Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

34. Zinneerah

34

Zinneerah

“ W ait, let me get this straight. He tells you he loves you, and your grand response is to run away? Even though you love him, too?”

I slide further down in the stiff auditorium seat, trying to disappear into the upholstery. “It’s embarrassing being me.”

“Well . . .” Ophelia stretches her long legs out, crossing them at the ankle. “I mean, it’s not not embarrassing. Like, why did you run?”

“Because—” My voice cracks, and I stop. I don’t even know how to explain it. How do you physically tell someone you love them without sounding completely pathetic? “Because I just . . .” My whole body feels like an untied balloon losing air. “I don’t know, okay?”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to explain it. Maybe you’re just waiting for the right moment. Us women can be like that, you know? We want it to be meaningful, special. Meanwhile, men just kind of blurt out whatever’s in their heads whenever it hits them.”

“Raees is romantic,” I counter.

“Oh?” Her eyes are trained on the stage, where Alex and her band are halfway through some complicated piece with the orchestra. Professor Daniels stands at the conductor’s podium, waving his arms like he’s summoning spirits. “Okay, so what’s the most romantic thing you two have done lately?”

“Romantic?”

“Well, yeah.” She turns her head to look at me fully, her brow furrowed now. “You’re married. You’re supposed to still go on dates and stuff. It doesn’t all disappear once you get a ring on your finger, right?”

I glance down at the golden band with a hexagonal diamond on my left hand, twisting it nervously. “We haven’t really gone on any dates.”

“Not one date? Since you got married?”

“We’re both busy. It’s been hard to find time.”

“But wasn’t Alex’s concert, like, your first date?”

I shake my head quickly. “No. That doesn’t count. It was more of an obligation for him.”

“Obligation?” Ophelia raises a brow. “Is not doing dates a cultural thing? I mean, I don’t want to sound ignorant or anything, but is it . . . normal?”

I groan and kick the seat in front of me. “I don’t know, Fifi. Can we not do this right now?”

“Okay, okay. I hear you, sister.” She raises her hands in surrender, clearly enjoying how squirmy I’m getting. “But listen, if you want some help, Alex and I are totally here for you. Like, we could plan the whole thing—pick a spot, set the mood. All you’d have to do is show up, enjoy yourselves, and then, I don’t know, go home and make babies or whatever married people do when the lights go out.”

My cheeks burn instantly, and I give her a horrified look. “That’s . . .” Well, honestly, it’s not completely off base.

In fact, this whole conversation is dredging up an old memory—the one where Mama sat me down after I accepted Raees’ proposal. I’d always wondered why she’d had three children with Baba, even though she couldn’t stand him. And, well, I wasn’t ready for the brutal honesty of her answer: I enjoyed your father’s skills.

Even now, I cringe at the memory. I wish she’d said it differently.

I sigh, shaking off the thought. “Any ideas?”

Ophelia grins and throws her arm over my shoulder, giving me a quick squeeze. “Tell me, what’s your dream first date with him? Forget practicality for a second—what’s the thing you’ve been secretly wanting to do with Raees?”

“Restaurant?” I mumble.

Her grin widens. “Classic. Okay, candlelight vibes. Romantic.”

“Sushi?”

“Er, okay. Sushi, sure. Does he like sushi?”

I shrug helplessly.

“Well,” she says, waving her hand, “why don’t you figure out what he does like to eat? Find some common ground and work from there. Anything else?”

I tuck in my lips, thinking. “He likes sweets.”

Ophelia lights up at that. “Why don’t you bake something for him? Something homemade. It’ll feel way more heartfelt than just buying some random box of chocolates or whatever.”

That’s . . . actually a great point. Raees has mentioned more than once that he’s a diehard fan of my baking. “What about a dinner date at home?” I suggest, my voice warming up to the idea. “He cooks, and I bake?”

Ophelia lips curl into an approving smile. “You know what? Hell, yeah. It’s cozy, low-pressure, and totally your comfort zone. You’ll both love it.” She leans her head against mine. “I wish I could go on a date, too.”

I glance up at her. “Jason?”

“Broke it off.”

“Him or you?”

“Me,” she says with a little shrug. “He asked me to move in with him but leave Juliette with my aunt in New Jersey. Like, who does that? He said he wasn’t ‘fit to raise a kid’ while he’s at the height of his career. And I’m sitting there thinking, what career, dude? You’re an attorney, not that bastard Elon Musk.”

I frown, my brow furrowing in disbelief. “He’s not worth it.”

“No kidding.” She rolls her eyes, letting out a huff of frustration. “Should’ve known. He was like the Dollarama version of Harvey Specter.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “You love Harvey.”

“I do.” She shakes her head like she can’t believe her own taste in men. “Fucking love lawyers.” She smacks her lips in mock disappointment before her face shifts into something sly. “You know, maybe this is a sign I should finally start dating women. Honestly, his secretary Margo is so hot. I’m talking pant-suits in every color for every occasion. And one time? She man-spreaded for, like, a whole minute. And all I could think was of putting my face right in bet—”

“That’s lovely,” I interject, cutting through her daydream. “If you’re looking for a lady.” I stretch my arm out slowly, gesturing toward Alex on stage.

Ophelia follows my hand with her eyes, then snorts. “ That ?”

I clear my throat, sitting up straighter and pulling out my phone like I’m about to present a well-prepared PowerPoint on why Alex is perfect.

Take a break from lawyers. Date someone who shares the same roots as you. Someone who gets you. She’s been your best friend for years. She loves Juliette like her own daughter. She’s successful, ambitious, completely driven. And, sure, she might not wear pantsuits, but have you seen her thighs? She’s got muscles that could probably crush your head, and honestly, that sounds like a win to me.

Ophelia lets out a startled laugh, but I’m not done.

But most importantly. Alex knows you better than anyone else. She’s been there for you through everything. And who knows? Maybe she likes you too.

She takes my phone, her eyes scanning over the list of points.

But her attention is caught by Alex, who’s mid-song, pouring every ounce of herself into the performance, her powerful high notes carrying through the auditorium. The stage lights catch on her tattoos, the curves of her arms, the line of her jaw. She looks like some kind of ethereal rock goddess with the orchestra swelling behind her.

Ophelia’s lip twitches, her fingers curling around my phone. “I don’t know,” she mumbles after a long pause. “We’ve kissed a couple of times before, hooked up maybe five times over the years. She was the reason for my bisexual awakening, sure, but that doesn’t mean I should date her.” She starts coiling one of her golden curls around her finger. “Right?”

“I only want what’s best for you.”

Ophelia gives a half-hearted smile, and pulls me into a hug. “Write your love story first, Zinnie,” she whispers against my shoulder. “Mine can always wait.”

At lunchtime, I pick up two clubhouse sandwiches from the food truck parked near Studio 365. My steps slow, almost as if my body knows what I’m about to do before I do.

A strange little flutter appears in my chest when I realize I’m heading into the coffee shop. The one I haven’t set foot in since graduation.

The familiar scent of fresh espresso hits me as soon as I open the door, but everything else feels . . . a little off.

The performance corner where Marty used to host open mic nights is gone, replaced by a cold, impersonal self-checkout machine. The booths are still there, just as beaten up, the same unidentifiable stains marking the cushions like they’ve been frozen in time. The menu’s got a few trendy summer drinks now, probably trying to keep up, and the faces behind the counter are strangers to me.

I approach the counter.

“Hi! What can I get for you today?” the barista chirps. Her name tag reads Penelope, written in looping black marker.

“Is Marty here?” I ask.

“Marty?” She pauses, tilting her head as if to jog her memory. “You mean Martin Newman?”

I nod, feeling a swell of hope.

“Oh no, I’m sorry. Martin retired a couple of years ago. Moved to Australia, actually. His younger son, Michael, took over the café.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “But Michael’s been trying to sell the place. Business hasn’t been great.”

I glance around the nearly empty shop. A couple of students sit hunched over laptops.

“Yeah,” Penelope continues, following my gaze, “Starbucks opened their third bullshit location on campus, and, well, you know how it is. They’ve kinda eaten us alive. It’s sad, really. This place used to mean something. You can see it in the old photos over there.” She gestures toward a bulletin board near the far wall, cluttered with curling polaroids, each one thumbtacked. “Anyway! Can I get you anything? Our strawberry refresher’s pretty good.”

With my forced purchase of a strawberry refresher, I head towards the polaroid board, I drift toward the polaroid board.

Tucked between clusters of friends and couples, I find myself searching for us: The Cryptics. Alex’s hair was a softer shade of blue back then, Ophelia’s golden curls skimmed her neck, and I had mine scraped into a high ponytail.

We’d stick out our tongues for the camera, toss up peace signs—Alex always adding devil horns for flair—clinging to one another. The photo was from one of our first gigs at Studio 365. Anxiety wasn’t our enemy in those days, it was our fuel. We gave life to that little stage, to this place, and somehow, to everyone else who walked through the door. We didn’t just play music; we lit fires in people’s hearts.

If only I hadn’t wrecked it all by believing the promises from a man.

Then, Raees whispers, I promise to you, I am never going to hurt you. I am never leaving you alone by yourself, and I whisper back with, I’ll believe the moon is fake if you tell me it is because I love you.

Tonight, after the dawat, I’m going to tell him those words aloud. I love you. I promise I’m going to do it.

After a brisk walk to the English building, I step inside the quiet space, and scan it.

Two winding staircases lead toward the classrooms upstairs, while the first floor stretches into corridors leading to faculty offices and study nooks. I’ve only been here once, back when I took an elective on Fantastical Creative Writing.

That feels like a lifetime ago.

I fish Raees’ note from my pocket—folded, creased, and softened from how many times I’ve read it. Even Ophelia and Alex swooned over it earlier. Of course they did. Swooning over Raees is their default setting.

They love to remind me how annoyingly lucky I am.

Zinneerah, I forgot to mention my students had an exam today. I know, I’m stupid, but hey, it’s fair. Last night was a tumultuous rollercoaster. I’ve already texted Alex to pick you up. I’m sorry again. I’ll see you on campus. And, also, if I wasn’t clear enough last night:

I LOVE YOU.

P.S. Sorry I had to take your car. I’ll explain why later.

“Zinneerah?”

I lift my head, shoving the note back into the pocket of my bomber jacket. “Sarah.”

“Saira,” she corrects with a smile, walking the last few steps toward me like she’s auditioning for some corporate mentorship video. She hugs a tablet and a work folder to her chest, an “Exam In Session” sign in her left hand.

“Just finished proctoring an exam,” she announces, as if I asked. “Are you here to see Raees?”

I nod, keeping my expression flat. Yeah, no shit.

She glances at her watch. “Oh, you’re right on time. He’s probably in the first lecture hall upstairs—just to your right.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

I shuffle past her—

“I am sorry,” she says, making me stop mid-stride. My jaw tightens. Here we go. “About what happened at the hockey game. I shouldn’t have done that. I hope we’re all good—”

“No,” I reply, turning to face her. “We’re not.” Saira blinks, the fake smile wobbling on her lips. “I want you to practice respecting my husband’s boundaries. Do not mistake his kindness for something else.”

Her face morphs into a blank canvas. A weak little poker face from someone who’s suddenly realizing I’m not the kind of woman you cross twice. “I thought you couldn’t talk.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Oh, believe me, I wish I wasn’t wasting my breath on teaching you about common courtesy.”

Her throat bobs as she gulps. The flush in her cheeks spreads like spilled ink, and I know I’ve got her exactly where I want her. Humiliated, but polite enough to swallow it.

Hopefully, she gets the memo this time. “Well, now that we’ve cleared the air, I’ll take my leave.”

I don’t bother waiting for her to ‘take her leave’.

I’m already moving, my boots echoing against the stairs as I climb, leaving her glued to the spot with nothing but her embarrassment to keep her company.

My fingers twitch slightly, a leftover hit of adrenaline from the confrontation, but the victorious curl of my lips makes it all worth it.

Upstairs, I find the lecture hall she mentioned, my heart beating a little faster now. I smooth my hair in the reflection of the lecture hall’s glass door and take a deep breath, pulling out the sandwiches I packed from my bag.

Okay, Zinneerah. You can do this. Nothing to be embarrassed about. He’s your husband. He loves you. Plus, you’re going to say the words soon. No big deal.

I clear my throat and nudge the door open with my shoulder, my arms full. As I step inside and turn around, I freeze mid-motion.

A hundred pairs of eyes—blinking, squinting, bored—swivel up to me.

Dua, sitting near the front, looks like she might choke on her pen. Her eyes balloon with surprise, and she gives me a tiny wave.

One of the exam monitors clatters down the stairs toward me. “Excuse me, ma’am, you can’t be—”

“It’s fine,” I hear Raees say. He’s making his way toward me, grinning nonchalantly, as if I hadn’t just burst into his exam hall like a walking spectacle.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper when he reaches me, my breath still uneven. “I didn’t mean to—God, I’m so sorry.”

Raees chuckles softly and slides an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. Then, in that perfect, buttery professor voice of his, he announces, “Everyone, meet my wife, Zinneerah.”

A ripple of awkwardness spreads through the room. A few students manage polite murmurs of hello, others give stiff smiles, while at least a quarter are too engrossed in their exams to care.

“ And ,” he continues with a smug smile, “she and her friends will be performing at the summer festival in a few weeks. If you attend, I’ll give you all a five percent boost on your final grade.”

The room erupts. Cheers, gasps, outright celebrations from the back of the hall. I see one guy slap his friend on the shoulder like he’s just won the lottery, while another girl exhales in obvious relief, probably calculating how many marks five percent adds to her barely-passing score.

I lean closer to him. “Raees, can you even do that?”

“My wife, my rules,” he murmurs back, grinning like a schoolboy. He turns to his TAs, instructing them to keep monitoring the exam while we step outside.

The second we’re out in the hallway, he glances at the door behind us. “Wait, what happened to the sign?”

I huff under my breath. That bit— No. No, I’m not going to call her that word again. Not again and again. Maybe she had an exam, too.

Sighing, I hold up the bag in my hands. “Sandwiches. You left early, so I couldn’t pack your lunch.”

“Thank you!” A twinkle lights up his eyes as he unwraps one of the sandwiches and takes a hearty bite.

Eat breakfast? I sign.

He nods mid-chew, grinning like a child. “Coffee and one of your brownies.”

“Eat slower,” I scold gently, picking at a stray piece of kale stuck to his sweater.

“Can’t,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut as he savors the bite. “So hungry.”

I unwrap my own sandwich, taking a small nibble. “What happened to your car?”

“Gave it to Abbu.”

“Really? Why?”

He pauses, fiddling with the sandwich wrapper. “He needed it more than me. Don’t think I did it out of the goodness of my heart—he’s the last person who deserves it. But he’s trying to start over, and I figured, why not? Yesterday was the last time I’ll ever see him.”

I find myself taking in all of him. His openness always takes me by surprise, this willingness to share pieces of himself—even the sharpest ones—with me. Like I’ve been given keys to rooms no one else gets to live in. “I’m proud of you.”

His laugh is as smooth as honey spread on fresh bread. “Thank you, darling.”

Darling? Darling? My brain skids. Last night it was ‘my love’, and today it’s darling?

My cheeks light up like fireworks, the heat crawling down my neck, pooling in my chest, my legs, even my toes, and I can’t believe he called you ‘darling.’

Raees breaks the silence. “Oh, by the way, I’ve prepped everything for the dawat tonight. Once we’re home, we just need to boil, fry, and bake.”

I tuck the last bite of my sandwich back into its wrapper, feeling too flustered to trust my voice. Instead, I sign: I saw the rice in the bowl.

“For the pulao,” he says, and then, with a solemn shake of his head: “My family isn’t big on biryani.”

I gasp. “Are you even allowed to say that?”

“I should cut them off, shouldn’t I?”

A chuckle escapes me. Excited?

“To see my relatives? Hardly. But I am excited to see the nieces and nephews, and our friends. Did Shahzad and Sahara confirm?”

I sign back, She’s busy. My brother gave me a thumbs-up.

He polishes off the last bite of his sandwich, brushing crumbs off his hands. “So, is there anything I can do to make Shahzad like me? Bring him the moon? Cure cancer? Build a hundred statues of you for him to worship?”

“The last one sounds pretty good to me.”

“Gold or marble?”

I pretend to think. “Gold, obviously.”

“Perfect!” He draws his phone out. “I’ll call the sheikh I keep on speed dial. Statues of you, coming right up.”

My eyes drift upward in a roll at his adorable nonsense. You’re perfect just as you are. If my brother can’t see that, that’s his problem.

Raees is clearly not buying my pep talk wholesale, but he shrugs anyway. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable. That’s all I care about.”

I take his hand in mine, because I know if I don’t hold on to something, I might actually dissolve from how sweet he’s being. “I’ve got you, I’ve got my family, and I’ve got my friends. What’s not to be comfortable about? Honestly, I’m golden.”

His honey-brown eyes soften. “You’re exquisite,” he whispers. And before I can even react, or roll my eyes again, he’s shoving the door to the lecture hall wide open and announcing, at full volume, “ My wife is exquisite !”

I gasp and yank him back hard. “Raees! Are you insane? They’re literally taking an exam!”

But he’s already doubled over, laughing until he’s almost wheezing, one hand clutched to his chest.

I cross my arms and glare, but I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from turning up into a smile. What’s gotten into him?

His large hands bracket my face. “You are so breathtaking, Zinneerah,” he says, every word dipped in syrupy adoration. “God, I love you so much.” Then, as if that wasn’t over-the-top enough, he tilts my chin up with one finger and winks . “Wait right here. I’ll be out in a sec.”

I nod, mostly because I’ve forgotten how to speak, and watch as he strides back into the classroom.

Before the door even fully shuts, I hear him shout, “I am in love with my wife!”

Mortified, I cover my face with my hands, but I can’t stop the laugh that slips out.

He’s absolutely ridiculous.

And he’s absolutely mine.