Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

23. Raees

23

Raees

“ S he thinks I have no friends,” I say, stabbing a piece of broccoli.

Ramishah doesn’t even look up from juggling a cherry tomato and Amina, who’s wriggling in her lap like a worm. “Well, you’re having dinner with your sister on FaceTime, so yeah, I’m with her on this one.” She pops the tomato into her mouth and chews. “Harry! Are the vegetables done?”

“Almost!” Harry’s muffled voice floats in from the background.

I roll my eyes and nudge the steamed carrots around my plate. “Why would she think that?”

“Where is she, anyway?”

“Out. With her . . . friends.”

That gets her attention. Ramishah snorts so loudly that even Amina pauses her squirming to stare up at her mom. “Oh, my god. She has friends, and you don’t? That’s rich.”

I glare at her through the screen. “Just say you don’t want to have a virtual dinner with me.”

“I don’t want to have a virtual dinner with you, Chotu.”

I frown. “You weren’t supposed to actually say it.”

Her expression softens for a fraction of a second—just long enough to make me think she’s about to apologize or something—but that’s just wishful thinking. “Fine. Let’s talk about your lack of companionship. Want me to introduce you to some of my friends?”

“Absolutely not. Your friends are . . .” I trail off, searching for a nicer way to say “suck-ups with too much time on their hands.” Instead, I settle on, “They’re a bit too verbose for me. I don’t think I’d be able to keep up with their, uh, profound insights.”

“Verbose?” Ramishah repeats, stabbing a cherry tomato with her fork so aggressively that I flinch. She squints at me, and for a second, I swear I see Abbu’s glare reflected in her face. It’s unsettling. “Well, if you can’t keep up with my verbose friends, why not mingle with her friends instead?”

I groan. “Alexandra is eccentric. Half her references during our first conversation went right over my head.”

Ramishah shrugs with zero sympathy. “That’s what you get for marrying someone eight years younger than you.”

“Unlike me.” Harry suddenly pops his head into the frame like some kind of glittery jack-in-the-box. His shaggy curls are pulled back with Amina’s butterfly clips, and he’s got a streak of blue glitter eyeshadow across one eye. “Mimi and I were playing dress-up this morning.”

Ramishah barely blinks at his appearance. “We’re only a year apart, Harry. Don’t make me feel ancient.” She shoves his face out of the frame with a single hand, but he just scoots into the chair beside her like an oversized Labrador, plopping Amina on his lap and handing her baby carrot sticks. “Do you really think making friends will impress your wife?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “I think she’s sick of me always being at home or something. Why else would she bring up hosting a dinner party?”

“Or maybe because she’s being nice? Think about it. Your quiet, introverted wife suggests throwing a dinner party for your nonexistent friends—”

“Thanks.”

“—where she’s willingly volunteering for social interaction— on your behalf —because she wants her tall, clingy, tragically antisocial husband to be happy.”

“Cute,” Harry chimes in, wiping some drool off Amina’s chin. “You should just hire some friends. You know, like those actors who pretend to be your family at weddings?”

“If he’s desperate enough to sink that low,” Ramishah says, smirking.

“Just a suggestion.”

“Here’s a suggestion.” She grabs a baby carrot from Amina’s stash and shoves it into Harry’s mouth. He chews obediently.

“I’m starting to think my niece would offer better advice,” I say, leaning closer to the screen and flashing Amina my best, most winning smile. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Amina giggles, her tiny fists batting at the air like she’s already defending me. Finally, an ally.

“Wait a minute,” Ramishah says, pointing a cherry tomato at me. “That’s not a totally shitty idea coming from you. Did I hear a brain cell firing, or was that just an accident?”

“I’m one offense away from ending this call.”

She ignores me, already steamrolling ahead with her grand plan. “You can make some friends at Amina’s second birthday party this weekend. If you’re still coming, that is?”

“How could I not?” I scoff, resting an elbow on the table. “Believe it or not, I love my niece more than I love her mother.”

“More for me,” Harry says, only to be met with her palm shoved between their faces like an invisible “Do Not Enter” sign.

“Not here, Kitten Whiskers,” she says, attempting to glare at him before refocusing on me.

My head jerks back. “I’m sorry, but did you just call Harry—”

“The birthday party is perfect,” she cuts in. “Everyone attending is married or dating, so there won’t be any hot moms or dads hitting on you. Tragic, I know, but that means you and Zinneerah can grow your sad little social circle together. By the end of the month, you’ll be hosting dinner parties left and right.”

I blink. “Dinner parties?”

“Yeah, you know, those things adults do when they have more than one friend?”

“I know what dinner parties are, Rami. I’m just—I’m trying to avoid those, and so is my wife. Our social batteries drain on the same wavelength.”

“Ugh, you two were made for each other. The most boring couple alive.” She groans, throwing her head back like she’s physically in pain. “Just do as I tell you to do. It’s not rocket science.”

I set my fork down. “Fine. I’ll make some friends at Amina’s birthday party. Then, once I’m drowning in my new social life, we won’t have to do these virtual dinners anymore.”

Her eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Are you giving me attitude?”

“Not at all,” I grumble as I glance away from the screen. Growing up, Ramishah’s tantrums were legendary. There’s no way I’m falling into that trap tonight.

“Good.” She shifts in her chair and changes the subject. “How’s everything at work? Are you doing all right?”

“Yes,” I lie. Because the truth is, I haven’t told her about my panic attack the other day, or Saira’s offhand comment that cracked me open like a dropped egg.

The last thing I need is for Ramishah to go berserk on her, digging through social media accounts until she uncovers some old tweet Saira made in 2011 that could get her fired. My sister is ‘Cancel Culture’ personified (I’ve used her instances during lectures), and I’ve seen her in action. She’s a human hurricane when she gets worked up, and I’d rather not stand in the path.

“You know I don’t do the whole ‘gentle and supportive’ thing,” Ramishah continues, tossing Amina’s baby bottle to Harry like it’s a football, “but I’m here, okay? If you need me to ruin someone’s life, just say the word. First name, last name, LinkedIn profile—I’m on it.”

“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure shouting at my colleagues isn’t part of the company’s conflict-resolution policy,” I say, dragging my fork across the remains of my sad, soggy vegetables.

“Don’t knock it till you try—”

“I said ,” I grit out, “I’m fine.”

Ramishah licks her lips, then gives an exasperated glance at Harry. Her eyes flutter shut, rubbing at her forehead, as if I’m her biggest headache of the day. “Abbu wasn’t too great at making friends either.”

I scoff. “That’s because he punched his colleague and threatened to kill his children at a realtor award ceremony.”

Harry’s head jerks up, and he quickly covers Amina’s tiny ears.

“I know,” Ramishah says softly. “I know how he is, but still. We should check up on him. He’s trying to move back into the city. Three years clean.”

My fork clatters to the plate. “You’re a witness to my reasoning, Ramishah. The last thing I need is to give my abuser a bouquet of tulips and pat him on the back for being sober.” She opens her mouth, but I hold up a hand, silencing her. “You can visit him on my behalf if you really want to, but for God’s sake, do not talk about me, or my wife. Is that clear?”

Ramishah swallows hard. For once, she doesn’t fight back with a smartass comment defending Abbu’s so-called “path to redemption.” She knows better than to push me on this topic.

She was his favorite child, after all—or she liked to think she was. The prodigy. The one who actually wanted his approval. The reason she went into medicine wasn’t because of some noble dream to save lives. No, it was because Abbu told her she’d never be good enough to be a nurse, let alone a dermatologist. She’d been hell-bent on proving him wrong ever since. Desperate for his attention. Desperate to be the exception to his scorn. Meanwhile, I’d been desperate to escape him altogether.

He didn’t want a son who cried reading The Little Prince or stayed up late writing articles about his neighbourhood. He wanted someone he could mold into a mirror image of himself. He wanted a real estate prodigy, someone who’d inherit his sharp suits, sharper temper, and cutthroat morals. What he got instead was me, and he was hell-bent on breaking me into the man he thought I should be.

Harry clears his throat. “Isn’t it late for Zinneerah to come home?” he asks, glancing down at his watch.

I check mine. It’s already past nine, and I haven’t heard a single word from her. She hasn’t texted me. Not when she left for Ophelia’s house. Not after I got home and sent her a couple of follow-ups. No delivered messages. No notifications. Nothing.

I don’t even have her friends’ contact information, which is a stupid mistake on my end.

Shit.

Why the hell am I sitting here, wasting time arguing about Abbu, when I should be checking in on my wife?

“I’ll call you back,” I say, already grabbing my phone and ending the call before either of them can get a word in.

I dial Zinneerah’s number.

Voicemail. Again.

My thumb hesitates before sending a text: Are you on your way home? Have you eaten? Are you safe? The questions are simple, practical, and—if I’m honest—masking my real concern.

Zinneerah is capable, more than capable, but I can’t help worrying. Being back with her old university friends, swept up in nostalgia, might lead her to decisions made on impulse rather than reason. And I’ve yet to meet Ophelia.

The floor feels cold beneath my feet as I shuffle into the kitchen. I wash my dinner plate, then inhale three cookies afterward.

I drop onto the couch and let out a defeated breath. “I have friends,” I tell the empty room. “There’s Professor Holmes. A colleague I can actually hold a conversation with. That counts as a friend.”

Speaking of colleagues.

I reach for my phone, scrolling back to Saira’s last text while Zinneerah was helping me pick out something presentable for the concert. I barely skimmed it at the time, unwilling to open that door.

Saira: Raees, I want to apologize for what I said. I know bringing up your father is a sensitive topic. It was an ignorant mistake made in the heat of the moment. Let’s put the past behind us and move forward as co-workers :)

I stare at her words longer than I care to admit, then hold down the message and tap the thumbs-up emoji. A perfunctory response. Petty, perhaps, but anything more would feel like entertaining her.

The phone slips from my hand onto the carpet with a muted thud. I lean back, hook an arm over my eyes, and will myself to sleep.

A sudden chill jolts me awake.

My eyes flutter open, disoriented, to find Zinneerah standing over me, her silhouette softly outlined by the golden glow of the living room lamp. She’s tucking a blanket around me, her hands careful to wake me.

“Hey,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep. “You’re back.”

Zinneerah offers me a small smile, though her eyes seem to hold unease. I’m sorry I’m late. I lost track of time with my friends.

The blanket slides down to my lap as I sit up slowly, disappointment gnawing at my chest despite my efforts to push it down. “It’s okay. I just wish you would’ve texted me. My calls kept going to voicemail. I didn’t know if you were safe.”

She sits beside me, folding herself neatly into the corner of the couch, but her body remains taut. Her hands rise again, but this time, her fingers fidget mid-sign. I know. I should have texted. I’m sorry.

“Zinneerah,” I begin, reaching out to gently take her hand, but instead, I cup my kneecap. “I understand that we’re still getting to know each other. But communication is important to me, especially when it comes to things like this.” I motion towards the clock on the wall, its hands ticking away. “It’s half-past midnight. Do you understand how dangerous the city is at this time?”

Her frown deepens. My heart aches to see her like this, but I have to voice my concerns as her husband. It is out of care. Out of love.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” I continue, “but knowing you’re out there, alone, it worries me. Just a simple text, letting me know you’re okay, would have eased my mind.”

Her hands start moving frantically. Not alone. With the girls. No going out. Stay in O-P-H-E-L-I-A apartment. Phone died. I forgot to plug in. I promise. Not go anywhere. I have a video—

I take her hands in mine. “I trust you.”

She shakes her head.

“Hey. Look at me,” I whisper, tilting her chin upwards until her gaze meets mine. “I trust you. You don’t have to prove anything to me. Nothing. I trust you completely.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, a brief pause as she searches my eyes for any hint of doubt. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the knots in her shoulders ease, the frantic flutter of her lashes reducing to slow blinks.

I smile and release her hands. “How’d you get home?”

A-L-E-X.

“That’s sweet of her.” I lean back, resting my arm on the back of the couch. “Did you have fun today? Was Ophelia happy to see you?”

She nods, still resembling a wilted flower. Are you disappointed? I am sorry.

I sigh, raking a hand through my hair as I glance at the clock again. I’ve got an early morning lecture that I need a sufficient amount of sleep for. “Zinneerah, I’m not disappointed that you came home late. I’m . . . Well, I am disappointed because you didn’t even bother to let me know when you left the campus like I asked. That’s all.”

Her eyes widen with guilt. Shit. Was that too much? Should I have just let it go? I meant to say it—it’s important—but now she’s looking at me like I’ve scolded her, and that’s not what I wanted.

Before I can speak again, her hands rise in a rush. You are right. My mistake. What can I do to make it up to you?

“Nothing, Zinneerah. You don’t owe me anything. I only ask you to be mindful next time.” I lean my head low to capture her eyes. “Is that all right?”

Her lips curve up and I take a mental breath of relief. Thank you for understanding. I trust you as well.

“I would cry if it was otherwise.”

We fall into a silence that stretches for what feels like a century. Her eyes hold mine, and the lamp light catches the curve of her cheekbone, painting her features with an ethereal glow.

Eat dinner? she asks, her hands moving gently, like she’s speaking in a whisper.

“I did,” I say, just as softly. “You?”

Zinneerah opens her mouth as if to speak, but the lips I was shamelessly staring with heavy lids tuck back in. Take out. Not good. She tilts her head and smiles. I like your cooking.

I’m going to loop the sight of this picturesque woman for the rest of the week. “Good,” I say, matching her smile. “That was my evil plan all along.”

Mastermind , she signs slowly.

She has no idea. None. But one day, she will. One day, I’ll tell her how long I waited for her. How I never thought she’d look at me the way she does now. How fate, against all odds, handed me her heart and trusted me not to break it.

Sleep , she signs.

And that’s that.

I stand up and fold the blanket over the couch’s armrest. Zinneerah remains seated, fiddling with the ends of her sleeve. She’s still overthinking our conversation. It’s hurting me. I shouldn’t have used the word ‘disappointed.’ God knows how many times she’s heard it.

But how else could I explain how I felt? What I said was fair to both of us. She’s my wife. My comfort. My responsibility to protect and love. If anything were to happen to her, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Expressing disappointment wasn’t scolding her—it was honesty.

So why does it feel like I hurt her?

At times like this, I wish I had my father’s guidance. But the truth is, I wasn’t raised with a blueprint for this kind of love. He never taught me how to handle moments like these, only how to break things.

You sounded a lot like your father just now.

That damned thought slashes through me.

I grit my teeth. If I had the power to rip that memory out of my head, I would. But it’s stuck to me like a blood-sucking leech.

I exhale slowly, forcing my jaw to unclench, and crouch down until I’m at eye level with Zinneerah.

She blinks in surprise. What’s wrong?

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way,” I say, cradling her left hand. “Please, don’t think about it too much. I just want you to get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow morning, we’ll make breakfast together. We can eat by the pool, then drive to campus for work. Afterward, we should buy a gift for Amina’s birthday, and pick up groceries for the dinner party.” My anxiety travels down my throat. “Does that sound like a plan? If there’s anything else you want to do, just tell me. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

She squeezes my hand, her right one coming to rest gently on top of mine. Her smile blooms, perfect, pearly-whites on full display.

Her happiness stops time, and for a moment, it feels like the entire universe bends to her. It always does, doesn’t it? The way she can fill a room without even trying, without even knowing. I don’t think she realizes how rare that is—how rare she is. That smile. God, it breaks me. It’s soft, shy, but it shines. It’s her.

And it’s mine, for now.

I want to kiss her. Everywhere. Her flushed cheeks, her pointy nose, the corners of her lips where that smile lives, that tiny space between her eyebrows when she’s thinking too hard. I want to feel her breath hitch against my skin, to hold her in my arms and whisper every thought I’ve ever had about her—how brilliant she is, how much she means to me, how much I need her in my life. I want her to know, to really know, that she’s safe here. That I would ruin myself for her without hesitation. That I already have.

It terrifies me, how far I’d go for her. I’d burn bridges, scorch the earth, move heaven and hell if it meant I could keep her like this. I want to find whoever extinguished the fire in her heart, the person who made her doubt herself, who made her anxious before showing her joy. I want to destroy them. I want to wipe their fingerprints off her soul, to undo whatever damage they left behind.

But I can’t. And that kills me.

But I’ll fix it. I’ll make her whole again, if she’ll let me. Not that she’s broken—God, not at all. She’s not fragile. She’s not weak. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be, and that’s the part that humbles me. That’s the part that makes me want to give her the world. I want her to know she doesn’t have to be strong with me. She doesn’t have to carry it all alone.

And every time she’s in my view—every single time—I have to stop myself from saying it. I love you. The words are right there, sitting on the edge of my tongue, begging to be set free. They’re a truth I’ve swallowed so many times I’m surprised I haven’t choked on them.

Because I do. I love her. So much it feels unbearable some days. No, every day.

I can’t say it. Not yet. Not until I know she’s ready to hear it. I don’t want to scare her or push her. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to take something from her, or that I expect anything in return.

So, I hold it in. I wait. Patiently. Painfully. Counting the moments until I can say it out loud. Until I can tell her, not once, not twice, but every chance I get, until she believes it. Until it’s part of her, like it’s already part of me.

For now, I release her hand and stand, pulling her up with me. “We’ll make breakfast together. Okay?”

Okay , she signs, a little dazed.

I start walking backwards, pointing at her. “Don’t wake up before me.”

I won’t , she signs.

“I trust you.”

Her face softens. I trust you.