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“Do you agree that there are biological and genetic factors associated with a person developing a mood disorder?” she asked. “You do know what a mood disorder is, right, Dr. Saraci? Anxiety? Depression?”
He looked directly into her eyes, no doubt searching to expose a weakness even she didn’t know she possessed. Instantly, she regretted not wearing a scarf.
“Miss Daniels, if that’s your rebuttal, you’ve already lost the argument,” he said. “There’s a wealth of research on the relationship between genes and the neurotransmitters responsible for mood disorders.”
“Then why is it so hard for your small mind to understand that those same neurotransmitters…you know,brain chemicals…mightplay a role in eating disorders?”
He leaned forward. “Mywhat?Miss Daniels,has it ever occurred to you that maybe it would benefit you to listen to me? That my knowledge would be an asset to someone like you?”
“Someone like me?” She leaned toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean, someone like me?”
In a room filled with people she was certain he saw as otherwise “deserving” of his “intellect,” the man had soughtherout like a missile, despite multiple opportunities to talk himself out of it during the thirty-foot jaunt it had taken him to reach her.
“Actually, Saraci, let me explain something to you,” she prefaced. “See, in your world of medicine, you pick apart human systems. You have adualisticview of the mind and body, separating thoughts and feelings from blood vessels and connective tissue. It’s like you practice so much medicine, your brain,” she tapped her temple, “has no more room for science. Developing an eating disorder if a family member has had one is at least ten times greater than if there’s no family history. Women, especially Black women,” she motioned to herself, “are at an increased risk of eating disorders, but many of us believe that itjust doesn’t happen to us,which can result in feelings of shame and reduce help-seeking behavior. And I hope I don’t have to explain how eating disorders can lead to serious consequences, like hypoglycemiccomas. I have a chance, a real chance, to help people who’ve felt overlooked, people with real conditions who want someone toseethem, and I’m going to take it, even if it takes parts of me. Now, would you like me to go into molecular genetics?”
He continued to stare at her.
She didn’t look away.
Animals often used staring to assert dominance, and no one could convince her this man wasn’t at least fifty percent feral.
“I think…I made a mistake,” he said, his voice considerably lower.
Her younger brother, O.B., often said she had a temper. Delilah, her younger sister, often said she had too much “fight” in her. But what did they expect her to do in situations such as these? Why should she allow someone to not only be dismissive but then try to actively dismiss her?
While her brother was a different story, she’d assumed her sister would understand how difficult it could sometimes be to wield a softer, feminine voice—at no one’s fault but hormones and genes—in a room spilling over with leaping Adam’s apples.
“I’m a mistake?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, approaching you was.”
“You’re free to leave.”
“Not until I figure out why you’re being willfully dense about—”
Suddenly, red fluid dripped from his dark hair down the middle of his face, to his chin, and then finally onto that crisp white shirt.
Slowly, she returned her now empty wine glass to an upright position. While he didn’t deserve assault by alcoholic beverage, she’d been expecting him to leave after his last series of comments. Instead, he’d eased closer. Then he’d dipped his head, no doubt to sink his fangs into the large vein in her neck.
Both siblings also said she had a tendency to be dramatic, but the mancouldbe a vampire. Someone who’d been alive for hundreds of years would have undoubtedly, by now, learned the art of blending in.
She set the glass on the tabletop, guilt spreading in her stomach, and ignored the pairs of eyes now aimed in their direction.
“I’m…so sorry,” she said.
He sucked on his lips. “I will say this. You have excellent taste in wine, Miss Daniels.”
She unraveled a cloth napkin from a set of utensils and extended it in his direction. “I’ll pay for whatever cleaning you need to get those stains out. The name’sRainaDaniels if you need my full name for the lawsuit.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time and money on lawyers for something this trivial.” He tucked his fingers underneath the seat of her chair, turned her to face him, dragged her closer, and tilted his head. “Go on.”
“Go on, what?”
“You’re holding a napkin, and I have your wine all over my face. You made a mess, Raina Daniels.” His blood-sucking-predator eyes flickered. “Clean it up.”
After several stunned seconds, she pressed the napkin to his face and dabbed until he was dry, but red stains remained lightly visible on his skin.
“I did the best I could.” She handed him the wine-dampened cloth. “But you’ll probably need a shower to get rid of the stains.”
