Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

12. Zinneerah

12

Zinneerah

M y trembling finger hovers over the ‘place order’ button.

This tiny screen has me so high-strung, it’s not even about the tickets anymore.

If I buy these tickets, I’m saying, “Hey, Alex, I still remember every little piece of us, and maybe you do, too. That is, if you still don’t hate me for everything I’ve done.”

Oh, fuck it.

I press it before I can talk myself out of it, and the order goes through.

Just like that, it’s done. Two nosebleed tickets to Alex Watanabe’s show. I stare at the QR code on my screen. Two little boxes and a tangle of lines that decide whether I’ll see her again or not.

Her cocky, brash voice sneaks into my mind when she had just enough tequila to think we could actually pull it off. We’re gonna be rockstars someday, ladies. You hear me? Rock-fucking-stars. Zinister on vocals and guitar, Lia-IKEA on drums, and me, rocking the bass and backup vocals. Grammys by next year, bitches. Just you wait.

My mouth pulls into a smile. There we were, sprawled in the open trunk of her father’s beat-up truck, a hand-me-down monster of a vehicle she’d fought tooth and nail to borrow. A whole week’s worth of his chores just for one night out under the glittering stars, telling each other big, stupid dreams as if they were inevitable.

Alex was always the one pulling us all together; the ringleader, the planner. She’d come up with the ideas, and I’d be there, the reliable sidekick, ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice. And then there was Ophelia, our little introvert project, the reluctant third musketeer we had to yank out of her apartment with promises of minimal human interaction.

And then I went and ruined it all by falling headfirst for someone I shouldn’t have. I allowed that whole mess to swallow me up, and one by one, our plans just . . . vanished.

If my girls still hate me for it, I don’t blame them.

My phone starts buzzing somewhere behind me, snapping me out of it. I close my laptop, roll over to the edge of my bed, and fish it out from under a tangle of blankets.

Dua’s name flashes across the screen.

I swipe to answer, setting the phone on my lap. Her face fills the screen, flushed from volleyball practice, ponytail askew, sweat trickling down her temples.

“Hey, Zinnie!” she says, flashing a tired grin.

I smile back. “How was practice?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you know. I’m hardly aiming for the Olympics here, but the guys needed an extra player, so I jumped in. Zayan was not happy about it, by the way. Pretty sure he spent half the game aiming spikes at Aaron’s face just for asking me to play.”

I laugh softly. “He really loves you.”

“Tell me about it.” She groans, tossing her bag onto the bench in an empty changing room and propping the phone up against the mirror. “Sometimes it’s sweet; other times, it’s like, please, back the fuck off.” She grabs a tissue to blot the sweat off her face. “Did you actually get the tickets to Alex’s thing, or did you flake?”

I nod. “You’re still coming with me, right?”

“That’s why I called,” she says. “But, Zinnie, you know I can’t promise anything. The match is in two weeks, and Coach Ryerson’s got everyone running drills like it’s life or death.” She crumples her damp tissue and tosses it into the trash. “I do want to go. I miss Alex. And I want to be there for you, too.” She’s staring straight at me now. “But if I can’t make it, I’ll let you know, okay? I’ll text you beforehand.”

Great. Brilliant move on my behalf. Who buys tickets without even checking if their sister is free?

Dua’s eyes narrow, reading me like a book as usual. “Stop beating yourself up.” She reaches down, peeling her shirt off in one smooth motion. Underneath, she’s in her black sports bra. “Just take Raees bhai with you if I can’t make it. Poor guy could probably use a night out. Think of it as, I don’t know, training wheels for a first date.”

My throat goes dry. First date. I’ve been on plenty dates before, but I agree, it would feel like a first date with my husband. “Raees doesn’t like that type of music.”

“Oh?” Dua gives me a raised eyebrow while rummaging through her duffel bag. “And how exactly do you know that?” She pulls out a small towel, patting down her face and neck. “Have you two even covered the ‘favorite color’ conversation yet?”

My mind wanders back to those first few months with him. Months that were . . . well, quiet.

Just the two of us in my old apartment’s living room, sitting ten-feet apart from each other in a wordless bubble. He’d clear his throat every so often, drum his fingers on the table, throw me these hopeful glances that I’d politely ignore. It got to the point where I actually scrawled “ Please talk ” on a scrap of paper, and shoved it across the table like it was a hostage negotiation.

And, oh boy, did he take me seriously.

Suddenly he was Mr. Chatty, spilling every story he could think of, like he’d been saving them up just for me.

He told me about the time a giraffe at the zoo almost chomped his hand off because he was holding the lettuce wrong. Or how he once faked an asthma attack in middle school to get out of the annual Terry Fox run. “I respect the cause, of course, but I’d bought a Nintendo DS that same week. Priorities, you know?” He said it with such deadpan honesty that I almost laughed out loud.

Raees tried involving me in his tales, or kept looking at me with this hopeful, open expression like he was ready to be let in. But I wasn’t ready to unpack all my mess for him just yet.

So, I just listened. And he never pressed. Somehow, that silence between us turned into its own language. That’s partially why I married him. He made space for me in his world without ever asking me to fill it with noise.

“Hello?” Dua jolts me back. “Zinnie?”

“Please let me know if you can make it. I can ask Raees if he wants to come, just in case. Backup plan. Sounds good?”

“Sounds gre—” She barely has time to turn around before the door swings open. “Zayan Jafri, for the last time, this is a women’s changing room. You’re breaking like three laws just being here!”

“And are there any women present in the room with us right now?”

And then he’s in view, sweeping her into his arms, his fingers digging playfully into her waist. He leans in, probably aiming for one of those dramatic, stagey kisses he likes to pull, but he catches sight of me on the screen and pauses. His face splits into a grin. “Oh, hey, Zinneerah. How are you?”

I lift a hand in a half-hearted wave. “Fine. You?”

“Oh, you know, just trying to keep up with this one.” He hooks an arm around the front of my sister’s neck, pulling her close even as she squirms. She’s rolling her eyes, trying to duck out from under his gentle hold, but he just presses his cheek against hers. “How’s married life with Professor Shaan?”

The million-dollar question. The question everyone’s been asking with too-enthusiastic eyes since the wedding. As if the answer might reveal some piece of gossip they’re all dying to sink their teeth into.

I don’t have anything bad to say about Raees.

Not a single scowl, not one raised brow or awkward silence. We’re neutral, I guess? But in a way that feels safe. He hasn’t done a single thing to make me flinch or question myself. He hasn’t poked at old scars or dug up memories I’d rather leave buried. Honestly, I don’t even think Raees knows how to be angry.

Even after the wedding, there’s no pressure from him to take things to some undefined ‘next level.’ He just seems content. Unbothered. Like he’s perfectly fine being the calm center while I swirl around him like a little hurricane.

I feel a tiny smile beginning at my lips before I can stop it.

“Ooh,” Dua coos, giggling. “She’s blushing.”

“She’s definitely blushing.” Zayan snickers beside her, scratching the back of his head. “But still—just be careful, all right? He might be your husband, but men are . . . well, men . Completely unpredictable.”

Dua scoffs. “Rich coming from you.”

Before she can blink, Zayan swoops down, scooping her up with ease and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of onions. His hand settles on her ass.

“Put me down, you dick, or I’m screaming bloody murder!” she snaps, her fists drumming on his back.

“Sorry to cut your girl talk short, Zinneerah,” he says, picking up Dua’s phone as she squirms, “but your sister’s stubborn streak is really doing it for me right now.”

I snort, fighting the urge to laugh.

“Zinnie, I’ll call you back!” Dua shouts, voice muffled as she’s carried away, still pummeling his back. “I love—” The call ends.

With a sigh, I plug my phone in to charge, fully aware I’ll be getting a play-by-play update later whether I want it or not.

I’m halfway through Alex’s EP when my phone pings with the security app notification.

Raees is home.

Pausing the track, I slip off my headphones and ease my door open just a crack, peeking out.

All I catch is the top of his dark waves as he bends to untie his shoes downstairs, then the familiar march of his footsteps on the stairs.

I close the door, leaning back against it. Okay, Zinnie. You’ve got this. He’s your husband. He’ll say yes. He’ll come with you.

But my brain, as usual, doesn’t listen.

What if he says no? What if he has some perfectly valid reason—work, or fatigue, or a meeting early tomorrow? What if he just . . . doesn’t want to go? And then, what, I go by myself?

If that happens, I won’t go either. It took everything I had just to drive myself to campus a few days ago; the idea of facing a concert crowd on my own feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.

I’ll die.

No, stop it. This isn’t a big deal. Just ask. If he’s busy, fine.

I’ll message Alex, maybe see if she’ll have a minute to meet up privately. Not that she’ll see it in time, or respond, but fingers crossed. Or I could wait outside the venue after, catch her for a quick hug before she slips away into the night.

But I don’t want that. I want to be there, in the strobe lights, surrounded by people who feel the way her music makes me feel. I want to see her perform. I want the whole experience.

“Damn it,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until colors bloom in the darkness.

It’s fine. It’s just a question. I can ask Raees. He’s my husband; that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Talk to each other?

Right. Okay, go.

I open the door, only to collide with him on the other side—he’s right there, hand raised, about to knock.

We both freeze for a moment, our chests nearly brushing. I take a step back, and he mirrors me, tucking his hands behind his back in that polite, old-fashioned way he has.

“I apologize,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down. “I was just coming to see if you’d eaten anything.”

I shake my head. I will make dinner.

His brow furrows slightly as he processes my words. He’s always so careful about reading me. That’s why I make sure I mouth them while I sign. But he’s a quick-learner. “No, it’s fine. We could get takeout instead. Are you craving anything?”

Craving? What am I craving? Why is it always about what I want? Why doesn’t he ever ask me to make him something, or tell me what he’s in the mood for? There’s this strange imbalance in the way he defers to me, like my happiness is some fragile thing that needs to be coddled and fed, while his can just sit on the shelf, unattended. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want him to think I’m tallying up favors or waiting for some payback. I don’t do things for him so he’ll do them for me. I just . . . I just want to be a good wife.

I lower my gaze to the floor and sign slowly, What do you want to eat?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him let out a soft breath. For one irrational second, I think he’s annoyed with me, but when I look up, I find him tapping his chin, brow furrowed in thoughtful consideration. “How about Mexican?”

Oh, God. No.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the food itself—it’s great, honestly, I used to inhale it without a second thought back when I was with my ex.

But it’s the years I spent swallowing mouthfuls of salsa and pretending everything was fine, sitting across from a man who smiled in public and turned monstrous in private that tarnished it.

All those dinners I tried to choke down under the scrutiny of his sunken eyes, waiting for his mood to change. Mexican restaurants were his favorite; he’d even bring home greasy takeout bags when he wanted to smooth things over, like an olive branch I was supposed to be grateful for. I’d sit there with an upset stomach, eating because if I didn’t, he’d notice. If I didn’t smile, he’d notice.

I know it’s ridiculous. I know I’m safe now. And I’ve got bigger things to untangle than my stupid aversion to a plate of enchiladas. But try telling that to my pulse as it starts to pound, or the stones gathering at the base of my throat.

Raees is waiting for an answer, smiling a little, looking so damn hopeful. He has no idea. And I hate this. I hate that I can’t be normal and say “Sure, Mexican sounds great!” without feeling like my whole body is about to shut down.

For him , I tell myself. I press my lips into what I hope is a smile and sign, Okay.

His handsome face lights up, and he starts scrolling through his phone, rattling off something about how amazing this place is, how he’s been going there for years. He turns the screen to show me the menu, all proud and cheerful.

My heart dives off a cliff.

No.

No, no, no. It can’t be.

But there it is, right in front of me.

The same logo, the same green-and-gold color scheme, the same fucking restaurant.

My stomach clenches so hard I feel nauseous.

It’s his place. The place he always insisted on. The place we went to that Friday night on my 22nd birthday at half past ten.

The details are burned into my brain.

He sent me in to order one shrimp taco, five chicken empanadas, an orange Crush, extra guac and chips. The total was thirty-fifty. I paid in cash, felt the crumple of bills in my hand, left a tip even though I was running low on money that week. I was always the one who paid.

I got back to the red Nissan, climbed in with the food, and buckled up. Radiohead was playing. God, how I hate Radiohead. I told him that, under my breath, and he just smirked, turning it up louder. The car stank of marijuana, of him, of everything that made my skin crawl. And when I tried to just sit quietly, to make myself invisible like I always did, he told me to feed him. Like I was some kind of servant. “Come on, Neerah, I’m driving.”

The bag was warm on my lap, rain slashing down, loud enough to drown out my own breathing. He leaned over the steering wheel, one hand holding his joint, the other reaching out, impatient. “Feed me,” he slurred, eyes glassy with the weed and whatever else he’s on. I’d learned to read his threats like a weather forecast. And that night, the storm had already arrived. “Feed me!”

“Just focus on the road, okay? We can eat when we get back to your place.”

But that’s not good enough. It was never good enough.

“Take it off.”

“Take what off?”

“Your seatbelt, Neerah. Take your fucking seatbelt off.”

“Dame—”

“Take it off!”

I knew better than to argue when he sounded like that. “There. It’s off.”

He reached over and grabbed the belt, pulling it toward him, stretching it across the console, his focus split between me and the road.

“Dame, what are you doing—?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He looped the seat belt around my throat.

Once.

Twice.

The coarse fabric bit into my skin.

“Dame, please—augh!” My voice came out strangled as I clawed at the belt, fingers scrabbling against it, trying to loosen it, but he just tightened his grip until every breath was a battle.

He yanked my head forward by the belt, then twisted his fingers into my hair, wrenching me so hard that my skull felt like it was splitting apart.

I barely had time to gasp before my forehead slammed into the dashboard with a sickening crack. Pain exploded as my seat belt cut into my throat. He pulled me back and shoved me forward again.

And again.

And again.

Something hot and metallic had filled the back of my throat, dripping down my chin.

Blood.

There was so much blood.

It was everywhere, coating my tongue, making me choke as I struggled to breathe, to think, to make it stop. The belt around my throat carved deeper, cutting off what little air I had left. My lungs burned, my vision swam, and all I could hear was the relentless pounding of my own heartbeat.

The music was blasting, bass thrumming against my ribcage, swallowing his words—but I could still hear them, each one shot like a bullet.

“Bitch.”

“Ungrateful slut.”

“Fucking whore.”

The car lurched, the wheels skidded on the slick road, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t let go. He was so consumed by his rage that he didn’t even notice the world spinning out of control around us.

CRASH!

I take a deep breath, pressing my fingers to my throat, feeling the skin there itch and burn, as if the belt is still leashing me. The air feels congested, like I’m breathing through wet cotton, and every time I swallow, it hurts. It burns.

My bones ache, a marrow-deep ache that remembers every bruise and fracture. My temples pound in time with my heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud. My forehead throbs with phantom pain, and my nose prickles, numb from the memory of breaking.

Black spots drift across my vision, tiny bursts of darkness that swell and blur everything around me.

I stagger backward, the world tilting, my legs folding until I’m on the ground, clutching the carpet, trying to find something solid. But nothing feels real. The sounds around me are muffled. Warped. I’m underwater again, trying to end my life in the bathtub.

There’s a voice calling my name.

Is it him?

Or is it Shahzad?

Dua?

But I see flashes of hospital lights too bright, the smell of antiseptic. My siblings’ pale, shocked faces as they stare at me lying there, twisted in casts, my neck immobilized, broken blood vessels in my eyes, my legs wrapped tight. The doctor’s voice: We did the best we could to preserve her vocal cords.

I curl my hand around my throat.

No cast. There’s no cast. But there was. There was. The scar tissue tightens, and I feel that awful constriction, like I’m suffocating all over again.

They should’ve done more.

They should’ve left me to die.

They should’ve brought my voice.

“ Zinneerah !”

A voice slices through the fog, tethering me back to reality, but only just.

I look up, blinking hard, my vision still struggling to clear.

My heart seizes when I see a pair of honey-brown eyes staring down at me.

Raees. It’s Raees.

My husband, Raees.

That’s true. I have a husband now.

Raees is my husband.

I’m not Zinneerah Arain anymore.

I’m Zinneerah Shaan.

The thought shatters something in me, and before I know it, I’m crying.

Big, wracking sobs that I can’t stop, like my body is purging something it’s been holding onto for too long.

Dear brain, this is a safe space. Raees is a safe man. He had defended you at the grocery store. He protected you from that man. He paid for the groceries. He is going to take care of you. He is a good man. This is your home now. This is a safe space you’ll be sharing with your husband. He is a safe man. He will not hurt you. This is a safe space that belongs to you, too. This is your home now. This is a safe space you’ll be sharing with your husband. He is a safe man. He will not hurt you. This is a safe space that belongs to you, too. This is your home now. This is a safe space you’ll be sharing with your husband. He is a safe man. He will not hurt you. This is a safe space that belongs to —

Something soft brushes my cheek, and I feel a tiny sting in my eyes as I blink myself awake.

Raees’ face comes into focus.

His brows are knit in concentration, mouth pressed into a serious line. He’s being so careful, dabbing at my cheeks with the corner of his sleeve, his fingers light as a feather as they tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I didn’t even realize I’d cried this much.

God, how did I let myself get to this point? Again.

A hiccup shudders through me, and I bite my lip to stifle it, but it only makes my throat ache worse.

Raees doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask questions or poke for answers. He just stands up, strides over to my desk, and grabs my water bottle. I should be grateful—most people would’ve been asking if I was okay by now, if I wanted to talk about it. But he doesn’t. He just unscrews the cap with a little pop, and kneels back down, holding it out for me.

I reach for it, my hands still trembling, and take a long, desperate sip, letting the cool water soothe the rawness in my throat. He watches me quietly, never once looking away.

“How about sushi?” Raees whispers.

I blink at him, surprised, and he gives me this adorable, lopsided smile as he reaches out, brushing a thumb against my chin to catch a stray drop of water. It’s such a simple gesture, such a gentle gesture, and it makes me want to curl up and hide at the same time.

I turn my face away, swallowing the guilt that’s rising in my throat.

I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him. Sitting here, offering me water, and soft smiles, pretending I’m not a walking disaster. He should be with someone who doesn’t crumble at the slightest mention of food, who doesn’t need to be pieced back together over and over again.

I thought I’d buried this—this needy , broken part of me. I thought I’d learned how to keep it all locked up, safe and sound, where it couldn’t hurt anyone. Or make anyone feel obligated to take care of me.

I wipe at my own cheeks, taking over the job he started. Then, I stand, pulling my arms tight around myself so I don’t fall apart. My fist presses against my chest in a slow, absent circle.

Sorry.

Raees dips his head, trying to catch my downcast eyes, and when I finally glance up, he’s doesn’t drop that gorgeous smile of his. “Please don’t ever apologize to me.”

It’s strange hearing that. He’s looking at me like he won’t budge until he’s sure I understand.

My lips press together, and I manage a small nod. It seems to satisfy him, but my hand is still curled tight against my chest.

He glances at his watch, then back at me with a spark in his eyes. “Actually, I think I feel like cooking tonight. But only if you’ll bake with me,” he says, running a hand through his hair in a way that makes my stomach flip. “I was hoping for chocolate chip cookies. The soft, gooey kind. What do you say?”

I rub the last dampness from my eyes with the back of my wrists and nod. Of course I’ll make him cookies. I’ll make him a hundred cookies if it will make up for being such a mess today, for ruining our take-out plans.

It’ll be a welcoming distraction.

He smiles like I’ve just given him the best news he’s heard all day. “I mean it, Zinneerah. No more apologizing. I’m serious about this. Do you understand?”

I manage a nod.

He’s like the sun coming out from behind clouds, so sudden and bright that it throws me off balance. “Why don’t you take a few minutes? Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be downstairs.”

With one final smile, he exits my room.