Page 69 of The Rut in the Road
Especially Raj.
It probably wasn’t a very good index of my character that the person I cared most about and most wanted in my life was also irritating me the most preciselybecauseI wanted himto somehow know exactly what I wanted when I didn’t know myself.
I tried to keep my dissatisfaction to myself.
I failed.
“Do you want to tell me what else is bothering you?” he asked, pulling over my office chair and sitting with his own bowl, sensing from something that I didn’t particularly want to cuddle up with him in the bean bag.
“No,” I replied.
“No?” He sounded surprised, his brow furrowed. “Rayn, something else is clearly bothering you.”
I sighed. “You didn’t ask if something else was bothering me. You asked if I wanted to talk about it.”
He pressed his lips together, clearly displeased. “If you don’t want the FBI to ask you to consult anymore?—”
I set my fork in my bowl rather more abruptly than I needed to. “That isn’t what I want,” I interrupted. “I don’tlikeit, but I do like being able to help with cases. To make a difference. I don’t want to stop doing it, even if it’s… hard.”
Hardwas a terrible word for what it had been.Awful.Horrific.Heinous. Also terrible words. I wasn’t sure therewerewords. But I hadn’t lied to Raj—I didn’t want to stop doing it.
“Then what?” he asked me.
I stirred my pasta, trying to decide what to say, how to explain what I couldn’t even understand myself.
I gave up and shook my head.
Raj stood, set his bowl on the seat of his chair before coming over and crouching beside me. “Rayn, I just want you to be happy.”
I met his golden-brown gaze, seeing worry reflected back at me. I probably shouldn’t have said what I did, but, in my defense, I was very tired, both hungry and not-hungry, and anticipating at least one or two sleepless nights in my future.
“I don’t think I know what that is.”
It wasn’t hyperbole. I knew what it meant to be contented, to not be stressed or anxious or upset or sad. I knew the satisfaction of getting work done or successfully solving a puzzle or completing an assignment. I wasn’t sure I knew what it meant to behappy.
Raj looked like I’d struck him. Shock. Pain.
The second one surprised me.
“What do you mean, you don’t know what that is?” he asked, his voice soft and low.
A sound gurgled in the back of my throat. “I don’t know what it feels like to be happy,” I told him. “It’s not like I’ve had much experience with it.”
“You’re not happy… with me?” he asked, and the question made me realize that I probably shouldn’t have admitted it to him. I also understood now why it had pained him—because if he did want to make me happy, and he wasn’t, then that meant that there was something wrong with us.
Of course there was. Because there was something wrong withme. There always had been, most likely, but it was hard to remember far enough back to know whether or not I’d been happy as a child. The intervening years were like a thick fog or glass darkly, and I couldn’t make out what things had been like on the other side of Tranquil Brook.
I sighed, staring down into the beige and green of my pasta. “I’m notunhappy,” I replied, just as softly. “I—I don’t know if I’m even capable of feeling happy.”
The pain on his face was replaced with confusion. “You…” He trailed off, not finishing the question. Then his cheeks darkened. “Of course you…” He stopped. Swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I… forget sometimes. That your life hasn’t exactly been… typical.” He was speaking slowly, carefully. Thinking his way through what to say.
I couldn’t decide if I appreciated the thought or was annoyed at the fact that he felt I had to be so carefully managed.
I sighed again. “I’m in a bad mood,” I told him. “And I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to eat and try to sleep. Please.”
Raj looked as though he wanted to argue with me, but then nodded. “There’s more if you want it,” he said, his voice still low and unhappy, but not as much as it had been.
I nodded. I knew I probably should, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to. I loaded my fork and ate, chewing.
