4. Zinneerah
4
Zinneerah
I haven’t swum since Baba passed away.
Each weekend, it was our ritual: Baba taking my siblings and me to the lake, where we’d lose ourselves for hours under the scorching sun or skip stones over the rippling waves. Shahzad would bravely dive into the deep end to practice swimming, while Baba would give Dua piggy-back rides in the water. I’d linger in the shallow end or perch on a weathered rock, feeling like a mermaid soaking up her daily dose of Vitamin D.
But now, standing here by the swimming pool, my towel draped over my arm and my satin bathrobe concealing the one-piece I wear, it’s as if a floodgate of memories has burst open. What once was will never be again.
As I slip off my bathrobe, I take care to neatly fold it on the lounge chair before hesitantly dipping my toe into the water first, feeling the chill seep into my bones. Despite it being July, the pool remains icy. But the thought of standing on the scalding concrete barefoot any longer is unbearable.
Summoning all my courage, I slowly lower myself into the pool, one leg at a time, until I’m standing in the shallow end. It’s embarrassing for me to cling to the corner, but, hey, I refuse to compromise my safety for the sake of pride.
Swimming has never been my forte, and I’m not hell-bent on mastering it now. I find a certain peace in the stillness of the water, content to watch the world around me unfold. The majestic oak tree, the squirrel darting up its trunk, the birds soaring overhead, and the rustle of leaves provide all the distraction I need.
This is nice.
This house is nice. This pool is nice. The kitchen and its pantry are nice. The basement is nice—
The basement.
I frown at the memory of two nights ago. Raees meant well, I’m sure, but I couldn’t handle his close proximity, or how his hand obstructed my view. My initial reaction was to fear the worst—that he might lash out at me for dozing off instead of preparing dinner. I should have been a more considerate wife, and prepared a meal for both of us. After all, I had survived on oatmeal cookies all day while he toiled away on campus, likely forgetting to eat in between his busy schedule.
Please don’t ever apologize to me for anything ever again. I should’ve made myself known last night before awkwardly watching over you. It was foolish and irrational, and I promise I won’t do it again.
God, I’m an idiot.
I’m an unreliable idiot.
This is a safe space , I repeat to myself like a mantra . My husband is safe and dependable. I chose him because he makes me feel secure. He respects my boundaries, always asking before he gets too close.
Last night, he meant no harm. I should have calmly signaled for him to announce himself if I’m asleep.
But instead, I panicked and fled.
At first, running away felt like the only option, but I’m better now. I don’t need to run anymore.
In this house, I am safe.
I am safe with Raees.
After spending an hour in the pool, I finally step out and wrap a robe around myself, drying off as I make my way to the kitchen where I left my phone to charge—
And there he is, Raees Shaan, making coffee.
He turns to greet me, cheeks slightly puffed from the taste of the brownies I’d baked earlier. Small crumbs cling to the corners of his perfect lips, and a few more dot his cashmere sweater.
“Hi,” he greets me through a mouth full of chocolate. “I’m sorry. That—Give me a minute.” His words are slightly muffled as he aggressively chews, his fist covering his mouth and his foot tapping anxiously as he struggles to swallow.
What a dork.
Raees clears his throat and faces me, clasping his hands behind his back. “Did you have a good swim? Not that I saw you swimming. No, I would never do such a thing. You’ve returned from the backyard . . .”
I nod absentmindedly, but my attention drifts to the hint of chocolate smeared on the side of his pearl-white teeth. Moving downwards, my gaze lingers on the curve of his broad shoulders, the way his shirt stretches over his mesomorphic torso. His hands, large and . . . well, very handy-looking, gesture as he speaks about something.
I break out of my blatant staring when the coffee pot begins to bubble.
“—and I know—Oh, give me a second.” Raees reaches for his green mug on the third shelf of the second cabinet, the highest one, and pours the black, bitter liquid into it. Three tablespoons of sugar follow, as always, along with sweetened oat milk. He stirs it all together with a spoon before bringing the rim up to his lips, taking a long, satisfying sip. “Ha . . . I make the best coffee.”
I point to the tea bags contained in a jar then to myself.
Suddenly, he’s eager to share some random tea facts while I rummage the fridge for the strawberry jam jar. “You know, some teas, like Pu-erh, actually improve with age? It’s like fine wine, but with tea leaves. The longer it’s stored, the more complex and richer the flavor becomes.”
I find the jar and turn around with it.
He chuckles. “Believe me, that thing will not open—”
I pop it open.
Raees’ jaw drops, his shock shifting between the glass jar and its lid. He doesn’t scoff or roll his eyes at my potentially bruising his pride. Instead, he smiles wide. I avert my eyes, not wanting to start mirroring his expression. “I knew you were stronger than me, Zinneerah.”
My lips twitch. Zin-nheer-ray . Not Zin- nay -rah, or, Zin- nee -rah. An unnecessary ‘nhee’ sound in the middle, but somehow, I don’t know how, he makes it work. Even my siblings don’t place much emphasis on that mid-syllable.
“May I take the jar?” He extends his hands. “Or you can place it on the counter? Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I stick to the latter, feeling a flutter of anxiety as I watch for any signs of impatience or frustration on his face.
Nope.
He just flashes that boyish grin again and takes the jar, attempting to open it. After a couple of failed attempts, he passes on the fifth try. “It’s a little tough.”
I tap the counter, signaling for him to hand it back to me. He does, and I close the lid over it, my gaze flickering up to meet his before focusing back on the jar. He watches intently as I apply a bit of downward pressure and twist the lid.
“Oh,” he drawls, adding another bright chuckle. “Like opening a medicine container. Can I try again?”
As soon as I set the jar on the counter, he swoops in and takes it, effortlessly following my instructions. The lid pops open under his touch, and the sheer joy on his face leaves me breathless.
His eyes, a warm golden-brown, crinkle at the corners with age, his thick lashes almost hiding them from view. A smile spreads across his face, stretching from ear to ear, and the sound of his deep, rich laughter fills the room, wrapping around me like a warm blanket and slowing the frantic beat of my heart. He’s saying something, his lips moving in that familiar way, but I’m too focused on them to really hear the words.
“Zinneerah?”
I blink.
“Where did you go?” His bends down slightly to meet my eyes. I instinctively take a step back, feeling like a tiny boat sailing towards a whirlpool. “I’m sorry.” He quickly straightens up and shakes his head at himself. “It’s a habit.”
I shake my head in disagreement.
Seriously, it is. He’s just being himself, with his gentle gestures and towering presence. A safe man. I know he won’t hurt me.
Raees scratches the top of his brow with his thumb. “I apologize, Zinneerah.” A soft smile lays at his lips. “I’m widely known in my family for breaching personal space. According to my sister, physical touch is my love . . .” His voice momentarily falters before he smoothly redirects the conversation, gesturing towards the now-vacant plate of brownies. “Those were very delicious.”
I prepared a half-dozen for us. He ate them all. How do I tactfully suggest he consider moderating his sugar intake?
“Dua tells me you enjoy baking,” he continues, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “If you want, I can take you to this store nearby. They have everything for baking. A store dedicated to baking stuff—baking equipment , I mean. For your baking needs, of course.”
There’s a nervous energy about him, evident in the way he fidgets and avoids meeting my gaze, and strangely, we both seem to avert our eyes simultaneously.
I touch my chin with my fingers and pull them away, mouthing, “Thank you.”
He takes a second to unravel my words, then nods. “You’re welcome. The offer will always be on the table.”
There’s an awkward pause.
Until I break it. All I have to do is point at myself, then point upwards.
His smile falters, granting me space to leave. “If you need anything, just knock on my bedroom door.”
I resort to a sigh when he leaves.
God, he’s got a sweet smile.