Page 27 of Christmas On Call
“Without what?” Max pressed, even though part of her didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Without destroying everything I’ve built.” Asha’s voice cracked, just slightly. “You don’t understand what it’s like, Max. I’m already the ‘ice queen.’ The uptight doctor who doesn’t fit in. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am. The woman who’s too serious, too rigid, too—” She swallowed hard. “If people find out I’m—that we’re?—”
She didn’t finish, but Max heard it anyway.If people find out I’m gay. If they find out I’m sleeping with a nurse. If they find out I’m anything other than the perfect, controlled Dr. Patel.
Max felt something crack in her chest. “Are you ashamed of me? Do you not think I’ve worked hard too?”
“No. I’m not saying that.” Asha whirled around, eyes fierce and bright. “God, no. Max, you’re—” She took a shaky breath. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. Maybe ever. But that doesn’t change the fact that this is complicated.”
“I know it’s complicated,” Max said, trying to keep her voice gentle even though frustration was building behind her ribs. “I’m not asking you to announce it to the whole hospital. I’m not asking you to hold my hand in the NICU. I just—” She stopped, searching for the right words. “I don’t want to be your secret. Not forever. It’s not fair.”
“You’re not a secret.” Asha crossed the space between them, reaching for Max’s hand. “You’re mine.”
Max let Asha take her hand but couldn’t quite bring herself to squeeze back. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you want to keep me hidden. Like you’re ashamed of what we are.”
“I’m not ashamed of what we are,” Asha said, her voice breaking on the last word. “I’m terrified of losing everything else. My career, my reputation, my family, the respect I’ve spent years building. You don’t understand?—”
“Then help me understand,” Max interrupted, finally letting her frustration show. “Because right now, it feels like you’re saying I’m not worth the risk.”
Asha flinched like she’d been slapped. “That’s not—I didn’t mean?—”
“I know.” Max pulled her hand free, wrapped her arms around herself. “I know you didn’t mean it that way. But Asha, I can’t—” She stopped, took a breath. “I can’t keep being the thing you only want when no one’s watching.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy and painful. Asha’s eyes were too bright, her composure cracking at the edges.
“I’m sorry,” Asha whispered finally. “I’m asking too much. I know I am. I just need?—”
“Time,” Max finished for her, the word tasting bitter. “Let me guess. You need more time.”
Asha sighed, looking miserable.
Max wanted to push, wanted to demand more, wanted to say that love should be enough and why couldn’t Asha just be brave for once. But she looked at Asha’s face—pale, strained, barely holding it together—and found she couldn’t do it.
“Okay,” Max said quietly. “Take your time. But I can’t say I’ll be waiting forever.”
They stood in the small kitchen, the half-eaten Thai food growing cold, and Max felt the first real crack forming in what they’d built.
Asha apologized. Max said she understood. They moved to the couch and put on a movie neither of them watched, curled together in silence. When Asha left at midnight, her kiss was gentle but sad, and Max closed the door behind her feeling like she was losing something she’d barely had a chance to hold.
That night Max laid in bed; her mind lost in thought.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Asha.
I’m sorry. I know I’m asking too much. I just need to figure out how to do this. I never expected you to happen. I never expected to feel this way.
Max stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She wanted to type,I love you, but I can’t be your secret. She wanted to type,Choose me. Please just choose me.
Instead, she typed,I’m trying.
Max set the phone down, leaned her head back against the seat, and closed her eyes.
But what if Asha couldn’t stop hiding? What if the fear was too big, too deeply ingrained? What if Max kept waiting and waiting and it was never enough?
9
ASHA
Wednesday morning arrived with the bland efficiency of every other Wednesday: alarm at 5:47 AM, twelve minutes for shower and hair, coffee from the machine that tasted like burnt metal but delivered the necessary caffeine, then the drive to Oakridge through LA traffic that never quite cleared, no matter how early she left.
