back? He didn’t know, and standing outside a radio station while his fake girlfriend tried to pretend she was the friendly neighborhood robot didn’t seem like a good time to figure it out.

“Anyway,” Dani was saying, “if anyone brings up your family during this interview, don’t worry. I’ll eat them.”

That startled a smile out of him. “Good to know. Jamal pretended to be my publicist and outlined what they could and couldn’t ask. So it should be fine, but . . .”

“But some people struggle with basic listening skills,” she finished, facing his fears head on. “Well, I can promise you this: I’ll be right beside you to misdirect whenever necessary. All right?”

She was too fierce and too smart to doubt. The only thing he could say was “All right.” The only thing he could feel was relief.

“And,” she went on, “I have something that might help your nerves. I mean, it always helps me when I’m nervous, so . . .” Dani’s voice trailed off as she began fiddling with the mess of leather cords she always wore around her neck. Zaf had spent way more hours than was healthy wondering what hung off those cords. His current favorite theory was that she kept every engagement ring she’d ever been given, kind of like how Russian princesses used to sew jewels into their clothes before they fled the country. He’d read about that in an older romance novel he’d found at the local library.

A woman like Dani must deal with proposals at least once a month, and since she was mind-numbingly posh, all the rings were probably platinum-and-diamond situations from white guys whose great-great-great-great-grandmas once fucked Henry VIII. So when she pulled off the necklaces and Zaf caught sight of loose, colorful stones hanging from each one, he knew straightaway that his favorite theory was 100 percent wrong.

Which was fine, since he was about to learn the truth.

“Here,” she said, disentangling a small, bloodred stone from the rest. “Just for the interview.”

Zaf held out a hand for the swinging pendant. “Thanks . . .” he said slowly. “What is it?”