There’s no reply, and I don’t hear a sound from the inside. For a moment I think I have the wrong door. Or maybe Rashid gave me the wrong address. On purpose? But no, the concierge didn’t contradict me when I said I’m here to see Mr Chaudhury, room number 16. Then the door suddenly opens, and there he is: my Rashid.

He looks dishevelled. More than I’ve ever seen him. Hair sticking up in every possible direction, his shirt crinkled as if he slept in it. All the scenarios and speeches that I’ve come up with in my head on the way here are gone when I see him.

“I don’t want him to win,” is all I can stammer. I don’t even know who I’m referring to. Sam… or my dad? Or both.

He nods, slowly, and before I can react, his arms are around me, hugging me tight, his face buried in my neck. His words are so muffled I can hardly hear them: “Do you want to break up with me?”

It is in this moment that I realise that breaking up was actually never something I wanted to do. This might sound weird. It probably is. I just can’t bear the thought of losing Rashid. When I braced myself for the fight that I knew was coming – had this been only this morning? It feels like it happened a lifetime ago – I’d accepted that ending our relationship was the most likely, maybe the only possible, outcome. But it was never the outcome I wished. I didn’t want to look at him, be near him, have him touch me or kiss me, because deep down I was afraid it would be our last time.

My throat is just so tight that no words come out, so I only shake my head.

He hugs me even tighter and murmurs something against my skin. The question that terrifies me so much more is one only Rashid can answer. Finally, I manage to ask, my heart pounding in my chest as if it means to free itself of my body:

“Are you… breaking up… with me?”

He lets go of me just enough to look at me and takes my face into his hands. His eyes search mine. I can see all kinds of emotions run across his face. Some I can’t really identify, but there’s shock, pain and guilt, all flickering across this face. He’s usually such a master of concealment if he wants to be. Then his arms are around me again, and he whispers: “Never.”

Time has lost its meaning while we embrace in front of his hotel room door. It’s not until we hear a pointed clearing of a throat – loud, deliberate, and full of judgement – from another hotel guest down the corridor that we decide we should probably take this inside.

Rashid’s room is as cosy as the hotel itself. The walls are painted in a soft, sandy beige, and the hardwood floors are a deep chestnut brown. The bed looks big and comfortable, with a striped bed runner across the foot in a palette of warm, earthy tones. The headboard extends to the ceiling and opposite wall, so it almost looks like a canopy. It is very Rashid, full of heart and warmth.

Rashid still stands by the door, looking a little forlorn. He gestures a bit helplessly at the bed.

“Do you want to…?” Then he realises what this might sound like and scratches his forehead awkwardly. “I mean…”

I wonder if the ghost of my past still lingers between us. Yes, some of my clients took me to motel rooms to have sex with me. Never one that’s so nice, though. More the ones that you pay for by the hour. A hotel room meant more privacy and less danger of being interrupted. It also meant you were at the mercy of your client because there was less chance of someone coming to your aid in case you needed it.

I know Rashid meant “do you want to sit down” and not “do you want to have sex”, so I just offer a small smile and shake my head.

“There’s a balcony…?” he offers, and I follow him outside. It’s small and overlooks the pool area. It’s like time travelling back to the 1950s. The pool is a simple rectangular shape with the last rays of sunshine glistening on the surface of the blue water. Metal lounge chairs cushioned with striped fabric line the concrete. Round, green and yellow umbrellas offer shade to those seeking respite from the sun during the day. I wonder if this is where Rashid spent the day, sunbathing and swimming. Looking at his current state, I somewhat doubt it.

We stand at the balcony railing, our hands almost touching, and a cool breeze brushes past us. I know it’s my turn to say something, say what I’ve come here for, anything. I just don’t really trust my voice, but I know I have to talk first.

I clear my throat to make myself sound steady and calm as best as possible: “Can I start…?” Rashid nods without looking at me.

“I came here to apologise.” I begin. This was so much easier practising on the bus. “I’m really sorry for everything I said this morning. I didn’t really mean any of it.”

“But the thing is,” he interrupts me. “You did, Wendell.” 

I swallow. I didn’t come here with much hope, but the tiny bit I had is utterly crushed by his words.

After a pause, Rashid goes on with a sigh: “And you were right. With some of it at least.”

I shake my head violently, but before I can reply, Rashid adds, “It still hurt to hear them.”

“I’m so sorry, Rashid, I’m…” I can hear my voice breaking. Rashid turns away from me, and my heart shutters a little more, if that’s still possible. This is not going well. No surprise with the lamest attempt at an apology the world has ever seen.

I do want to give him the explanation he deserves, but I can’t talk about Remy now. This wound is still too raw, especially with what I discovered not long ago about his death. It also feels like choosing the easy way out. “Hey, Rashid, when Sam – who might or might not be your ex – called to let me know you might or might not be injured – or dead – it triggered the memory of my first boyfriend being shot right in front of me. So that led to a bit of a mental breakdown. So sorry, I took it out on you.”

No, this is not the way I want to do this. I messed this up, and I can’t use my dead boyfriend as an excuse. I need to own up to my mistakes. I take a deep breath. At least I try. It comes out a little rattled.

“First of all, I never saw you as one of my clients. I shouldn’t have said that. It was just wrong.”

I don’t dare to look at Rashid, afraid of what his reaction might be. I can hear him take a sharp intake of breath. Probably one that he didn’t know himself he was holding.

“I’m sorry I said being with you feels like bleeding every day. It doesn’t. It feels… wonderful… And you never treated me like trash. I don’t even know why I said that. You were always so caring and loving to me, and I had no right to do that to you…”

My voice cracks, and I try to rub my eyes with my hands, but they’re trembling and just won’t stop. I bury my face in my elbow, not wanting Rashid to see the tremor, but of course he does. A moment passes while I quietly crumble. I try to stay in control, but it’s a battle I lost weeks ago. Rashid is watching me. Then I suddenly feel one of Rashid’s hands on my back, hesitantly, awkwardly at first. Then his arms wrap around my waist and pull me close into a tight embrace.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you, jaanu. I’ve got you.” His words are like a mantra and quiet crumbling turns into dry sobbing when the knot inside myself starts to untangle. I don’t cry. I ran out of tears a long time ago.

Rashid’s hug tightens, and I can feel his lips press against my forehead. I become aware that he mumbles words in a different language to me. Words that I don’t understand, but they’re soothing me, calming my breathing and ebbing the sobs away.

“Jaanu, main yahin hoon. Tum akele nahi ho. Sab theek ho jaayega, jaanu. Mein tumhare saath hoon, jaanu, mein tumhare saath hoon.”

His hand is rubbing my back, grounding me, being my anchor. I loathe myself for ever being so cruel to this man who has never shown me anything but understanding and kindness. Just like he does now.

His mantra stops when my sobs slowly die. We’re still holding on to each other silently, reluctant to let each other go. I probably shifted a little subconsciously because Rashid asks, “Better now, jaanu?”

I nod and take a step back. “Yes… thank you.” His hand lingers on my hip like it simply refuses to lose the connection. I don’t want to lose it either. I wipe my face with a hand, and it’s still slightly trembling. “What does that mean?”

He looks at me a little puzzled: “What does what mean?”

“What you just called me. It sounded like… jar-noo?”

“Oh, that…” He laughs a little, sounding a little embarrassed. “Jaanu… my nanu used to call me that when I was little and cried after I scraped my knees. It means…” He hesitates and clears his throat. “It means ‘darling’. Or… ‘my love’.”

I think it takes my mind at least a full minute before it can start comprehending what he might be implying. The only sound that comes out of my mouth is a very sophisticated “Oh…”

“Do you want me to talk about him?” Rashid asks softly.

His question takes me by surprise. Addressing the other elephant in the room head-on.

“Do you want to talk about him?”

Rashid forces a laugh. “Not really, but I think I might have to.” His hand drops down and tenderly touches mine.

I’m not sure I really want to hear about Sam, but we need to have this conversation, so I nod in agreement. Rashid sits down in one of the rattan chairs on the balcony, and I sit down on the other, ready to listen. Eventually, Rashid takes a deep breath and starts:

“So, first of all: things between me and Sam ended a very long time ago. Long before you and I even met, let alone got together. It’s been…” He knits his brows trying to do the maths. “Seven years, at least. He broke it off, then regretted it and tried to get me back. He didn’t even want me anymore. He just hates losing. Once we were over, I never looked back.”

I search his face and his eyes for the truth, and all I see is his sincerity and the desperate silent plea to believe him. This morning I was too out of my mind to give him a chance. The tiny blossom of hope that is breaking through the hard concrete of all my self-doubt and insecurities is making me listen now. He deserved my apology and he deserves that I’m hearing him out now.

“In fact, if he hadn’t ended things between us first, I would have and very soon. I was so over his toxic and manipulative shit.” Rashid glances at me and I nod to indicate I’m listening. “I told you Sam used to be a playwright, and he still treats life as if it’s one of his plays. Especially mortal lives. We’re just puppets on a stage for him, and he’s the big vampire puppeteer pulling our strings.”

“You said you didn’t have anyone else left to ask, that you broke rules to be with me? Is that true?” That part had shocked me a little this morning, even through my fogged-up mind.

Rashid lets his head hang. When he responds, his voice is almost inaudible. “I was supposed to recruit you, Wendell, not date you.”

“You said you weren’t in trouble because of me…” I remember the morning after our first kiss when he told me he’d been called back to England.

Rashid glances up at me. “Not in trouble, no. It’s nothing…”

I know he’s trying to deflect me, but I won’t let him off the hook that easily. “You said you made enemies because of me!” I interrupt him.

“Enemies?” He frowns as if it skipped his mind ever mentioning anything of the sort. “Maybe I was being a little melodramatic.” He tries to brush it off but avoids my gaze.

“Rashid! Please!”

He sighs. “Okay, maybe I underestimated the situation a little at first. I also didn’t want you to worry about me.” He looks at me, then out to the pool area. “There are people at the Talamasca who aren’t happy about your refusal and that I’m involved with you. But… ” He takes a deep breath. “I’m a senior agent. They don’t dare to say anything out in the open.”

I must have still looked doubtful, so he continues, “One of our higher-ups is actually a friend of Lestat himself – and rumour has it, they used to be more than just friends – so not much they can do about it.” He shrugs. “They’re just not likely to do me any favours anymore.”

I frown. I don’t think this is the whole story, but I decide to let it go for now.

“So you asked Sam?”

“Yes, I was stupid. I thought I could trust him with this.” He looks at me pleadingly. “I really should have known he’d mess this up.” He shakes his head and laughs, a harsh exhale of breath with no trace of humour. “Shame on him for fooling me once, but shame on me for fooling me twice.”

“He did it before?” I ask, a little astounded.

Rashid nods slowly. “Yeah… I almost forgot about it. It happened only a couple of months after he ended things with me. I was young, single and in London…” He breaks off with a sheepish sideglance at me.

His face almost makes me chuckle. It comes out as a little nervous and uncertain, but we’re talking, and it feels good. “So, you didn’t live celibate as a monk.” I grin at him. “Don’t worry. I didn’t think I was bedding a virgin the first time we did it.”

“Go on,” I encourage him and I can see the ghost of a smile form on his lips. Talking is good, smiling it even better.

“I met Gus at a gay club in London, and we hooked up. It was casual at first. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I just enjoyed being free and out for the first time in my life, really. But Gus was a really decent guy, reserved, almost a bit shy. Not the kind of guy who sleeps around a lot. We ended up going on a couple of dates. We had fun together and there was some potential for more than just sex.” I try to imagine a young and carefree Rashid. I admit I’m a little jealous of the unknown Gus, but only because he lived in the same city as my love.

“Until one night”, Rashid continues. “We were meant to go to the cinema, and he didn’t show up. Didn’t answer my calls or texts. After a week, I cornered him at his workplace during his lunch break. That’s when I found out that Sam got to him and told him some lies about me.”

Rashid shudders in disgust. “Gus believed him and told me to stay the fuck away from him. Me and ‘the freak’.” He pauses, caught in his memory. “I thought maybe the thing with Gus was just out of revenge, and once he got it out of his system, he’d be over it. I mean… seven years, for fuck’s sake…” Rashid rubs his temples as if it will make the images in his head go away. “I guess he just couldn’t miss another chance to stir things up. He seriously gets off on these things. I’m such a bleeding idiot.”

“Why did you date him – Sam, I mean – in the first place?” It’s a question that I asked myself a lot. He just seems such an unlikely choice for Rashid.

“Gosh, I wish I knew, Wendell,” Rashid replies, tousling his hair further. It’s quite cute, even though I hate seeing him so distressed. “I was young. I was lonely. I’d just finished my training for the Talamasca and moved to London. I didn’t know anyone.”

“And Sam…” he huffs. “He was the first vampire I ever met outside of fieldwork. A senior asset, centuries old, probably. He never talks about his age. It’s all shrouded in mystery, and he likes it that way. I was flattered by his attention. He was unashamed and flirtatious. Enigmatic, and I was stupid. I believed every word he said. He kind of… swept me off my feet.” Rashid looks a bit embarrassed, but I get it. I never had sex with Louis or Lestat, but I wouldn’t have put up too much of a fuss if they’d offered.

“They have a way about them, these vampires, huh?” I comment with a lopsided smile.

“Did you ever drink his blood?” I can feel him tense at my next question and think I’ve gone too far, but then he shakes himself and replies:

“Yes, and he fed on me. It’s a sexual thing for them…” He eyes me sideways, observing how I feel about the “sex with the ex” talk. While it’s not making the top ten on my list of favourite things to talk about, I think we need this out in the open.

Rashid takes my hands in his. I look down at them, at the way our fingers fit together. I never thought I’d ever see this again – his skin on mine. Both of us dark, but different shades. His hands are strong and smooth; mine feel skinny and awkward by comparison. But in his, they feel right.

“Louis gave me his blood the night when…” I break off. Months of therapy, and talking about this night is still difficult. Rashid squeezes my hands lightly.

“I know… he saved your life.” His voice is tender when he adds, “And I’m grateful that he did, or I would have never met you.”

We sit there for a moment in silence while I try to bring up the courage to ask another question.

“Do you miss it? Being with a vampire? Drinking his blood? Have him feed on you?” I finally ask, remembering what it had felt like when Louis drank from me and when he gave me his blood. It’s a rush, like being on drugs, like the highest of highs, but better.

Rashid shakes his head resolutely. “No, not for anything in the world.”

“I’m sorry that Sam did this to you and that I didn’t tell you sooner this could happen. That I’d be called away on a whim without a warning. But…” He looks down at our entwined hands. “I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” I ask, stunned.

He laughs tersely. “Afraid that you’d leave me if you knew more about my job? That you’d decide your life is complicated enough without me messing things up further? That you’d be better off without me?”

I’m speechless. These sentences sound so familiar, but they are my words. My thoughts. I expected them to come from me. Not Rashid. My rock of confidence and strength. I didn’t think it was possible for him to have the same doubts I have. It’s my turn to squeeze his hands, and I am rewarded with a sheepish smile.

“I don’t think I’m better off without you.”

Rashid’s grin widens. “That’s a start…”

He keeps my hands in his, steady and warm. He started to gently rub the soft flesh between my thumb and index finger. I watch as the muscles in his arms move underneath his skin. I don’t think he’s even aware of doing it. Just something he does naturally. And I love what it tells me: He’s here, he’s holding me. “I’ve got you, jaanu. I’ve got you.” He said earlier, and his hands are confirming it now. It makes me smile, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I missed that smile of yours.” Rashid says softly. “I missed you.” After a beat he adds, “I miss us.”

I think we said everything that needed to be said. For now at least. There are a few follow-up questions that I’m sure will come up in a future conversation, but they can wait. If there’s a future for us. I know we said we’re not breaking up, but does that really mean he’s forgiven me? That we’re back together? If you spent weeks convincing yourself that it’s over, it’s a bit hard to put things in reverse and start believing again.

My heartbeat is erratic, like it’s undecided about the gear itself. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and ask the question I came here for.

“Do you think you can forgive me for what I said earlier? Maybe one day?”

Rashid’s reply comes with just a moment’s hesitation. “No.”

My heart actually stops beating.

“There is nothing I have to forgive you.” He declares and my heart restarts with a rather painful thump.

When I look at Rashid questioningly, he urges me, “He did this, Wendell. Sam caused this, not you. I was an idiot to trust him, but he did this. There’s no fucking way in hell I’m ever going to forgive the bastard for what he did to you, and I will not allow you to even take one ounce of guilt from him.”

I’ve never seen Rashid so angry. He’s serious. He really means it. But he’s not mad at me.

Before my temporarily oxygen-deprived brain can plant more doubts in my mind, I decide thinking is sometimes overrated. I get up and pull Rashid to his feet and wrap my arms around his neck.

I remember that asking consent is only polite, so I do: “Can I kiss you now?”

It takes a fraction of a second for his anger to dissipiate and is replaced by a smile that spreads across Rashid’s face. Instead of giving me an answer, his hands cup my cheeks and his lips find mine.

---

“Jaanu, main yahin hoon. Tum akele nahi ho. Sab theek ho jaayega, jaanu. Mein tumhare saath hoon, jaanu, mein tumhare saath hoon.”

Translation: “My love, I’m right here. You’re not alone. Everything will be okay, my love. I’m with you, my love, I’m with you.”