Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

26. Raees

26

Raees

P rofessor Holmes tilts her head. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s Optimus Prime. From Transformers .” I set the toy down on my desk. “My wife and I were shopping for my niece’s birthday a couple of days ago, and, well, she surprised me with this.”

“She bought you . . . a toy?”

“I know.” I grin. “Isn’t she the sweetest woman on the planet? I’d been rambling about it when I saw it, and then boom —she’s handing it to me, all wrapped up. Best surprise ever.”

Holmes sighs, the kind that tells me she’s already regretting the last sixty seconds. “Raees?”

“Yes?”

“Remind me of your age again?”

I scoff, turning to set Optimus on my bookshelf. The controller stays in my desk drawer—she doesn’t need to know that much. “You wouldn’t get it. When she gave it to me, it was like . . . I don’t know. Like I was dreaming. Every single day with her feels that way, you know? Like she’s too good to be true. Like someone like me—”

“Stop right there.” Holmes’s hand shoots up like a referee calling a foul. “I’m not here for the I-love-my-wife-so-much TED Talk. I came to tell you I got a response about your student’s internship.”

Oh. Right. Dua’s internship. My mind flips tracks. “And? Good news, I hope?”

Holmes crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Katie wants a portfolio. Dua doesn’t have one.”

I frown. “She’s got stuff. A blog. Those volleyball team interviews—”

“Stuff isn’t a portfolio.” Holmes cuts me off like I just said something especially stupid. “Katie’s picky. Capital-P Picky. If Dua wants a shot, she needs to branch out. Cover athletes outside of campus. Start a podcast. Hell, write an op-ed about something trending. Just something that doesn’t look like it was slapped together between classes.”

That’s disappointing but not surprising. Dua’s smart, clever, insightful, the kind of student who pays attention to the details that others miss. But she’s also a second-year, still working her way through electives and prerequisites, with barely any real-world experience under her belt. Her professional network begins and ends with her boyfriend.

“I’ll advise her going forward,” I say.

Holmes raises an eyebrow, standing and brushing imaginary lint from her skirt. “Excellent. My good deed for the week is officially checked off. I’ll send you Katie’s contact info—forward that to Dua. Always useful to have a big name like Miss Cunningham’s somewhere in your orbit. Even if she’s a pain.”

“Got it.”

She grabs her purse from the floor and slings it over her shoulder, but pauses halfway out the door, eyeing me like she’s debating whether to bother. She bothers. “Oh, by the way, Wei’s retirement party is at the end of the month. You’ve been ghosting the group chat, in case you weren’t aware.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Holmes snorts. “Of course you have. No one would ever accuse you of being over-engaged.” Her gaze flicks to Optimus Prime on my shelf, but she doesn’t comment. The judgment is dripping from her smirk as she turns on her heel and strides out.

Truth be told, I’ve been avoiding the group chat, mainly because Saira treats it like her personal playground. Every other day, there’s some new poll about department socials—“Team trivia night?” “Movie marathon?” “Wine and cheese tasting?” She even made a poll about which venue had the best coffee for faculty meetings. Everyone else humors her, but I can’t stomach it. Even Holmes doesn’t participate, so I don’t know why I’m the one catching heat for not replying.

Still, if I want to be better about networking, maybe I should start practicing what I preach. And that means facing the group chat.

I open the Messenger app on my laptop, scrolling through the digital debris. It’s the usual mix: inspirational quotes about academia, unfunny memes recycled from three years ago, and an unhealthy amount of cat gifs.

At the top, there’s the latest poll: the next department outing. It’s a tie between bowling and a hockey game. I blink at the name of the poll’s creator. Ethan Benedict. For once, it’s not Saira. And, thankfully, it’s not clubbing.

Still, both options sound like punishment in their own ways.

Bowling? Absolutely not. The thought alone makes my skin itch. Bowling is a gauntlet of second-hand shoes, sticky balls coated in questionable pizza grease, screaming kids, and endlessly waiting your turn while someone inevitably screws up the scoring machine. The worst kind of department outing.

Not that a hockey game would be much better. But at least I’d be seated. I wouldn’t have to touch anything suspicious or stand awkwardly around a sticky plastic table. All I’d have to do is watch a bunch of overgrown men battering rams in oversized jerseys. They’re basically short-tempered figure skaters with sticks, and the whole thing feels like a live-action metaphor for Canadian patriotism.

I groan, but click the hockey game option anyway. It’s the lesser of two evils.

Me: When’s the game so I can clear my schedule?

I sit back and wait for a reply.

Professor Carlson’s the first to read it. His little “seen” notification pops up.

Nothing. No response. Of course.

“Thanks for that,” I mutter.

A second later, Saira reads it. Her reply bubbles pop up immediately. Of course.

Professor Yaaas: Look who finally decided to join civilization.

I sigh, already regretting my decision.

Professor Yaaas: It’s tonight, by the way. That’s what you get for lurking in the chat like some shadowy cryptid. But don’t stress—we’ve got an extra ticket since George from Psych bailed last minute.

“Shit.” I groan, letting my forehead thunk onto the desk. “I don’t want to go anymore.”

My computer chimes again. I glance up and see Saira’s private message. Here we go.

Saira: I’m seriously so glad you’re coming, Raees! It’ll be fun, I promise. We’ve got great seats in the back—you can see the whole rink from there.

I stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Me: Great.

Her reply bubbles pop up again fast, like she’s been waiting for an opening.

Saira: Come on. Don’t sound so thrilled. You used to love sports games. Where’s the old Raees?

I roll my eyes. I used to go to sports games because my fellow classmates loved them, and I was always invited. Saira just happened to be there too, back when we . . . whatever.

Me: Can I bring a plus-one?

She starts typing. Stops. Typing again.

Saira: Seats are limited.

Me: What if I buy an extra ticket?

Saira: Godspeed.

I click my tongue and lean back in my chair, staring at her message. Would Zinneerah even want to come? Probably not. She’s got better things to do than watch me try to force myself to socialize.

I send a thumbs-up emoji, shut my laptop, and grab my bag. “This better be worth it.”

As I’m locking my office door, my phone pings with a notification. It’s from Zinneerah.

Love of My Life: Raees, is it okay if I invite my friends over? Ophelia’s bringing Juliette too.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

Me: Of course. I’ll pick up some donuts on the way.

Before I make it to the stairs, my phone buzzes again.

Love of My Life: You don’t have to do that. But if you do—because there’s no stopping your kindness—please, no jelly ones.

I laugh, standing at the top of the stairwell.

Me: Understood. No jelly ones. I’ll see you in a few.

Twenty minutes later, I walk out the door with two dozen boxes of fresh, still-warm donuts from Studio 365.

There’s a bright chatter of a little girl, the noise of a kids’ TV show, and Alex’s loud laughter bouncing off the walls.

Zinneerah is pulling a tray of chocolate cupcakes from the oven when I step into the kitchen. She greets me with an ear-to-ear smile that’s capable of lighting up a blackout.

Alex and Ophelia are seated at the island, their conversation coming to a halt.

“Professor!” Alex swivels around on her stool at the kitchen island, throwing her arms in the air. “Dude, this house is sick! That basement theater? Yeah, that’s officially my new room. I’m moving in. Hope you and Zinnie don’t mind.”

Zinneerah abandons her mittens on the counter to sign, Welcome home.

“Thank you,” I say, setting the boxes of donuts down. “And Alex, you’re always welcome to stay. Both of you are.”

Ophelia, who’s perched beside Alex, whistles. “Julie, get over here for a second.”

I glance over my shoulder as Juliette—the spitting image of her mother, down to the golden curls and those ocean-blue, big-as-the-moon eyes—jumps off the couch and pads into the kitchen. “Hi, Professor.”

I look at Alex, whose grin is bordering on devilish, before turning back to Juliette. “It’s nice to meet you, Juliette. You can call me Raees. Or Uncle Raees. Whatever works for you.”

She stares up at me, her little hand gripping mine in a surprisingly firm handshake. Her eyes get wider, like she’s just solved a mystery. “You really do look like Superman . . .”

“What?”

“It’s nothing,” Ophelia interjects. “We were just comparing you to Clark Kent when Zinnie showed us a picture of you.”

Zinneerah can’t catch a break when it comes to her friends’ unfiltered comments . She watches many movies. Compare people to actors everywhere we go.

“She’s talking shit, isn’t she?” Alex asks, leaning over the kitchen island to pinch Zinneerah’s cheek. My wife swats her hand away, but she’s laughing.

“Uncle Raees.” Juliette tugs at my hand. “Can I please have a donut?”

“Yes, of course. They’re for all of you.” I grab the box of strawberry-glazed and sprinkle-covered donuts off the counter and crouch down to her level. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Mmm.” Juliette pauses, pointing a finger as she sing-songs her way through eenie-meenie-miney-moe. Her little arm hovers over the box for a full ten seconds before she plucks out a pink-and-blue sprinkle donut like it’s a prize. “This one!”

I ruffle her curls. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thank you!” She beams at me, grabs a second donut, and skips off toward the TV.

“Zinnie tells us you’ve got a sweet tooth, Raees,” Ophelia says.

I glance at Zinneerah, who’s suddenly very interested in the ceiling and is twirling a strand of her hair. What’s she nervous about? The sweet tooth thing? Please. I love that she talks about me to her friends. Hell, if she’s pulling out pictures of me, even better.

“Sweet teeth ,” I correct, biting back a grin. “I could put away this whole box of donuts in one sitting if I wasn’t being monitored so closely by Mrs. Shaan over there.” I take out a Boston Cream and hold it up like a trophy. “This is my only dessert tonight. She’s keeping my glucose intake on lockdown.”

It is for your own good , she signs.

“I know, I know.” I shrug and take a bite of the donut, brushing past her back. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Oh,” Alex croons, leaning closer to Ophelia. “Look at that. Zinnie’s blushing.”

Zinneerah presses her lips together, like she’s holding something back. Her eyes narrow, and for a second, I think she’s going to say whatever’s dancing on her tongue. Instead, she scoffs, rolls her eyes, and heads straight for the pantry.

She’s blushing. She’ll deny it, but I know what I saw. That blush is staying with me for days.

“How was work, Professor?” Alex asks, sliding onto one of the stools. “Didn’t see you on campus today. Let me guess, hiding in your office again?”

“Marking assignments,” I say, grabbing a napkin to wipe my mouth. “How was practice?”

“Daniels wants to hear us perform tomorrow afternoon,” Ophelia grumbles. “Apparently, we need to incorporate an orchestra into our pieces.”

“Because Daniels is never wrong,” Alex adds, spinning the stool halfway around and back again. “When he speaks, it’s like gospel. Honestly, I’m surprised we don’t all genuflect when he walks into the room.”

I glance at Zinneerah, who’s suddenly hyper-focused on digging through the pantry.

“I think adding an orchestra is a great idea,” I say. “It’ll elevate the performance. Will I be hearing any originals this time?”

Alex doesn’t answer, but Ophelia’s brow arches. “Wait, you didn’t tell him anything?”

Zinneerah freezes, still facing the pantry. She licks her lips, stalling, and starts fidgeting with her fingers. Guilty as hell.

“We haven’t exactly had time for a proper conversation,” I say for her. It’s true. I’ve been drowning in work with exam season around the corner, and Zinneerah’s been neck-deep in her music again.

Alex finally speaks up. “To answer your question: yes. We’re performing two originals—one Zinneerah and I wrote together—and three pieces from my setlist with my band. You know, the one you heard at the concert.” She spins again, this time in lazy, wobbly circles. “Now, thanks to Daniels, we’ve gotta work overtime to get the orchestra up to speed. Teach them all the chords and scales and shit.”

Ophelia smacks her arm. “Language.”

“Scales and stuff ,” she reiterates, holding her hands up in mock surrender.

“Either way, you’ll all do fantastic. I’m looking forward to hearing the final production,” I say. Alex grins and gives me a bow from her seat, nearly losing her balance in the process. “And I’d love to stay and chat, but there’s a staff thing I’ve got to attend in a few hours.”

“Oh, cool. Where are you going?”

“A hockey game,” I reply, grabbing my mug from the counter.

Alex’s head snaps up. “Wait, you’re going to a hockey game?”

“Yep.”

“With other humans?”

“Yes, Alex. With other humans.”

My wife’s hand movements catch my eyes. Amazing . Zinneerah’s eyes sparkle. We are both hanging out with friends tonight.

“Yeah, it’s fun,” I mumble, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. “I don’t know what time I’ll be home. I’ll probably try to leave early. You know how my social battery is.”

Zinneerah purses her lips. Who’s going?

I lean back against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck. “The journalism department. A couple from engineering. Some business profs. Big group. Don’t worry, I’ll leave a breadcrumb trail if I get lost.”

She chuckles, covering her mouth with one hand. Her laugh, even without sound, is still the best part of my day. That is good to know. I hope you have fun , she signs. But not too much fun.

I let out a low laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. I can guarantee a total lack of fun.”

Her brows lift. Try.

“I will.” For her, I’ll give it a shot. The thought of canceling has definitely crossed my mind—God, it’d be so easy. But I can’t do that. My wife’s got her own plans tonight. The last thing she needs is me being a flake.

Ramishah’s right, even when I don’t want her to be. I need to start building my own circle. Friends who are reliable. Trustworthy. The kind of people I’d actually feel good about inviting over for a weekend barbecue. Not just acquaintances I nod at in the hallway or colleagues I tolerate over bad coffee in the breakroom.

Though, I won’t lie and say I’m not nervous.

After a quick shower, I throw on a white t-shirt, a loose black sweater, and a pair of jeans (yes, I’ve been shamelessly taking style notes from Zinneerah’s Pinterest boards lately).

Once I’m dressed, I head downstairs. Laughter blooms from the basement, the muffled sound of a movie playing in the home theater.

Rather than disturbing their peace, I shoot Zinneerah a text.

Me: Heading out now. I’ll text when I get there and when I’m on my way back.

I’m halfway through tying my shoes when the basement door creaks open, and Zinneerah steps out.

“Hey,” I say, straightening up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pull you away from the movie.”

You’re fine. I’ve memorized W-A-L-L-E by now.

“It’s a classic,” I say, pulling on my jacket. “A cinematic masterpiece.”

Her gaze flickers towards me. We should watch it. Together.

I blink. That’s . . . unexpected. She blinks, too, like she’s trying to take the words back but can’t.

“I’d love that,” I say quickly, meeting her halfway.

She chews her bottom lip. I’m sorry. Forgot to tell you more about the concert.

“You don’t have to apologize for that, Zinneerah.” I take a step closer, softening my voice. “You’ve got so much to look forward to, reuniting with your band, playing again, it’s okay to get caught up in it.”

Her eyes drop to my neck, scanning the space just past me. It’s something she does when she’s unsure of herself, trying to avoid being read too closely.

“Hey?”

She looks up at me, finally meeting my eyes.

“Much better,” I say with a small smile.

That’s all it takes. Her lips tug upward, and my entire week is made. Enjoy the game.

“If you tune in on TV, you might catch me dozing off,” I quip.

Her shoulders rise in a small laugh. You’ll do fine. O-P-H-E-L-I-A loves hockey. We will watch the last bit.

I wish I could bring her with me. She’d make the whole thing more bearable. But for now, all I can do is linger. “I’ll see you tonight. If I’m late, don’t wait up, okay? Go to sleep.”

She does this thing where she waits for me if I’m past the 10 p.m. mark, hanging around the kitchen or living room like she’s keeping the house awake until I get home. It makes me feel a certain kind of way, knowing she does that, but I’d rather her rest.

Goodnight.

“Goodnight, Zinneerah.”

She gifts me one last smile, before disappearing back down the basement stairs.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the shoe closet mirror as I grab my keys, my reflection staring back with a goofy grin.

“She wants to watch Wall-E with me.”