11. Raees
11
Raees
I lean against my Audi, twirling my keys around my fingers, wondering if puncturing my own jugular would hurt less than getting through the rest of today.
Morbid thought, yes, but that’s the headspace I’m in, staring blankly at the gravel in the faculty parking lot. Everything’s been a mess since last night—no sleep, no peace, just this endless loop of worry grinding away in the back of my head.
By the time the sun came up, I was practicing in the bathroom mirror, trying to nail down some kind of polite, non-confrontational greeting that wouldn’t sound insulting.
Breakfast with my wife helped. Just sitting there with her in the early quiet crushed some of the boulders on my shoulders. But the minute I stepped back on campus, it was like that tension slithered right back in, knotting itself up in my neck, my back, growing tighter with every tick of the clock during my lecture.
“Raees!”
I shut my eyes for a second, bracing myself, then look up.
Saira strides out of the faculty building and down the walkway, her thin scarf fluttering in the July wind, loose curls bouncing as she hurries toward me.
It’s a scene I knew well: Saira spotting me from across the quad, arm up, waving with that big, unguarded grin of hers. It ended with her barreling into my arms, pulling me down into some kiss that had her laughing against my lips, catching her breath when we pulled apart.
That’s not how things play out anymore.
Saira’s hair is still chopped short, that same dark-brown bob she’s had since we were together. She’s in some kind of tailored pantsuit, the color of old coffee grounds, with those thin heels she always thinks make her look “professional.” And a grin plastered wide across her face. I used to think her smile was the most charming part about her, once upon a time. Now it just feels theatrical. Like she’s under the spotlight, and I’m supposed to be clapping.
“Hey!” She finally slows down as she gets closer, slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed. “Sorry I’m late. Professor Wei cornered me to go over last-minute course details.”
“Yeah, no worries.” I push off the side of the car and move to the driver’s door, not bothering with small talk. She gives me this tight smile, like she’s waiting for me to say something else, but I don’t.
She slides into the passenger seat, and we both pull on our seatbelts in silence. I reverse out of the lot, turning on the air conditioning as we merge onto the main road.
“How have you been?” Saira sing-songs.
I predicted she’d start with small talk, so I’ve got my canned responses ready to go. “Good. You?”
She shrugs, her smile fading just a touch. “Oh, you know. I’m okay.”
I stay focused on the road, signaling left and merging over. There’s a part of me that feels the automatic urge to say something, to pretend I care.
But I bite it back.
This woman cheated on me two weeks before our wedding. Two weeks. With a stranger. I remind myself there’s zero reason to waste breath playing an empathetic ex-fiancé.
“How’s married life treating you?” she asks.
At the mention of my wife, I can’t help the happiness that washes over my face. Zinneerah’s all soft, black eyes and quiet smiles, and the thought of her is like flipping on a light in a dark room.
Saira notices, of course. “Yeah, that glow says it all,” she comments. “Congratulations, really. I’m so happy for you, Raees.”
I force out a quick, “Thanks.”
She tilts her head. “What’s her name again? Zari? Zina?”
“Zinneerah,” I say, curtly. I don’t elaborate. The last thing I need is her trying to file away details about my wife.
“Zinneerah, right. Pretty name,” she murmurs, looking out the window. I catch the faint scraping sound of her nails against her thumb. “What does she do?”
This isn’t small talk; it’s an inquisition. If anyone else asked, I’d happily tell them about Zinneerah’s work, about how talented she is. But when it’s your ex-fiancée, you start to guard details like they’re state secrets.
“She’s a baker.”
“A baker?” I see her head turn toward me in my peripheral vision. “Wow. That’s cool. Does she own a bakery? Café?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe Rosy Aunty can work her real estate magic and hook her up with a bakery?”
That’s . . . not the worst idea. I let myself imagine it for a moment: Zinneerah’s face lighting up at the sight of her own place, the smell of fresh bread and coffee filling the air. If my wife told me she wanted that, I’d make it happen. Hell, I’d hand her the keys tomorrow.
“How’s your family doing?” she questions.
“They’re good,” I say, keeping it brief. “Yours?”
There’s a pause, then, “They . . . well, they’re not great. My parents split up last year.”
I glance over. She’s got a weak smile, fingers fidgeting in her lap. I remember enough to know she was never close with her parents—not exactly estranged, but definitely not daily visits with presents. They were always too wrapped up in their own lives to really notice they had a daughter. It was something she didn’t talk about much, but it was always there, eating her up alive from the inside.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Don’t be. You know as well as I do, it was only a matter of time.” She shrugs, letting out a short, humorless laugh. “Might as well rip the Band-Aid off, right?”
And that puts a pin in our conversation.
The moment we step into the party store, I mentally split the list in half, handing her the easier part, and head straight for the supplies, weaving through aisles of cheap, cheerful plastic and overpriced sentimentality. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes until I hit my tolerance limit.
A bouquet of shiny balloons proclaiming, “30 Years!” Another set of lettered balloons that’ll spell out “Happy Retirement.” I’m methodical about it, plucking each item from the shelf and dropping it into my basket without fuss.
“Raees! Look!”
I glance up from my letter balloons to find Saira grinning, a plastic tiara perched lopsidedly on her head, the kind with sparkly pink gems and a cartoonish heart in the center. She strikes a pose, like she’s twelve years old and we’re shopping for her birthday party instead of a retirement.
“Sleeping Beauty,” she says, waggling her brows. “Leftover from their Halloween stock. Should I get it?”
I drop the “T” balloon into my basket, giving her tiara nothing more than a disinterested glance. Her basket, naturally, is almost empty—just a scattering of trinkets and other nonsense she’s picked up, none of which have anything to do with the list.
“Did you get your half of the supplies?” I ask, ignoring her theatrics.
She frowns, spinning in place and pinching the ends of the tiara like it’s an elegant crown. “Not the answer I was hoping for, Professor.” I stay silent, returning to my list, hoping she’ll take the hint. But no, she sighs dramatically. “Oh, come on, Raees. You know Aurora is my favorite princess. Lighten up a little.”
I resist the urge to remind her we’re here on faculty duty, not some shopping spree. “Saira, if we could focus on the task at hand, I’d be grateful. I’ve got twenty-five minutes left on my break.”
I step past her and glance at the assortment of trinkets cluttering a display rack. A little black guitar keychain catches my eye, and I pull it free, dropping it in the basket without a second thought.
“Want to grab lunch on the way back?” she asks, barely looking at me as she tosses a plastic tiara into her own basket. She’s picking through the banners with indifference. “Benny’s Burritos? My treat.”
I remember, in a flash, that I left my lunch sitting on the counter at home—but I have no intention of admitting it. Last thing I need is spending any more of my break with her, let alone sitting across from her at some booth, pretending I’ve forgotten everything that happened. “No, thank you. I’ve brought food.”
“Your loss.” Saira disappears between the shelves without another glance, leaving me alone in the stale balloon-air of the store.
We make our way through the faculty building, bags in hand.
Saira’s is weighed down with knick-knacks—ceramic owls, a lavender-scented stress ball, something resembling a mini Zen garden, the sort of things that end up forgotten in drawers.
I spent a modest five dollars on a single keychain for my wife. If there’d been more in stock, I would have bought them all.
At my office door, I twist the knob and find it . . . unlocked ?
Zinneerah is there, perched in the chair across from my desk, her face lighting up when she sees me. She offers a little wave, and for a moment, everything’s back to my regularly scheduled programming.
Saira barges in behind me, and I watch Zinneerah’s smile falter, slipping away as if on cue.
“Oh?” She looks Zinneerah up and down, and lets out a short, derisive snort. “Didn’t know your students had free run of your office when you’re not around, Raees.”
“She’s not a student.” I set the bags down with an unhurried calm. “She’s my wife.” Zinneerah’s eyes, dark as polished onyx, meet mine, as I give her a reassuring smile. “What a pleasant surprise. Let me guess, Professor Holmes let you in?”
She nods. Are you okay?
With a small gesture, I sign back, Bad day.
Zinneerah tilts her head, a slight crease between her brows. Talk?
Talk.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Saira’s voice cuts in. “I didn’t realize you knew ASL, Raees.”
Who is this? Zinneerah asks.
I give her a resigned smile, but I’m already moving toward the door. “I’m going to have lunch with my wife now,” I say, holding the door open and gesturing for Saira to exit. “Thank you for accompanying me, Professor Nadeem. I hope the rest of your day is as stimulating as ever.”
Saira licks her lips, straightening her posture like she’s about to pose for a photo. Her gaze darts to Zinneerah, who’s watching us with a confused expression. “Lovely to meet you,” she says, stepping out.
I shut the door behind her, locking it with a quiet click. Then I turn to Zinneerah and sigh. “I apologize about that.”
It’s okay.
I slip off my blazer, draping it over my chair as I settle in behind my desk. “So, what brings you here?”
Her lips form the word ‘Professor.’
“Right, right,” I say, suppressing a smile. “One moment.” I power up my computer, log in, and open a blank document, sliding the keyboard toward her. I angle the screen so we can both see. “Whenever you’re ready.”
She begins to type, her fingers light on the keys. I came to see Professor Daniels.
I nod, already aware of her reason but glad to hear it straight from her. “Are you going to be performing in the concert?”
Yes , she types, her eyes flicking up to mine.
A grin breaks across my face. “I’m so happy for you, Zinneerah. You’re going to be fantastic. And hey, as a bonus, we’ll get to see each other on campus almost every day.”
She blinks, caught off guard, and I realize how that sounded. Okay, actually, that’s a bonus for me.
“What I mean is, you know, we can commute together. Go to work together, come home together.” I can hear myself digging deeper. “Be co-workers. Married co-workers.” I can’t talk in this woman’s presence.
She looks at me, then starts typing something, her fingers moving fast. You think I’ll be fantastic?
That’s what surprised her?
“Of course!” I exclaim. “You’ll be better than fantastic. In fact, ‘fantastic’ doesn’t even cover it. Just don’t doubt yourself. Not while you’re practicing, and definitely not when you’re up there.”
She signs, Thank you , then types: I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “Zinneerah, you couldn’t disappoint me if you tried.”
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, but then they curl into little fists, knuckles whitening as she stares unfocused at the screen.
Wherever she is right now, it’s not a good place. I don’t know who or what put that look on her face—could be her mother, or maybe some ghost from her past still haunting her.
Whoever it is, they’d do well to keep their distance. Anyone who hurts her might as well be hurting me, and that’s not something I take lightly.
It’s time to change subjects. Not that it’s about to be any lighter. I’ve been sitting on this too long, and the longer I keep quiet, the worse it’ll get, creeping into the cracks of our marriage like acid seeping into the foundation.
“Zinneerah,” I begin, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to disclose to you for a week now.”
She blinks, pulling away from whatever had her claws in her. A little crease forms between her brows.
“You know I was engaged before I met you,” I say. She nods cautiously, trying to read between lines I haven’t written yet. “It ended because my ex-fiancée . . . cheated on me.” Her lips part, eyes widening in shock. But I’m not done. “With some guy at her bachelorette party.” Eyebrows shoot up, hitting her hairline. “Two weeks before the wedding.”
Zinneerah slumps back in her seat, crossing her arms and letting out a sharp huff, like my words are smoke and she’s trying to blow them away. Can’t say I blame her.
Why? she signs.
“Because,” I start, running a hand through my hair, “I don’t know. I really don’t know. And I definitely don’t want to dig it all up. I buried that part of my life for a reason—shoveled dirt over every bad decision, and every stupid habit. And I’ve got no interest in unearthing it just because fate, or whatever twisted higher power, thinks it’s funny to throw my past in my face. I didn’t ask for this. Not even close.”
Zinneerah’s dark brows scrunch together. Are you okay?
“No.” I rest my eyes, then, against my better judgment, I add, “The woman you just met . . . is my ex-fiancée.”
Her face goes blank.
I lean back, rubbing my temples, feeling the old story claw its way up my throat, even though I hate talking about it. But my wife deserves to know the details.
“She was a literature journalism major at North Haven University, just next door. I was here. We met at a journalism conference, hit it off, and became friends. Two months later, we were dating. During my master’s program—right in the middle of finals week—I proposed. She happily said yes.” I let out a shaky breath, then continue. “And then one night, while I was knee-deep in midterm papers, red pen in hand, she called me up. Out of nowhere, she’s slurring her words, saying she got drunk and slept with some guy. Apparently, he and his friends had crashed her bachelorette party.” My hand rubs over my jaw. “And now she’s replacing one of our retiring professors. Which means I’ll have to sit in meetings with her, make polite small talk at faculty events, pretend everything’s perfectly civil.”
I nearly wrench my neck looking up as Zinneerah stands. Dark thoughts circle like vultures. She’s going to leave you. She’s going to walk out of your life. She’s never going to trust you —I stop myself before I go down that road. She’s still standing there, watching me, and I make myself meet her gaze, waiting for her to say something, anything, that’ll let me know she’s not about to walk out the door.
My wife drags her chair around my desk and connects it with mine, close enough that our knees are almost touching. She sits down, gives a firm nod, and mouths the words, “I trust you.”
“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “I promise I didn’t—”
She shakes her head, a gentle smile on her face, like she’s telling me I don’t need to explain. She’s trying to calm me down, to make this easier. But the fear of losing her digs in, and I can’t stop myself from rambling.
“I’ve buried everything, Zinneerah. Everything that existed before you, it’s gone. There’s no one else in this world for me. Just you. You and my family.”
She reaches over and takes a tissue from the box on my desk, pressing it into my hand. I didn’t even realize my eyes were damp until I feel the paper against my skin.
I dab at my eyes, trying to get control of myself, and then I feel her hand on my back, moving in slow circles.
“Thanks for listening,” I murmur sheepishly.
She nods, glancing at me with that shy smile of hers. God, it’s adorable. It makes me want to cup her face, run my thumbs along her cheeks, and kiss every last inch of that softness. And she smells incredible, like Arabian incense—smoky, rich, hypnotic. It’s pulling me in, making it hard to keep my hands to myself. A siren’s song.
Zinneerah drags the keyboard onto her lap and starts typing. Is it okay if I go to my friend’s concert next week? She’s coming to Toronto for a show. I’ll take Dua with me.
Selfishly, I want to be there. I want to share every experience with her, even the little things, but I’m her husband, not her shadow. This is her chance to reconnect, to be with her friends without me hovering nearby. She deserves that. And who am I to hold my wife back from something that makes her happy?
“You don’t need my permission,” I say softly. She lifts her gaze, those obsidian eyes locking onto mine. I could spend hours lost in them, honestly. “Just like you didn’t need my permission to surprise me on campus.” I grin a little. “You’re free to go wherever you want, as long as you keep me posted. Same goes for me.” Though, let’s be real, I’d take you with me everywhere if I could. “For, you know, emergency purposes.”
She tilts her head, studying me, a little uncertain. The action reminds me of this sparrow I had as a kid, a tiny thing my sister and I nursed back to health after it crash-landed on our porch with a busted wing. There was this wide-eyed innocence to it, the way it tilted its head, taking everything in.
Zinneerah has that same look sometimes, like she’s trying to figure out if she can trust this strange new world she’s in.
“Use my card,” I state. She starts typing but I force shut my computer with a smile. The flabbergasted expression on her face makes me chuckle. “I know you haven’t touched that card since I gave it to you. It’s still sitting on the TV stand, isn’t it?”
She shakes her head, trying to hide a smile. Stubborn as ever.
I sigh, pressing a hand over my heart in mock distress. “Come on, you’re killing me here. What’s the point of giving you a card if you refuse to use it?”
Another head shake. Your card.
“No,” I insist, pulling out my wallet and showing her my Visa. “ This is my card. But the black card? That one’s yours. Just promise me you’ll start using it, okay?”
She hesitates, her hands lifting as if to sign something, but I reach out, gently brushing my fingers over her wrists to stop her. Her eyes flick up to mine, and I can see the guilt there, clear as day. “Please, Zinneerah?”
A defeated sigh.
“Thank you. My heart is mended once again.”
She smiles, and rises from her seat, brushing invisible creases out of her skirt.
“You’re leaving?” I ask, wishing for the opposite.
I make dinner tonight. She doesn’t use ASL with me, not really—just these exaggerated movements, hoping I’ll catch her meaning. And I always do.
What she doesn’t know is that I actually know the language from studying it consistently since our first meeting. I keep telling myself I’ll tell her soon, that I’ll end this little charade, but not yet.
I kind of like being the only one in on the secret. For now.
“Very well,” I surrender. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
She nods, giving the chair a little nudge back into place, then grabs her bag and heads toward the door. But she pauses in the doorway, glancing back at me.
Cheeks flushed, her hands fly into a blur of rapid-fire signing.
Ibakebrowniesyoufeelbetterokaybye.
Before I can respond, she’s darted out the door.
I burst out laughing.