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I’m inside the bathroom, washing my face. Komal is on the other side of the door.
The last words she said to me are clear in my head.
“Shreya chose me. No one else knows, but I’m adopted. I was plucked from a slum she visited before she was famous. And before you say anything, I know it saved me. Because when I went back I saw the kids that were never chosen, it was bad.”
After she told me about being adopted, she had slumped down on the bed as if the confession drained her.
“I need a second,” she had said.
That’s why I left. If I stayed, I would have framed her face with my hands and told her,You don't have to earn your place. Don't you dare think you have to pay back your existence. The notion is fucking absurd.
I couldn't though, because she needed me to leave. She asked twice.
The conversation keeps running through my head.
Shreya chose her. Others weren’t chosen.
Still—thinking her guilt lives between the fraction of that decision makes me want to lose myself in an operation, guns out. Adrenaline, where the only choice is to shut out the world because otherwise your team won’t survive. It quiets the anguish, something I am very familiar with. The last time I did that to myself, Becca had died. That made absolutely no sense either.
Should I have said that? Should I have mentioned how I can understand?
But then, I can't make it about me. Right? I don’t know. With her, all my tactical knowledge of survival and winning against odds doesn’t matter. With her, I don't always know what to say or do.
How do I help?
I can’t say the wrong thing. I can’t do the wrong thing.
Not with her.
The first time I met Komal, my impression was cupboard china.
How was I to know her smiles weren’t all the same, and that if you looked really close, the differences were obvious? The one with no teeth is when she wants to be wallpaper, so the focus is on whatever her mother is doing, whether it be at a charity event or an industry party. When she shows her teeth, it’s after she’s checked a few times and confirmed there are no cameras around. Her friends get those the most. And the one that creases the corners of her eyes is sarcastic. Her tone is light, but her eyes squint like she has this whole other narrative spinning around in her head.
My fingers clench the sink. I’m wrapped up in the smiles she has.
And after London, I have a new favourite.
It’s her smirk. The one that makes me want to spank her. To make her moan before I do other unspeakable and very detailedthings to her body. I love it when she is being a flagrant brat, deliberately provocative, a bull testing the resistance of the walls to see what pushes back. When she gives me her smirk, it comes with a demand.She asks me to push back. That I understand now.
Fuckthat’s all I would love to live to do.
But if I keep doing that, I’ll want it forever.
The bodyguard and the woman he’s bound to protect.
Even she must know. It makes no sense.
My job is about patterns and reading the room. My focus can’t be split or stray. It can’t be absorbed, as if she is the only one in front of me. That compromises her safety, and I know for a fact it’s already happening. That’s why this is our last assignment. I’m asking to be transferred after London. There's no other option left, not after I've already touched her. It's for the best, I convince the knotted-up grief inside me.
As I stare at myself in the mirror, my mind races.
I’ve left her alone for too long. Is she okay? I need to check.
I’ll make sure she is okay, ask her if she wants to talk about her feelings and the adoption, and then I’ll excuse myself. This isn't the only assignment where I don't get to sleep. It's just never been for this kind of reason. One bed where staying beside her is not an option. I've lost too much control already.
When I go back inside the room, the first thing I notice is Komal’s voice. The lights are dim, but I see she’s lying on her side and speaking.Is she on the phone?
“—if that makes sense?”
