Page 48 of You Can't Hurt Me

“Anna, I—” he starts, his face looks strained, even a little gaunt. “We should talk.”

“No, really,” I say, flatly. “There’s nothing more to say.”

There is everything to say. My life is more complicated than he can ever imagine. Nate assumes he took control that evening, cutting short our kiss when we were interrupted, but the exact timing was down to Tony.

I find it hard to meet his eye, follow my finger instead as it traces a faint silver-gray vein on the marble countertop. His hand moves across the stone surface, the edge of his fingertips graze mine. “I should apologize. I feel it’s my fault. I had no right to put you in that position and I promise you whatever did or—didn’t happen,” he falters. “I won’t tell anyone and I assume you won’t either.”

“Absolutely not, no. Forget about it. I have. It’s gone.” I brush my hand in the air as if to flick it away. “We’re working together, let’s leave it at that.”

“Really?” He searches my expression and I reflect back at him what he most likely wants to see. Relief, indifference.

“Yup, really.” I smile, breaking eye contact to rummage through my bag for my notebook. “So. I’ve been planning a new way into the material and here’s how I think it’ll work.” He takes a moment to recalibrate as I flip through the many pages of dense notes. I stand up and so does he.

“Right,” he says crisply. “Shall we make a start?”

Initially, it takes an iron will to concentrate, sitting side by side. I hunch over the desk, legs folded to one side. He leans back, hands clasped behind his neck, our eyes steadfastly fixed on the screen.

“Something like this?” I say, as we scrutinize an unfinished chapter on-screen.

Chapter 3—Meeting You

That first day you came into my office, I heard you before I saw you. Your voice quiet yet forceful, pointed and assured. Delicate, fine-featured, your sea green coat matched the color of your eyes. Long raven black hair skirted your shoulders, kinking up at the ends. You had sloping bangs that fell across your eyes. I remember you would tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear any time you struggled to find exactly the right word to describe your symptoms.

We were used to working with people who were suffering acute pain, where even a featherlight touch to their skin would cause intense agony. You were the polar opposite, your features perfect, your complexion flawless. I couldn’t help thinking you were a glowing testament to the potential of a pain-free existence.

“Long raven black hair and her complexion flawless? A little over the top?”

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” I counter. “You’ve said yourself that she looked absurdly youthful, unblemished by anxiety or pain.”

“You know you make her sound a lot more glamorous than she was.”

“Wasn’t she?” I ask. You only have to look at images of her online, every inch the old-school film noir siren, liberated, desirable and desiring. Why does he want to play that down? When I think I’ve got closer to her essence, it’s as if he’s trying to lead me away. But I say nothing. I compromise and slowly we become experts in deciphering one another’s micro-responses; a tut, a raised brow or even a cough is a cue for one of us to rephrase or re-angle.

But still, I can’t help myself. I am irresistibly drawn to guessing her likes, her tics and preferences. I have a Pinterest board in my mind devoted solely to her tastes: vintage turquoise necklaces, Zelda Fitzgerald, Talitha Getty in Marrakech, Smythson stationery, every dress by The Vampire’s Wife. “Eva wouldn’t like that,” I sometimes blurt out, as if the character I’ve conjured up on the page is an old friend.

“How would you know?” He throws me increasingly strange looks. “Surely you can’t intuit all that from just a fifteen-minute phone interview?”

“I’m a journalist. I can find out a lot in fifteen minutes.” I shrug.

When we wired you up with sensors in the Pain Laboratory, your lack of response to pain was strangely mesmerizing. My team fell silent as we observed you chatting, asking questions, oblivious to the burns and pinpricks marking the delicate skin inside your arm.

“Feel anything now?” I asked you, knowing already what the answer would be. In that moment, I realized it was nature’s cruelest trick to deny you the privilege of pain.

Nate reads the last line out loud twice, emphasizing the final three words.

“I like that.” He leans back. “Was that me?”

“Nope, afraid not. One of mine.”

“Really?”

I look up and check the time but Nate’s in the zone.

“Come on,” he urges. “Next chapter.”

That day rapidly becomes a blueprint for the rest and a shorthand evolves. As Eva takes center stage, it is easier for us to bury any messier feelings we may have had, and the more I am able to enjoy this strange little universe we’ve carved out in the seclusion of his study, intimate but respectful. We inch forward, like a forensic team on its knees picking through the debris, sculpting a version of his past and hers.

It seems to be working. For the first time Priya is content with the updates, and we’re hitting our deadlines.

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