In every relationship she’d ever had, someone was ruined and someone did the ruining. Danika didn’t want to play either role. Not with him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He knew what she meant. He always knew what she meant. “Don’t. Danika, don’t.”
“This was a mistake.”
He stepped back as if she’d slapped him. His expression crumpled like paper, and her heart did, too. “No,” he said. “We’re—we’re trying. Try with me, Dan. Give me something.”
“We tried,” she corrected, because she had to get the hell out of here before the first tears came and snapped her in two. “But trying didn’t work.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Four hours later, Zaf was standing on the rugby pitch, waving good-bye to the last of the lads, mentally patting himself on the back for pretending to be a real, live human during the length of a Tackle It session.
In reality, he wasn’t human at all. He was a thousand shattered pieces, and for the first time in a long time, he honestly couldn’t see a way to glue himself back together.
Trying didn’t work.
He couldn’t forget the look on her face, the horror and fear and disbelief when he’d told her he loved her. Why the fuck had he told her—when he knew how scared she was, when she’d just admitted how badly her twisted ex had fucked with her head—that he loved her?
Because he’d wanted her to be okay again, to stop worrying. He’d seen her panicking, and instead of remembering that she was Danika and she needed time and space, he’d treated her like she was someone else—someone who’d be pleased with a big I love you moment. Zaf realized that when he cared about something, he had a tendency to be . . . rigid. To draw harsh lines and stick to them, to follow the path he knew. But she’d asked for baby steps, and he’d fucking sprinted. Since when did following the perfect script matter more than the woman he actually wanted to be with?
Trying didn’t work.
He was still struggling to swallow that fact, its thorns drawing blood in his throat, when he looked across the field and spotted a familiar reed-thin figure haunting the edge of the pitch. Mint-green hijab, cream blouse and trousers, with matching mint-green shoes peeking out. Hollywood sunglasses and a tiny, glossy handbag. Hands on her hips and a posture that said, Ugh, grass.
Kiran.
Something in Zaf crumbled, just a little bit. He strode over and snatched her into a hug, lifting her off her feet.
“Watch it,” she groused, whacking him with the handbag. “You’re crushing my silk.”
He hugged harder. And she, despite her supposed annoyance, hugged back, grounding him like an anchor.
Kiran’s blood siblings, all sisters, were scattered across the globe: an engineer in Toronto, a scientist in Nairobi, an artist in Lahore. But Kiran was the type who found family everywhere, one of the shining silver links that held the shitty world together. She’d loved the Ansaris, loudly, from the start. And Zaf loved her, too.
After a while, she whispered in his ear, “Sweetie, are you crying?”
“No,” he said. “I’m leaking masculine pain from my eyeballs.”
Kiran laughed. Zaf tried to, since that had been the point of saying it, but he couldn’t quite make himself. Because he hurt. He was hurting. Just thinking the words chipped away at some cold, concrete dam inside him, and the full force of his technicolor feelings spilled out like the world’s most violent waterfall. Fuck, he thought. Nope, no thanks, don’t want that. But it came anyway.
“Ouch,” he muttered, and put Kiran down so he could rub his chest.
She peered up at him, concern creasing her brow. “Zaf. What the hell happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” She shot the word back at him with a spade of skepticism.
Jamal strolled over, which was a surprise, because Zaf had been so out of it he’d kind of forgotten his friend was even on the pitch. “I called Kiran because you looked like you were dying and you wouldn’t talk to me.”
“You’re a snitch,” Zaf muttered.
“And when I was leaving,” Kiran interjected, “Fluffy told me that if you’re upset it’s probably because you’re in love with your fake girlfriend.”
“Your daughter,” Zaf said, “is also a snitch.”
“Or you’re just really obvious,” Jamal supplied.
Kiran pointed a finger at him. “You’re not helpful. Go and finish clearing up.” She hooked her arm through Zaf’s, which might have been awkward if they didn’t have years of experience navigating the height difference, and tugged him off down the field. “Let’s walk.”
“All right,” he sighed, leaving Jamal huffing indignantly behind them.
After a few strides and long moments of silence, she nudged Zaf in the ribs. “And talk. Let’s walk and talk.”
“About?” he asked dully, as if he didn’t know.
“Stop being annoying before I hit you with my bag again.”
Really, what were sisters even for?
Making you feel human when you’re teetering on the brink of abandoning your mortal name and moving into a box in the woods.
Well, yeah. There was that.
“This morning I told Dani I loved her. And she didn’t believe me.”
Kiran stared at him. “Oh. Oh, dear. How long have you two been dating for real?”
“Er . . . At that point, about twelve hours. Depending on your perspective.”
Kiran stared at him some more. Then she whacked him with her bag.
“Ow. What? I talked!”
“Let me guess. You sprang all the emotional stuff on her before she was ready, she reacted badly, and now you’re moping around like someone peed in your cereal.” Kiran threw up a hand, which contained the Bag of Terror, and Zaf tried not to flinch in response. “Men.”
“I know I messed up,” he said. Holy
