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Dhruv stood in the lamplight with a red camellia in his hands and a shy smile on his face. He was impossibly dear to me, and I resisted the self-protective instinct that would close the door rather than risk even a fraction of my heart. It was far too late for that, but the instinct remained, and I made myself step back to let him in.
The first step was the hardest, the smile was easier, and when he lifted my hand to his lips, a lock turned on my heart and the heavy gate swung open. Dhruv handed me the flower as he hung his coat on the peg.
“You may put it in water if you like, but I had a different wish for the camellia if you’ll allow it.”
It was a beautiful bloom full of soft petals the color of ripe strawberries, and I quelled the instinct to question his intent. I handed the flower back to him. “It’s beautiful, and I trust you.”
A breathtaking smile lit up his face. The smile was entirely mine, even if it was just for this moment.
“I …” I began haltingly, “have things to say to you, and I am afraid.”
Dhruv stepped closer to me, and concern – for me, I thought – clouded his eyes. “When I am afraid, I find that talking about the fear itself takes away its power and allows me to look at the thing which causes it through clear eyes.”
My laughter was short and self-deprecating. “How is talking about the fear any different than speaking about the thing that makes you afraid?”
His smile, which had dimmed with concern, played at the corners of his mouth. “Shall I show you?”
He was giving me time to gather my courage, and I was grateful. I stepped back and indicated he should sit, while I poured our tea. “Discussions like these are best had over cake,” I said with an answering smile of my own.
“A sentiment with which I entirely agree,” he said as he stood across from me at the kitchen table, then waited for me to sit before seating himself. He took a bite, and an expression of such bliss crossed his face that I had the sudden desire to discover everything he loved, just so I could see that expression again.
His eyes were still closed as he savored the chocolate, and when he spoke, his voice sent shivers of pleasure over my skin. “I have never tasted a cake with so much flavor. It’s as though you’ve found the essence of the chocolate and coaxed it into revealing itself by wrapping it in everything comforting.”
Then he looked at me, and he was no longer speaking of cake. “My own fear is that I am not enough. I was not Indian enough for my Auntie to keep me after my mother died. I was not white enough for my father to love me, nor for his family to accept me. Becoming a police inspector was a way that I could prove I was enough, but instead, with every crime I investigate, every victim I meet, my job shows me all the ways I fail to keep people safe.”
I sipped my tea for something to hold so he didn’t see the way my hands trembled.
“The time I’ve spent with you these past days,” he continued, “the words we’ve exchanged, the feeling of your hand on my arm – it has made me feel strong and alive and whole. You see me, and I feel seen. Your honesty and trust make me reach into myself for my own truths, and now, perhaps my biggest fear is that I am not enough for you.”
I sipped my tea and gathered my courage, buoyed by the things he’d shared with me.
“I am afraid,” I whispered, “that when you know my secrets, you will not see me, you will only see them. You will feel lied to, and if it doesn’t destroy us entirely, it will make the trust between us a fragile, unstable thing.”
I looked away so he couldn’t see the tears gathering behind my eyes, and he reached across the table for my hand.
“Olivia, do you trust me?”
I sniffed and swiped at my eyes with a laugh. “For now.”
He smiled sadly. “Will you let me show you why I brought you a red camellia?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
He brought the flower with him around the table to the bench where I sat. Then he stood directly behind me. “Lean against me,” he said quietly, and his warm body was strong at my back as I did as he said.
Gentle fingers began plucking the pins from my coiffeur and placing them on the table. I fought the urge to pull away, and slowly, gradually, I relaxed into the feeling of his hands in my hair.
“Your hair was the first thing I noticed about you. The color of it reminds me of the sand on the beach in India, when the sun was at the horizon and the light was golden. Only when a wave came in could I see all the browns and golds in the sand, and it was through water that the secret beauty was revealed.”
More pins came out until my hair tumbled loosely down my back. Dhruv’s long, elegant fingers continued to comb gently through the heavy mass, and I closed my eyes to listen to his voice.
“You once wished for a substance that was clear like glass, but not brittle, to construct a box to hold the hardships that shaped you. What about water? What if you looked at those experiences through a water filter – still recognizable as memories, but the kind without solidity, so they run through your fingers if you try to clutch them? What power would they have then?”
His fingers continued to comb through my hair and calm the nervous energy that had been bubbling through me all night. My eyes remained closed as I finally opened my mouth to speak.
“I met Brian Desmond at school. Haileybury was a boarding school for boys, and when my father sent me there, my name was Oliver MacKenzie.”
I waited for the hesitation in his fingers, for the stuttering of breath, or the tensing of muscles at my back, but nothing had changed. His hands remained gentle as his fingers wove through strands of my hair, his body was relaxed and supported my back, and his breaths were even and calm.
