Page 80 of The Bodyguard Proposal

"Ms... Chahal."

“If there is any way she could hear you after she has passed, I think a sister will want to listen. From everything you’ve told me about her, your feelings were important to her.”

He tries to hold back a flinch, but I catch the tiny movement. “My feelings made her suffer longer.”

Bad timing, but the server brings over tiered plates loaded with pastries. He recants the menu, and it looks like Willy Wonka meets Prada, but I can’t focus on the handbag cake with frosted stitching directly in front of me.

When our server leaves again, I lean forward. “So your solution is to pretend feelings don’t exist?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing about your movie?” Huan says, without judgement, but like a fair point is being made.

“Fine, we’re both repressed,” I volley back. “But in my case, I’m trying to be logical about career options. You… with you, it’s about family and love. That’s so important and complicated.”

I don’t know his sister, but I know Huan, and I feel like I know some of her through him. I don’t believe his sister wants him standing forever in guilt. “And fine, don’t forgive your past actions”—I’ve stabbed the pretty purse cake now, but I need an outlet to keep my tone soft—“but look at how you’ve changed. Trust me when I say you have, and trust that my word matters because I’m not the nicest person.”

When Huan makes a refuting noise, I barrel on.

“I’m not, even though I try really hard. There are days I wonder whether I’m truly a good daughter, friend, or person… or whether I’ve just gotten good at calculating what the right thing to do is. It's hard to know when you're so attuned to what people want. It's never hard for me to find that out. And then, simply, it's a matter of delivering on their needs or expectations." I pause. "I'm not saying this because you need to hear it. I'm just telling the truth. Maybe you were different when you were younger when everything happened, but I know the man who sits across from me now.”

“Are you so sure?” he asks, his voice whisper-soft.

I meet his guarded gaze. “Tell me you don’t know me.”

“You hate being polite.”

“See. No one knows that.”

“You don’t let them know that.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “And yet you somehow stillknowit. Because you have an inordinate amount of patience and skill at observing people. You look and watch and wait. And I’m not saying the suffering and grief you went through happened for a reason because fuck that, but it changed you. You are so careful now, and it sometimes makes me want to scream, even though I’m understanding it more.”

“Promise me you’ll say something if acting in Pollywood doesn’t make you happy.”

This man!

“We were talking about you, but you always turn it back on me.”

“Yes.”

“Got no problem loving that part of yourself, do you?” I snark.

His mouth finally tilts up. As I consider his reaction, I’m shooting daggers at him. Silently, we eat some of the pastries. They are delicious. As I bite into an earring-shaped profiterole, I wonder about Huan. Previously, I’ve thought of him as a martyr or someone disproportionately serious about job duties, but I’m realizing he communicates through acts of service. It’s tied to his identity, and maybe his—if not happy, then deeply content—place.

That’s fine.

It doesn’t change this growing need inside me. To care for him back as he cares for me.

Picking my chair up, I scoot closer, and I see how his shoulders tighten at that. He's aware of every bit of distance between us.

“Whenever you want to visit your sister, I’ll come with you. Obviously you will have privacy, but I’ll fly with you, hang around Beijing, do whatever you want, and then we’ll fly back home together.”

He blinks. Rapidly. I’ve stunned him, so he needs a few tries before speaking. “I… I can’t be your bodyguard after this trip.”

A low buzzing is in my ears. I’m not sure I heard what I said. I don't think I could have. Mutely, I watch him knead his thighs with his hands. My brain is exceptional at picking things up, but I'm having trouble processing this statement. He. Can’t. Be. My. Bodyguard. After. This. Trip.

Words don’t make sense. Perhaps Huan can see that. He goes again.

“Komal, I—I can’t be around you anymore.”

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