Page 87 of If I Loved You Less
“You do not need to pretend,” he says, voice soft. “Not with me.”
I turn to look at him, really look at him, and I feel something sharp in my chest, something blazing, like a shooting star, magical and bright – or a shooting arrow, sharp and painful. I cannot tell which.
I don’t know how I could have missed it, how I could have seen him thousands of times before and never felt this: this pain, sudden and swift, piercing through me.
Everyone has always thought him handsome, and I always found him perfectly tolerable, but now – now I cannot fathom him as anything but beautiful.
It is his soul that I see, and my own that comes roaring to the surface in response.
Something changes in the air between us. His eyelids lower, and he leans forward.
With a gasp, I jolt back, and so does he.
He shakes his head.
Was he about to kiss me? Is that what that was?Well, that was new.
He should go. This was certainly against the rules.
But I don’t tell him to. Perhaps we only make rules to see who we are willing to break them for.
He gets up and leaves, and I release a breath, trying to steady myself. He returns a few moments later, and when he does, there’s a thermometer in his hands. He sits back down, leaning over my legs toward my mouth.
“Open up,” he orders. I do as instructed, and his gaze falls to my mouth. His lips part as I lift my tongue, and for a moment, he doesn’t do anything but stare at my lips. My cheeks heat.
Then, with a shake of his head, he sticks the thermometer in, shifting his focus to it.
Surely, my temperature will increase now.
“How do you feel?” he asks, taking the thermometer out to check. “Your fever has gone down.”
It surely doesn’t feel that way.
“It’s nothing,” I say, waving a hand. “Just a little cold.”
“Good.” He pauses, then looks at me. Something in his expression makes me stop breathing entirely. “I believe I am ill as well, though my affliction is of a different sort.”
His eyes burn into mine. I suddenly feel feverish once more.
Instinctively, I press my cold fingers against the pulse in my throat. The act centers me when my emotions are spilling out of hand.
With my fingers curled around my throat, it feels like I am holding my heart, the quick and steady pulse just beneath my fingertips.
And if I can hold it, I can contain it.
But this cannot be contained.
ChapterTwenty
Rizwan comes again in June, which isn’t at all relevant to me, seeing as I’m over him entirely. He calls me, and I consider not picking up, but then I remember what Shanzay said the morning after Haya’s wedding, and I answer immediately.
“I’d like to go on a picnic,” he eventually says, after we’ve exchanged niceties.
“Excellent idea!” I say. “I’ll invite everyone.”
“Everyone?” he repeats. “Yes – sure.”
I know my meddling days are behind me, but surely this does not count? In the two months that have passed since the wedding, Shanzay’s ankle healed, and it seems her heart has as well.
