Dude?! I snort at the term and tuck my feelings for this man into a box in the back of my head. “Thanks, bud. So what’s the update?”
He laughs. “The engineer said everything on your list is doable. He’s going to speak with the contractor and figure out a good day to get started, so it doesn’t interrupt the other work going on.”
“Fantastic. Did he have a timeline?”
“A week to get back to you, then probably have it done in three months.”
“That long, huh?”
Pavan sighs. “We’re a little behind on the main house schedule and unless we get that back up and running, your room is probably going to take more time.”
I groan and rub my eyes. This is the only downside to building a sex room in a space undergoing other work. Most of the time my clients are converting empty rooms in their already lived-in homes into a pleasure room. It’s rare I’m building it from scratch and this is why I don’t always enjoy it.
“All right. When is your next trip?”
“A few weeks. I have a project in Hyderabad next week, so only after that.”
I nod. “Okay. Three months. I should be able to come back. Hopefully whatever is infecting me right now will be gone too.”
He chuckles. “Great, I’ll let him know. Do you want me to get you anything?”
“Nah. I’ve got a lifetime supply of saltine crackers and I’ll get soup from room service.”
“Rest up, T. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Pavan.”
I hang up and toss my phone to the side. The sleep helped with both the fatigue and dizziness, but I can feel my stomach rolling unhappily. Having lived with IBS?1 for a good portion of my adult life, I know how to handle tummy issues. But this doesn’t feel like IBS. Especially since none of my bathroom visits have required me to sit on the toilet. I rub my stomach slowly, applying pressure to the underside before I drag my hand up and around again.
When I was first diagnosed I was told it was an allergic reaction to dairy. I gave it up for a few years and the stomach pain didn’t go away. When I started eating dairy again, it was still the same. It took a few more years and a well-known gastroenterologist to tell me that my hormonal imbalances are the reason behind my tummy issues. So while I have IBS, it’s not always triggered by food or whatever causes pain for other people. Mine happens to be closely connected to my PCOS?2 and other hormonal issues.
This is why I initially self-diagnosed all these issues as IBS and then quickly realised it was something else. And like Vera said, until I see a doctor, there’s no way I’m going to find out what’s really wrong with me. After years of being poked and prodded, I don’t particularly like doctors or hospitals very much.
My phone buzzes again and I peer at the screen, my eyes widening when I see the most unexpected name: Patrick Joseph.
After our night together, I haven’t seen or spoken to him. That was always my plan. I didn’t even want to spend the night with him, but one kiss and swipe of his tongue, I was putty in his hands. The memories filled my head for a few days afterwards, but then I forced them out. Nothing good comes from living in the past. We’re never going to be anything more than two people forced into each other’s company.
He’s in Paris?3, as part of the Indian hockey team and I’ve watched a few matches. I never understood the rules when we were at camp and I still don’t. But Elias and Vera have been hosting viewing parties every time Patrick or Nina have a game, and the whole gang gathers at their house to watch. I tell myself I show up to support Nina, but there’s a part of me that likes watching the hockey players in their tiny shorts.
I do my level best not to watch Patrick, because I’m still mad at him. I spent the last twenty years not thinking about him, but the minute he resurfaced all of my rage returned. I don’t like this version of myself, but it’s his fault I’m so fucking angry all the time.
Hesitatingly, I reach for my phone and open the notification. A voice note. I stare at it for a long time, deciding between whether I should listen to it or not, and then finally hit the play button. His deep voice laced with sleep fills my hotel room and a shiver runs up my spine.
“Hey, Lotus. I’ve been typing this up for days and deleting it before I could hit send. I figured a voice note would be harder to take back, so here we are.”
He chuckles and sighs defeatedly before he continues,
“It’s been a few months, huh? I thought about getting in touch with you before I left, but you clearly didn’t want to see me. We never did talk about why you hate me or look at me like you’re plotting my murder. I’ve done something to warrant it and I’m not saying I don’t deserve it, but I’d like to know what. So I can fix it. Or undo it. Something. Anyway, uh, got a couple more matches before I’m back. If you’re up for it, I’d like for us to give this whole conversation thing another shot. I promise to keep my clothes on this time. Speak soon.”
When my phone asks if I want to keep it or not, I save it and then curse myself. He doesn’t need to know if I listen to it again, but I honestly have no reason to do that. Other than to torture myself. I set my phone aside and grab my laptop to check his game schedule.
The website lets me know there’s an India versus Australia match starting in a few hours. I tell myself I’m only watching to support the national team, but after listening to his voice note, there might be more to my reasoning. Even if I’m not going to admit it out loud.
I drag myself out of bed for a quick shower, washing away the icky feeling I’ve been rolling around in all day. Dressed in fresh clothes, I call for soup and eat it with my saltine crackers while catching up on my other work. I try not to work on too many projects at once, because it stretches me too thin and I can’t be in multiple places at once. This double Mumbai project was a result of bad scheduling on all our parts. Surprise, surprise.
When match time rolls around and my stomach seems to have settled, I climb into bed with my laptop and pull up the official website again. I hit play as the two teams step onto the turf. Sports camp didn’t really prepare me for viewing professional sports, I barely remember the rules of what I did master. And in the eight years I was with Kabir, he tried to teach me about cricket and the ICL?4, but I wasn’t interested. Right now, the only reason I’m even watching hockey is because I have nothing else to do. Yeah, right. And because I want to make sure the Indian team wins a much deserved medal.
I get so involved in the match, I’m screaming and jumping as the Indian goalkeeper stops every attempt by the Australians. At one point, I even spill water on myself while trying to celebrate India’s goal in the first quarter. That doesn’t take my attention away from the game when Patrick scores the next one.
