17. Raees
17
Raees
A n hour remains before the concert, and I’m standing in front of the mirror, giving myself the kind of pep talk I’d give a student who’s about to blow their big story by overthinking it.
Tonight, I cannot screw this up. Not for her.
This is Zinneerah’s night. She’s finally getting to see her old friend perform, something she’s been looking forward to for some time. And I get the honor of being at her side.
I’m not even sure how I’m still breathing.
If I’m honest, I’ve been half-convinced all day that last night wasn’t real. She’d come into my bedroom after I’d worked myself to post panic-attack exhaustion, draped her blanket—the one with the colorful wildflowers—over me, and straightened the papers on my desk. When I woke up and saw it, I thought I’d imagined the whole thing. But no.
She’s real.
She’s very real.
And she’s mine.
My wife. My sweet, beautiful wife.
I give myself one last look, spritz the cologne, and step out of the bedroom.
It’s time.
My sister’s been lighting up my phone ever since I gave her the full play-by-play. I stayed up late running my mouth to her, ignoring Saira’s half-hearted apology texts as they rolled in. Around two, I finally crashed with Zinneerah’s blanket still in my arms.
Ram : Make sure you hold her hand! The clubhouse gets packed. I went there for a Cranberries reunion once, and it was like sardines in a tin can.
I rub my bottom lip as I shuffle into the kitchen, dropping into one of the stools at the counter.
Me: What if she doesn’t want to? You know how she is with physical touch.
Ram: Safety physical touch. Don’t overthink it, Cronkite. Just ask her.
I suppose there is no harm in asking her.
Ram: I know you hate crowds, so carve out a little breathing room for yourself, okay? Don’t be shy about it. Shove some people if you have to. :p
Me: You’re thirty-nine, Ramishah. Why are you sending emojis?
Ram: They’re called emoticons, you over-educated clown. How do you teach media literacy without knowing the difference between an emoji and an emoticon?
Me: My lesson plans are for adults, not middle schoolers. I’m not exactly doing a PowerPoint on AOL chatroom culture.
Light footsteps hit the stairs. I glance toward the hall as her familiar silhouette appears in the periphery.
Me: Gotta go. Wife’s here.
I slip my phone into my pocket, press my palm against my lips to check my breath, then brush a few strands of hair back into place using the oven door’s reflection.
Zinneerah steps into the living room, and I nearly tip off my stool.
God help me, this woman.
This woman .
My woman.
She is strikingly, magnificently beautiful in a way that borders on otherworldly.
Her knee-long hair falls loose and parted cleanly down the middle; a cascade of dark silk that moves with the kind of eloquence you can’t replicate. She’s wearing a black, long-sleeved top that slips off her shoulders, revealing the delicate structure of her collarbones, like branches in frost. The fabric molds to her figure just enough to hint at the curve of her small waist. A dark-red satin skirt, high-waisted and flowing, catches the light as it moves around her.
Her eyes are lined with kajal—dark, smoky strokes, while maroon lipstick shapes her lips into something I can only describe as perfection.
Then she has the audacity to sign, I look okay?
The question is absurd. She is absurd, in the most extraordinary sense. If I could, I’d marry her again every single day, in every single thing she chooses to wear.
“Yes,” I whisper, “you look stunning, Zinneerah.” I try to say more, but the words tangle in my chest when she gives me a shy, beautiful smile. “You are stunning.”
She reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and as she does, the line of piercings along its curve comes into view.
I can’t stop looking at her. It’s overwhelming, really. This surreal, humbling realization that she’s my wife. That she chose me .
What have I done to deserve her? I don’t know. I don’t believe in past lives, but if such things exist, I must have been a saint, a hero, or something equally improbable. Because in this life, somehow, I have her.
She taps my shoulder. Go?
I lick my lips, nerves catching in my throat. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Zinneerah strides past me, her hair swaying as she moves. Her eyes catch mine mid-step, and there’s that crinkle at the corners when she smiles.
Flawless.
By the time she’s at the front door, I realize I’ve been standing still too long, a hand pressed to my chest to keep my heart from jumping out.
When I catch up to her by the front door, she’s already battling her shoes. Her purse is sliding off her arm, her hair keeps falling into her face, and she’s muttering silently to herself under her breath. She’s a mess— my mess—and I don’t think I’ve ever loved her more.
“Sit down, please,” I say, already reaching for her. “I’ll do it.”
She looks up, surprised. It’s okay.
“Sit. Please.”
She hesitates like she always does, but then brushes her skirt under her, and lowers herself onto the edge of the settee.
I pick up her flats and kneel down. She lifts her skirt just a bit, enough for me to see her ankle, and my mouth goes dry.
My hand wraps around her foot—small, soft—and I just sit there for a second. Or a minute. I don’t know. She doesn’t say anything or pull away.
I slide the shoe on, trying not to make this more than it is. But it is more, isn’t it? It has to be, because I can feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck, and I’m not even halfway done.
Her other foot’s already there, waiting. I take it, my fingers brushing her calf. It’s nothing— it’s everything . The second shoe goes on, but my hand stays. I don’t know why.
My thumb presses against the edge of her ankle, and I don’t move it. Her fingers curl in her lap, gripping her skirt, and I look up. She’s looking down at me, her lips barely apart, like she’s about to say something but doesn’t. I brush her skirt down, fingers skimming the fabric.
I seriously can’t move. She’s not moving either.
Standing feels like breaking a spell. I grab my shoes and shove them on, not bothering to tie them properly because apparently functioning like a normal human being is off the table today.
After I lock the door, she heads straight for her car. Even though I had cleaned mine inside and out after my trip with Saira, I still couldn’t let my wife sit in that same passenger seat. I don’t know, it just bothered me.
Zinneerah’s hand goes to the door handle, but no. Not happening. I reach it first, and pull it open for her.
She looks at my smile, and then her gaze drops. She climbs into the seat without saying a word, her hands smoothing the hem of her skirt.
She gets shy when I do things like this. She always has. I love it. I love her.
I close the door gently, and take her in through the window, the way she sits with her hands folded in her lap, her head turned slightly toward the windshield. She’ll never know what she does to me, how she owns every piece of me without even trying. If she did, she’d probably laugh, and I’d deserve it.
But God above, I’m hers either way.
“Are you excited to see Alex?” I ask, once I’m settled in the driver’s seat.
She signs, Nervous .
“That’s understandable.” My right-hand rests on the gear shift, the left steering the wheel. “It’s always a little strange seeing someone after so much time has passed. But you know what? It’ll be fine. Even if it feels awkward at first, those kinds of friendships have a way of picking up right where you left off.” I smile, but she’s staring at the dashboard, her brows pulled together like she’s bracing for something. “Hey?”
She lifts her gaze to meet mine.
“You’ll be fine,” I assure softly. “It’s pretty much impossible for someone to make you a villain in their life.” My hands tighten on the wheel as I ease us into the flow of traffic. “You’re certainly a hero in mine.”
Zinneerah continues staring at me, like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me. Then she looks away, her focus drifting back to the dashboard.
The drive to the clubhouse is supposed to be fifteen minutes, but with downtown traffic, it stretches to thirty. By the time we pull into the lot, the sun’s sinking low, brushing the tops of the buildings with gold.
I pay at the machine, the ticket popping out with a mechanical click. Sliding it under the windshield wiper, I ease the car into a spot between two sedans that look like they haven’t moved in weeks.
Zinneerah’s hand touches the door handle again, but I beat her to it, locking it with a quick flick. She pauses, confused, and looks at me. I step out without a word, coming around to her side to do what she’s about to learn is my job.
“Got everything?” I ask, standing there, holding the door wide.
She glances back inside the car, scanning the seat, the floor. A quick double-check. Then, a thumbs-up.
“Good,” I say, wiping my hand on the front of my jeans, the fabric coarse against my palm. “Before we head in, I’ve got a question.”
Her brows lift.
I clear my throat. “Ramishah said it can get pretty packed in there. Wall-to-wall people. So, with that being said . . . would you like to hold my hand? It’s just to keep us together, and make sure you’re safe—”
She grabs my hand.
Soft . Softer than I expected. Her fingers are slender but long, almost the same length as mine. I catch myself thinking how easy it would be to kiss each fingertip, but I rein it in. Not the time.
We start walking, and instead of taking the lead, I keep pace with her—side by side. The clubhouse looms ahead, a hum of bass spilling out the door as a line of people shuffle forward, handing IDs to the bouncer.
Her fingers squeeze mine, pulling my focus back to her. She mouths a single word: “Wallet.”
“Phone, too?” I ask, arching a brow.
She nods.
I fish both out of my pocket and hand them to her without question. She tucks them into her purse, zips it shut, and takes my hand again like she never let go in the first place.
We move forward together, weaving through the line.
Holy hell, it is packed in here. The air inside is congested with heat and sound, bodies pressed together in clusters.
I instinctively pull Zinneerah closer, and lean down to murmur near her ear. “Stay close to me.”
I’d forgotten how people move in spaces like this—fish in a current, bodies flowing, colliding, squeezing past without a second thought. Two guys about my height cut through ahead of me like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Meanwhile, I’m trailing behind, trying not to catch an elbow to the ribs.
The crowd is a surprisingly decent ratio of men to women, most of them at least a decade younger than me. They’re dressed to the nines in early 2000s throwback fashion—rhinestones glinting around their eyes, glitter smeared across lips, pink bows perched on heads.
We make a beeline for the first door.
“I’m guessing there’s no seating plan?” I ask. “Not sure why I thought this might resemble a lecture hall.”
Zinneerah doesn’t answer. She’s laser-focused, blissfully unaware of my commentary, her attention charged by the electricity of the crowd. Looks like now’s the perfect time to drop the ASL card.
I squeeze her hand, then release it just long enough to sign: We talk this way. Where are the seats?
The shock hits its mark.
A grin pulls at the corner of my mouth as I sign, Surprise.
Her mouth parts wider before twisting into an upside-down grin. Why didn’t you tell me?
I don’t get the chance to sign a reply before a shoulder slams into mine, hard enough to jolt me forward. “Zinneerah? Zinn—”
Her hand clamps around mine, like catching a falling coffee mug mid-air. When I glance down, her eyes are already on me, brows pulling together in concern.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, brushing it off as I slide an arm protectively around her shoulders.
She points toward the stairs, the ones leading up to the balcony, roped off and guarded by a bouncer. I nod, letting her take the lead as we snake our way over. My eyes stay sharp, scanning for anyone else careless enough to barrel through me again.
At the rope, she pulls out her ID, and hands me my wallet. We show our tickets together. The bouncer gives us a once-over before stepping aside and unhooking the velvet rope.
Once we’re up there, Zinneerah finds a spot by the railing. There’re several people up here with drinks in their hands, leaning over and watching the crowd below.
Good seat , I sign.
I hate crowds , she signs back holding the railing to lean forward, her gaze chasing the glow of the ceiling lights, and the bodies below.
I tap her shoulder, pulling her focus back. My card?
She blinks, surprised again. Then frowns. You sign? Why not tell me?
My lips pull into a smile. Stupid, I know. My hands falter slightly. Still learning. Afraid I’d mess up.
Her eyes soften in the blue neon lights. How did you learn?
A textbook. I buy last year. After our first meeting. Learning for you.
A shy smile touches my wife’s lips. I forgive you.
I lean closer to her ear. “Didn’t know you were mad to start with,” I say, the scent of Arabian incense catching me. “But I apologize anyway.”
She steps aside, her eyes darting to the stage. Her hands move without looking at me. No apologies.
The lights dim, and the place erupts.
Not just loud. A bone-rattling, skull-vibrating loud. The kind of loud that’s primal, like the sound of a million people howling at the moon. Behind us, a tidal wave of bodies press into the railing. Their faces flushed, movements mindless, like zombies clawing at a wall they’ll never scale.
I move quickly, stepping in close behind Zinneerah before someone knocks her off balance and takes her spot. My hands find the railing instinctively, boxing her in—not too tight, just enough to make sure no one tries anything. She doesn’t notice. Her eyes are glued to the stage, to the flickering spotlights chasing one another through the haze of the smoke machines.
The band trickles out one by one, and every new body onstage pushes the decibel level higher.
Of course, I did my homework on The Femme Fatality. Indie underground-rock, that’s their niche. They’ve been clawing their way up the food chain, moving from dingy basements and makeshift dive stages to clubs, even the occasional opera house. A real darling story I can use as an example in my lectures.
The music starts without Alex. No fanfare, no introduction. Just Natalia, the drummer, crashing into her kit. The bassist, Alyssa, plucking and strumming. Over on the left, Crista’s buried in her fortress of keyboards, hands flying across the keys, and summoning a storm of cheers.
Then it appears. The voice. A voice that rips through the earthquake like a bolt of silver lightning:
“ TORONTOOOOO !”