Page 45 of The Rut in the Road

“Maybe,” he whispered back, and I couldn’t tell if his tone was skeptical about being able to come back or whether he just didn’t want to. He kissed me again, quickly, and then headed toward the door.

I sighed, then stood, first locking the door behind him after he left, then coming back into the kitchen to pack up the half of his pasta he hadn’t finished, sticking the little plastic lid on the top and folding the aluminum edges over the side. I put it in the fridge, then took my bowl and carried it back into the living area, settling myself in the beanbag chair.

I had my office-style chair, which was technically more comfortable, but whenever Raj was here, he always insisted that we sit together in the beanbag. It was a fairly large one, although most of Raj usually ended up on the floor, which he claimed not to mind. I could curl up in it myself, which I did, cradling my pasta bowl. I liked the fact that the beanbag retained some of Raj’s feelings—warmth, pleasure, affection—and now I preferred to sit there so that I could surround myself with those thoughts even when he wasn’t here.

It was sentimental, and I found it odd that I’d started to act that way, since emotions had rarely driven my choices in life. Butwhen it came to Raj Parikh, I’d let emotions drive almost every decision—from invading his dreams, which I knew I shouldn’t have done, to letting him kiss me, to dating him, to wanting him to stay over every opportunity we got.

Buying food I knew he would like, or at least appreciate, in the case of frozen pizzas that I could throw in on the nights that he worked late. Trying not to worry him, at least most of the time. Trying not to worryabouthim.

Sometimes it felt like having Raj in my life just made me more anxious, more likely to second-guess everything. Was he going to be upset about something I decided to do—like walk home? Was he going to be disappointed by the food I made him? Was he going to disapprove of how I wanted to spend time with him, reading or watching a movie instead of going for a hike? Not that I minded hiking, exactly, but even though I walked a mile to and from work every day, I didn’t have the kind of stamina he did.

Other than worrying about my safety—not wanting me to walk home from work on account of the hit-and-run killer—he’d never said anything about any of those things. Never complained about my fairly mediocre food or spending an afternoon or evening in my apartment. Never sighed or looked disapproving or anything like that.

But it still felt like I wasn’t doing enough. Like I couldn’t possibly be up to his standards.

I was starting to think that maybe I understood why he’d objected to the age difference between us. Not because I thought he was going to take advantage of me, or anything, but because sometimes it felt like he was a fully-fledged, responsible adult with a career who knew what he wanted out of life, and I… didn’t. I was twenty-five years old and hadn’t attended a single in-person class since first grade. The only job I’d ever had was at Beyond the Veil, and it wasn’t like I’dearnedthat. I could barelycook, and while I kept my apartment pretty neat and clean, I didn’t own much, so it wasn’t particularly difficult.

Add to all that the fact that my social skills were questionable at best and severely compromised by being a contact psychic, a witch, and occasionally getting distracted by dead people, and it was basically a miracle—as I understood the term, anyway—that anyone would even think about dating me, much less follow through with it for multiple months.

I took another bite of my pasta, although it seemed to have lost a lot of the flavor that had made it good when I’d first started eating it.

I knew this had nothing to do with the pasta itself and everything to do with the fact that my emotions were making me increasingly anxious about whether or not Raj actually wanted to keep me in his life—and, if he did, how long that was likely to last.

I didn’t like the fact that emotions were getting in the way of literally everything in my life. The food I cooked, the clothes I wore, the decisions I made about when to go out with Melissa and Sam, how late to stay at work… Literally everything.

I sighed, poking my fork at my dinner.

I knew I needed to eat it, even though it now tasted bland and even though I’d lost my appetite. I put another forkful in my mouth, chewing mechanically and hating the fact that even though it seemed like I was getting my life together, it felt like the opposite was happening.

I had the sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to get any better.

8

HUNGRY.

“Shit,”I muttered, immediately blocking out the shrieking thoughts of Grace Campion-Manning, Ward and Mason’s three-month-old daughter.

And no, I’m sureshedidn’t think in words any more than anyone else consciously thinks the wordhungrywhen they’re hungry. But it was clear that her thoughts were that she was hungry and absolutely nothing else.

I also knew it was Grace because I knew whose teething ring I had picked up off the floor. It had to be either Grace or Zane, and fauns were born with erupted teeth, so his were already chewed up. That, and Grace threw pretty much everything she could get her fat little green hands on.

At least I was getting skilled enough at blocking out other people’s thoughts that I could do it now without dropping whatever it was I was holding. In this case, a blue plastic ring filled with liquid that had little plastic suspended fish in it. I was actually kind of surprised Mason let Grace teethe on plastic, butI suppose the fact that you could freeze it probably made it more attractive for her sore gums.

I took the ring back into the kitchen, washing it before setting it in the dish-drying rack next to a sippy cup and two bottles with nipples. They were trying to move from bottles to cups with both babies, especially since Zane destroyed every nipple that got near his teeth.

I got the feeling that faun mothers probably weren’t much into breastfeeding, but I didn’t know any who could confirm that—not that even I was socially awkward enough to ask.

I rewarded myself for washing the ring by also making myself another cup of coffee. I’d been up late waiting to see if Raj would come back the night before, although he hadn’t. His text messages from this morning suggested that I wasn’t going to see him tonight, either. And probably not for a few more days after that. He hadn’t exactly said why—which I understood, given the fact that I didn’t work for the FBI, so he couldn’t really talk to me about cases that I hadn’t been given clearance to work on—but I got the impression that the hit-and-run case wasn’t the only thing keeping them busy.

It made sense, since I was under no illusions that they just sat there waiting for cases to come in. Raj and Hart had both complained about being overworked more than once, and I knew Raj sometimes felt guilty for the days he took off to spend with me. And I was fully aware that he frequently sent texts to people on his team about various things, especially when he didn’t think I noticed. It made me feel guilty in return for taking up time that he should be spending somewhere else.

I sipped at my coffee as I returned to the front desk, checking the time in the lower corner of the screen. I was supposed to meet Violette, and we were going to take the afternoon off together. Given that it was a Saturday, I didn’t feel particularly bad about it. It was my last Saturday night off for a month, and Iwas looking forward to seeing Vi’s apartment and learning more about her life down in Williamsburg.

Beck had a séance, and Ward was going with her because it was at a purportedly haunted house. Mason clearly hadn’t been thrilled with the idea, but Ward had pointed out that if the house actuallywashaunted, two mediums would be more use than one and a witch.

I’d almost offered to go with them, guilt at not helping conflicting with guilt about being a negligent big brother—and guilt at not being available if Raj called, although that was looking less and less likely based on the terrible spelling and punctuation in his texts. The more rushed and busy he was, the worse both got, and the last one had asked medjd u get any slip?I was assuming he had asked me about sleep, and also that he probably hadn’t gotten much, if any. I’d managed a few hours, but they’d been fitful.

I’d told himA little, and then hadn’t heard anything since.