53. REEMA

The way he's shaking his head, I almost see the pieces trying to fit in his head, though they don't seem to be coming together. A man who breathes, sleeps, and dreams of logic has become illogical. And pale.

"You need food?" he asks, looking at my stomach.

"Not right now."

"Are you hungry?"

"We just ate."

"But you've gone hungry before?"

"I—it sounds worse than it was."

Both hands drag over his face. Then dark pools of green lock on me. "Explain. Be detailed."

Somehow—I can. Words aren't tied into knots inside me right now. Maybe it's because I know about his mother's house, and how his father betrayed him by withholding so much. That Jake was gut-punched even by his death. That he hasn't recovered from the pain and hurt of that loss.

He said he can't talk about that part which I understand. Maybe me talking helps him understand I'm here to listen when he is ready to go there.

"As you know, I work hard and can obsess," I say, watching him for a reaction. His face hasn't changed. He is paying attention to me so sharply. "The not eating is more of a by-product. I had so much debt to pay off, and because I kept thinking about it, I couldn't stop working—and so I forgot to eat. It turned into this—" My hand motions in the air. "What is it called? A—a feedback loop." I try for a small smile. "You'll appreciate my attempt at math-y language."

"I don't think you understand how I'm feeling, Reema."

I'm jolted by the sound of my name. He's taking me so seriously, even as I'm shying away from how bad it had gotten for me. He's not letting me hide or downplay, and now I'm not Patel. Is it because he cares? Or because he's mad?

"It was worse before," I hurry to tell him, "when it first started. I can afford to eat again, but I'm so close to being debt-free that there are days I've forgotten meals. Or maybe—" I rub the bathrobe's belt between my hands. "I'm used to it, and it feels like I can't stop thinking every dollar counts. I've been so obsessed with digging myself out of this hole I put myself in that I can't slow down. I don't remember what it means to slow down and properly take care of myself."

"You're not going hungry again."

"Yes, that's the plan."

"No plan. It's not happening again."

"I didn't tell you all this for pity. Or to trouble you. I'm just trying to explain why I need the bonus."

"Trouble me?" His brows rise. "You don't understand."

"Understand what?"

His hand grips the edge of my bathrobe. "You're having breakfast every morning. If the morning bagels aren't enough, I'll get something different. Lunch is at work, but for dinner you pick the restaurant."

The first part of his sentence is enough to grab, let alone the rest of it. "Bagels—that was you? You did that?"

"I didn't know why you fainted in the elevator, but you seemed too light in my arms when I carried you."

There's a loud air-conditioning hum in the room I'd gotten used to, but right now it overwhelms my ears. It's all I hear as I stare at a framed photo of a rain-splattered rose on the wall. It's one of those stock images, mass-produced for generically pleasant decorating. I let myself find refuge in both these distractions before I come back to his words and let them sink in.

So he's already been feeding me. As if he's cared, even when I didn't think he did. Why? I want to ask, but I don't. Since I haven't told him everything, and he still needs to understand why he should judge me more harshly than he is.

"I need to tell you the rest of it," I mumble.

"Can I—Please—" His inches closer to me. "Could I hold you?"

The request squeezes my heart. All I can do is nod at him.

At once, he gets to his feet, lifting me as carefully as always. We don't move to the bed, but to the lone sofa seat designed to fit one person or two when one bundles the other so tightly to their chest. I'm snuggled in his arms as he takes measured breaths, as if bracing himself for more. As if my secrets are detonations in his world.

I'm tucking my head under his chin, because I can't look directly at him. I can't see the change in his expression when he learns how childish and pathetic I used to be. We sit like that—with no one speaking—for a few more minutes. I know I'm delaying the inevitable. I know Jake will wait forever for me to talk, so I finally do.

"Two years ago, I got evicted from my apartment. All my credit cards were maxed out, debtors were after me, and if I didn't figure out a solution or come back to my family, I'd be homeless. All because–" I shut my eyes. "All because I gave money to a man I loved. Harry."

"A boyfriend?"

"Ex-husband."

His hands tighten around me, and I feel his chest rise and sink faster.

"I'm divorced. You should know that. You probably should've known that earlier."

He doesn't say anything. All I can do is keep going.

"I married a professional poker player with a gambling problem. That should tell you everything you need to know about me. Not that I knew about it being a problem before we got married. He won tournaments and invested that money with businesses. Our penthouse apartment was from his earnings."

That's the okay part. If I stop now, it's all he has to know.

"Then he started losing games, but not all of them. Just enough that we were always playing catch up with the bills. I didn't think it mattered, because I had my job. We used my money to cover what he didn't make. Harry could keep playing. It made him so happy and when he was happy, I was happy."

Jake's wide-palmed hand rubs along my back. For how long will he do that? I've not gotten to the worst part, although he probably thinks he knows where this is going. Reema Patel, the foolish wife, happily putting her ex's needs on her back to carry.

If only that was the whole story. If only I were just the victim.

"You would think I learned my lesson eventually, especially when our savings dwindled to nothing, but I didn't. Like an idiot, I encouraged him to keep trying instead of quitting. I told him he was a great player and a great businessman."

"Can I ask why?" he says, finally speaking.

"Because when he believed in himself, it was good between us. When he didn't, he gave up on us. The marriage. It was either all working for him or nothing was."

"That's not your fault."

"No? I think you don't understand how desperate I was to keep it all together. Being picture perfect was all that mattered. Because there's never been a divorce in the family. Happy or not, generations of marriages have stayed together except mine. I was the first one who broke that streak."

He shifts his hold on me, so we're looking at each other again. There's nothing in his expression I can read. It's as if he's forced himself to stay as neutral as he can. "How can your family be mad you left him?" he asks.

My laugh is brittle. "But I didn't leave him. He left me."

Jake stares. A flicker of something crosses his eyes.

"He said I enabled him." Shame burns a straight line down my gut. "And I did, because I was scared and weak, and I didn't want him to leave me. So when he brought up divorce, I told him it couldn't be over. That we could still be good together. How I believed in him… "

When I don't continue, he says my name. "Reema?"

I'm covering my eyes and groaning. "I should stop. Tell me to stop."

"Don't stop."

"You're horrified, aren't you? It's like listening to a car crash."

"Heartbroken," he says softly. "For you. And… pissed."

I drop my hands and get off his lap. We're no longer touching. "At me?"

"At a man who places his addiction at the fucking feet of his wife."

"Did he?" I've wrung my hands together, and I'm shifting weight between my feet, practically shaking with tension. "Because I thought I could control it. I thought poker was his job. That maybe if he had a big win, we could get back to normal. That he wasn't swindling other businesses but helping them. That's why I didn't let him do any chores or worry about responsibilities. I took care of everything so he could spend time studying and practicing."

"You loved him."

"If that's love, I don't want it." I step backwards. "That kind of love twists you. It made me the gambler, not him. It was me, trying for some lucky combination of things to fix it all. Could I dress up differently for him? Compliment him more? Be at his side through everything? Trust him with all my savings? Withdraw money on a credit line and max it out? Drive him to the casinos? Push him to keep going? Book us a trip to Vegas together?"

He blinks. "You took him to Vegas…"

"Yup." I lift my hands into the air, then dropped them. "And he started winning, so I thought maybe this was it. We'd be okay, and he'd stop wanting to leave me, but then it all went to crap. He lost everything. All of it. More than all of it." Slumping down on the bed, I stare at the flower picture again. "Most of the debt was in my name, co-signed by me, and that hole I dug for myself is the worst mistake of my life—and I can't believe I just told you about it."

The bed sinks with the weight of him coming to sit beside me.

"I'm so sorry—" he starts.

"No, don't say that," I rush out. "I'm not ready to hear what you think."

As soon as I say the words to gag him, I feel shame. That's old Reema behavior and what got me into this mess in the first place. Hiding from hard truths. Not facing reality. After everything I've been through, I should know that pretending everything is peachy isn't the right way.

"I know we have to talk about it," I say, "but give me a minute. Please."

His hand shows up on my knee, upturned. I look down at how it waits. Slowly my fingers touch his as if unsure if he wants this. Jake immediately and rather fiercely interlaces us together. Well, fuck. I'm actually close to tears, I realize. If I let them out, this will be the second time I'll have blubbered on him. I don't want to do that. I don't want to make him feel guilty and pressured to manage my emotions. No, I told him all this so he could know what kind of person I was capable of turning into. That love once made me utterly spineless.

"I know you have a lot to say," I tell him. "Many questions. Or a need to cross-examine the situation. Don't worry, I understand. It's a lot, and I can give you facts and more facts about it. And if you could give me an opportunity, I'll tell you I'm trying to be different now. That I've spent all this time trying to build myself stronger. And maybe, hopefully, I can convince you I'm not the same person I used to be because taking ownership is how I want to move forward." My shoulders square themselves. "Either way, I'm ready. Ask what you need. Grill me."

I have a feeling he's gathering himself. As he does, I brace myself and concentrate on being internally strong, which is why his palm on my cheek startles me. A soft, barely there kiss presses on my mouth.

Before it can deepen, he pulls back.

"My mother used to do this thing," he says.

"W-what?"

"My brothers and I messed up pretty badly over the years, getting into trouble. Any time we got caught, she made us talk about it at the dining room table. But when it got too heavy or one of us got really upset, she'd put the whole thing on pause."

Before he can finish, I see where he is going. "Are you… putting this on pause?"

He reaches down and squeezes my hand. "If you want?"

"Yes," is out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Can we?"

"Okay."

"Good."

"Reema?"

"Yeah?"

"Before we do… Can I confirm something?" He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "It's selfish."

I shift to bring my legs up on the bed, so I'm sitting on my knees. My eyes feel bright. "Yes, please. Be aggressively selfish. Even this out for me."

He waits a long moment, and then asks, "Are you okay?"

"That's not a selfish question," I cry out.

"Isn't it? I'm pressuring you to reassure me."

"In what way?"

He lets out a kind of growl. "I can't shake the thought of you skipping fucking meals and not having a place to sleep. So I need to ask. I need to ease this miserable pain inside me. Are you okay?"

I lob a weak punch at his arm, because I don't know what else to do. The alternative is to wrap myself around him, but that feels more pressuring to me. "I should clarify, I'm almost out of debt, and the living room I am sleeping in is owned by Ms.Beatrice, a wonderful elderly woman. She and I play crosswords most nights, and it's humbling because she almost always wins. Don't worry, I stepped up and figured out the consequences of my own actions. Two years of scraping by and I'm close to being back on my feet." I pull his hands onto my lap. "I'm going to afford my own apartment soon. After the bonus—" I suck in a breath.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Why that look?"

"I—well—" I lift my shoulder. "You need the bonus, too."

Jake doesn't call me dramatic, even though, very dramatically, I've sagged down on the bed. "Ugh! I hate this! Why can't we both get it?"

Something I never thought I would ever wish for, but now it's all I want.

He deserves to buy the house back for his mother, especially after his family went through the death of his dad, regardless of how complicated that relationship was. But also, I need the money to reshape my life into what I dream of it being. To have a place I can be proud of after Ms.Beatrice moves to Florida to live with her grandchildren.

I feel the mattress bounce back up. Jake has left, but I don't see what he's doing until he clears his throat.

I blink repeatedly. Mostly because I can't believe what I'm seeing.

"What are you doing? Why have you gone on your knees?"

"You're the one fully lying on the mattress," he scolds.

It's true. I'm being wormy with despair and outrage. I raise myself up and scoot forward. Despite kneeling on the ground, I'm not drastically looking down at him. I could reach and run my hand through his hair or trace my fingers along his defined jaw. "You're too tall."

"Sorry?"

"You're not. But seriously, what are you doing?"

"I wanted to be as stagey as you when I say this."

Stagey? I've got this bubbling need to laugh at his description.

He clears his throat again. "The bonus is yours. Don't think about me."

If only it could be that easy, the not thinking about him. But I can't seem to box him or this week up and wrap it away tightly so it's not so there inside me, bursting at the seams.

"More than that," he says, "you earned it. You have forty-five million in your portfolio. You're brilliant and scrappy and murdered the competition. The bonus is yours."

This is why nothing should happen between two people gunning for the same prize. Why our Coliseum battles can't survive if feelings start to spread. Because here I am, feeling like garbage if I don't tell him?—

"You are going to hate me for how I did it. It… wasn't all within normal working hours."

I suck in a breath, waiting for regret to boulder into my stomach, because why did I confess that? He could report it to Mr.Davies. It would be in his favor to do that, especially if he needs the money like he does?—

He seems to be shaking his head. "I was right about something going on. Not surprising."

"I shouldn't have said anything!" I blurt out.

"Why? It's not like there seems to be a limit when it comes to being impressed by you."

I simply look at him.

He shrugs. "I'd have done the same. We don't like to lose."

"But you've lost to me."

"Did I?" He bends his head to kiss the exposed skin on my thigh.

"Don't do that," I say, trying not to tremble. "It's not fair. It'll give me shaky legs.

Dark green eyes peer up at me. "… And what else do I do to give you shaky legs?

I thread my fingers through his hair and grip. "As if I should feed your ego more, Coleman."

"It's Coleman now, is it?"

Well… no. I suddenly realize he hasn't been Coleman in my head this whole time. I've been thinking of him as Jake.

"Depends." I feel a blush try to stain my cheeks. "What's my name?"

He slowly smirks. "What was your name?"

I pull at his hair, and it makes his chin go down. "Goosebumps," he says, noticing the pebbles on my skin. "You're cold. Get under the covers."

He's bossing me around again. I could push back, but I would like to be wrapped in warmth. Preferably his warmth. We disentangle, and I crawl under the blanket, watching him get up. For a second, I think he's heading toward the door and my heart seizes in my chest.

It only starts beating again when he loops around to join me.

What was that sheer panic?

Hurriedly, I rest my head against his chest when he gets into the covers. No one speaks until I do again.

"Thank you. I know you're trying to make me feel better. Even though I know there's more we should talk about—but I'm not complaining. Let's—stay like this for now? In our bubble?—"

And focus on how easy and good it feels. Not how this week is over after tomorrow.

Jake agrees. As we sink in the pleasure of holding each other, lighter stories come loose under the waning light of the setting sun. As if we need to heal after everything we've shared with each other. He talks to me about his childhood. That his brothers are open scoundrels, so growing up he had to be a more clever scoundrel. That his mother is too kind, and soft, and that it brought them all to heel. That his father was a businessman who took Jake to buy his first suit, not losing his patience even when Jake tried on every single one in the store. How he'd been crowned runner-up at prom for Hottest Dude (he tells that one with smug arrogance), narrowly losing to the football quarterback.

And I tell him about how my first experience with boys and intimacy was at a school dance where I first saw teenagers gyrating on each other. That I couldn't bring myself to join in since the teachers were watching. How my parents loved going to India during our winter, so there were periods when I was left alone with Esha. That we'd have so many silly adventures in our own world, and that my parents weren't worried about anything happening since I was there. My hyper-conscientious brain wouldn't let anything go wrong.

After we talk about movies, I learn Jake is the type to read spoilers before watching them (blasphemy), and I'm the madwoman (his words) who can go to a theatre for a triple-feature without a break. We talk about snacks, hobbies, hopes, and dreams.

For our dreams we speak of vacations. I tell him I've never seen the ocean. He says he can operate a sailboat, but has never tried to steer one on the sea. A hum of a promise thuds in our hearts, surging at the possibility there is a future where we both get what we want. It's unspoken, but not silent, that it could be together.

Maybe my secret hasn't ruined everything.