Page 122 of Fire
He stares at the floor momentarily, and it seems to sink in. “It only happens when I play?”
I nod, feeling the emotions starting to clog in my throat again. “That, and the fact that there isn’t much pain associated with it.”
“Just a dull ache sometimes,” he agrees.
“Eric and I believe you have a condition called focal dystonia. It’s a neurological disorder. Rare, but not unheard of among musicians. People in task-specific professions, like writers or athletes, are also susceptible. Your brain essentially misfires during precise movements, causing your hand and fingers to become unresponsive. That’s why it only happens when you’re playing or mimicking a chord sequence.”
His gaze remains fixed on the floor. I want to reach out, pull him into my arms, and hold him, but I can’t get a read on him without looking into his eyes.
Does he hate me yet?
Will he ever trust me again?
“You said you and Eric believe I have this focal…whatever. But you’re not sure?”
“No, neither of us can make an official diagnosis. You’ll need to see a neurologist for that.”
His voice sounds so far away. “But both you and Eric are fairly certain?”
I nod, feeling overwhelmed with guilt at this admission. “I had my suspicions when I suggested we go see Eric in Seattle, but I didn’t want to freak you out. When I watched you play in LA, I just knew something wasn’t right. I didn’t tell Eric because I was worried I might be jumping to conclusions, but when he called me last week with the final test results, he brought it up. He told me he had a patient with similar symptoms about a year ago.”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me?”
My lip starts to wobble, and I have to bite down on it to keep from falling apart again. “Because I wasn’t thinking like a doctor,” I answer. “I once told you how I dreamed of becoming that woman I saw in the mall, who could raise her hand in a crowd and help in an emergency, who could help people. But when it came to protecting someone I—” My voice catches.
“Someone you what?” His gaze finally meets mine. It’s intense. His blue eyes are blazing. “Someone you what, Zara?”
“Someone…I love,” I finally say. “I love you, Hendrix.”
“Fucking hell.” His voice is hoarse as he rubs his eyes into the heel of his palm. “I need to get Zander a fruit basket.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head and…smiles. “Just—god. Say it again.”
I start to cry again. “You don’t hate me?”
“Why would I hate you? I fucking love you, Zara.”
“You do?”
“Are you kidding?” He pulls me onto his lap. His body is warm, familiar, and safe. It feels like home. “I think I’ve been in love with you ever since you turned me down in college.”
“But what about the diagnosis and the contracts and?—”
He places a single finger on my lips. “Someone very wise recently told me to take a look at my life and figure out the one thing I couldn’t live without.” I stare into his eyes as he brushes a tear off my cheek. “I’ll give you a guess, Cupid. It’s not fame or money. It’s not even music. It’s you. My heart has been waiting ten long years for you, baby. And I’m done waiting. So whatever future lies ahead, we’ll tackle it together.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my whole damn life,” he assures me. “Now, say it again.”
I smile, feeling like I’ve just been given the greatest gift in the world. “I love you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
HENDRIX
It’s barely four in the fucking morning again, and I’m wide awake. My mind is racing, and I’m trying to resist the urge to reach for my phone and type in the words focal dystonia in the search bar on Google.
