Seriously?
“Shit, Yosh. Is that what’s on your mind?”
That plants even more doubt in my head. Didn’t he feel what I felt yesterday?
That kiss had been everything. Had it not meant a thing to him? Or maybe he feels all of it and he’s afraid I’m backing out? That’s not the case at all.
I grab his hands. His shoulders ease under my touch.
“This has nothing to do with you, Yosh.”
And just like that, I roll headfirst into the infamous it’s not you, it’s me death trap. The one that usually means it has everything to do with you.
He shakes his head, a little ironic half-smile tugging at his mouth before he pulls his hands out of mine.
Fuck.
I rake a hand through my hair.
“There’s so much I need to figure out. You. Me. My family. This whole crazy place…”
I wave my hand vaguely at the wall, at the madness that is Arcadia.
“I need to work on some music. Get my head straight. The fact that I need that doesn’t mean I feel any different about you. No situations. Like I promised the other day.”
I rest my hand on his knee. “I like you, Yosh. I want to keep it that way. No bad vibes.” A pause. “If I’m craving bad vibes, I’ll just call Jay.”
Finally, the smile I was waiting for.
“I’ll come back when I’m done recording. I swear.”
And with that, I offer him my pinky.
He looks at my finger, then lifts his too, curling it tight around mine.
He’s accepting my promise, but it’s more than that.
When he looks up at me, there’s a strong pull on my finger. As if he’s saying,If you don’t come back, I’ll find you and drag your sorry ass back here.
Maybe that’s just me being dramatic. Secretly, I kind of hope he throws me over his shoulder.
Chapter twenty-eight
Yosh
Yoga usually fixes all the turmoil in my head, but today’s class didn’t give me the peace I desperately needed. I murmur a few polite goodbyes and evening wishes as my attendees pass by, leaving me alone in the quiet meditation garden.
Adjusting my posture again, I inhale deeply.
Exhaustion and anxiety are a terrible mix. One wants me to shut down, but the other won’t let me. I can’t let either of them take the lead.
I focus on the chirping of a Venezuelan troupial, its call close to a pan flute—or maybe an ocarina. Tom would probably know which one it matches.
Just letting his name pass through my mind triggers a spike of wired tension.
Suddenly, everything irritates me. The fabric of my shirt scratches against my chest; my scalp stings where my hair is tied too tight. I tug it free, letting my bun collapse into something messier, less painful. Then I exhale, all the air leaving my lungs.
Ten years. Almost a third of my life spent becoming a surgeon, only to quit and leave it all behind because I’m scarred with an open wound that never stops bleeding.
