Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

36. Zinneerah

36

Zinneerah

C hai is poured, steaming and slightly over-sweet the way everyone likes it.

I set out the sponge cake and butter cookies, which I’m proud to say turned out decent enough to avoid critiques from the aunties.

Out on the patio, the kids are tearing through jelly and custard, while the teenagers hover in doorways, sighing loudly and asking, “Can we go now?” every five minutes.

But the stubborn adults have settled in at the dining table with the determination of detectives at a crime scene. And, surprise, surprise, the case they’re solving tonight is our marriage. Because apparently, dissecting someone else’s life over chai is the universal law of every couple’s first dawat.

Then there’s Raees’ cousin, Tariq, unfortunately from his father’s side, who’s just borderline annoying. Thirty going on fifty, with the confidence of a man who calls himself “an alpha” but still hasn’t figured out why he’s single.

Tonight, he’s decided to double as an amateur journalist.

“So,” he starts, leaning back, “how’s married life treating you two?”

Raees, bless his soul, doesn’t even look up. He just grabs his fifth butter cookie and goes, “Well.”

Tariq stares at him. “Seriously? You can give us more than that, man.”

Aunty Lubna waves her hand at Tariq. “Oh, leave him alone. You know Raees isn’t much of a talker. He’s always been shy. When he was little, all he did was hide behind Rosy like a little chooza.” She even does the universal pinch-the-air gesture, as if she’s holding Raees’ imaginary baby cheeks.

Alina snorts from down the table, her green tea halfway to her mouth. “Is that what we’re calling grown men these days?”

Raees is anything but a baby chick. If we’re assigning animal traits, he’s more of a Labrador retriever with an insatiable sweet tooth. Loyal, slightly goofy, and very food-motivated. But, I’ll admit, there are occasional moments of chooza behavior. Like when he turns those big, brown eyes on me and smiles lopsidedly, asking for brownies at eleven in the evening.

Shahzad, seated conveniently to my left, mumbles, “I could name a couple of other farm animals that suit him better.”

I elbow him hard. His ribs are apparently made of granite, because he doesn’t even flinch.

“Actually,” Ramishah pipes up, “Raees wasn’t a chooza. More like a chamgadar in training.” She tilts her head, clearly enjoying teasing him. “He turned his room into the Batcave when we were kids, and dragged me out of bed for midnight Monopoly tournaments like some kind of nocturnal weirdo. And let me tell you, if you’ve ever seen a baby bat, that was him. Tiny, scrawny, and constantly regurgitating.”

Those who know what the word ‘regurgitating’ means chuckle around the table.

“Thanks for the charming imagery,” Raees mutters, deadpan, as he reaches for yet another cookie.

“What was Zinneerah like, Maya?” Uncle Rasheed, Rosy Aunty’s little brother, questions.

Mama cups her mug, her fingers grazing the rim as Shahzad and I both turn to look at her. She doesn’t meet our eyes, and picks at the layer of malai floating on top, her face unreadable. “For a middle child, she was loud,” she says. Our eyes meet for a second before she looks away again. “She used to look through my closet all the time, just to annoy me. And she loved watching me do my makeup. I taught her how to apply kajal properly.” Mama presses her lips together for a moment. “There wasn’t a single day she didn’t sing. Always singing around the house.”

She shifts in her chair, clearly uncomfortable with everyone’s eyes locked on her like she’s giving some sort of press conference. “I don’t know,” she finishes with a shrug. “She was closer to her father. If he were here, he’d give you a better answer.”

“That was lovely,” Raees says, breaking the silence. “Now I know who to thank for my wife’s eyeliner skills.”

I blush, offering Mama a smile. She just takes a long sip of her chai. Kindness is a once-a-year allowance for her, and she’s already over budget.

“Can I ask you a question, Zinneerah?” Tariq says, zeroing in on me with the kind of sugary smile that gives you cavities just by looking at it.

I restrain a sigh and nod.

“What exactly did my cousin find charming about you?”

The table goes quiet, except for the faint scrape of Raees’ thumb still brushing over my knuckles. Or it was—because the second Tariq’s question’s out, the soothing motion stops cold.

I glance around, wishing, for once, that Dua and my friends were here. They’d have plenty to say to Tariq and wouldn’t mind saying it loudly. But they’re outside with the kids. And Alex and Ophelia were spooked off the moment Mama showed up.

“Her eyes, obviously,” Alina says.

“I think it’s her smile,” Azeer adds. I try to muster a smile for him in return, but it comes out a little wobbly. “See? Perfect.”

“Or,” Alina says again, with a raised brow at Tariq, “the fact that she’s one of the most down-to-earth humans I know.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms smugly. “I can see why she caught your eye, Raees. You’ve got great taste.”

Raees looks at me, his seriousness softening into that crooked grin. And, like clockwork, I melt.

“That’s all very sweet and all,” Tariq says, “but weren’t you two arranged?”

“Your point?” Shahzad tosses his hat into the ring. “Arranged or not, they’re happy together.”

That’s . . . surprisingly sweet after the threatening aura he’s been brooding around with.

But Tariq’s like a dog with a bone. “I didn’t say they’re not happy together. I’m just wondering what the hell they even have in common if they’re arranged?”

Azeer steps in. “Raees and Zinneerah had a whole year to get comfortable with one another,” he explains. “Whereas Alina and I had, what, a week? Sure, we were at each other’s throats most days, but if you asked me to walk through fire for her now, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“And we met under the worst possible circumstances,” Alina chimes in, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

Relatives on my side nod in agreement, clearly reliving the infamous food fight at Iman’s wedding. Alina and Azeer’s “meet-cute” involved flying Gulab Jamuns, overturned biryani trays, and chunks of lemon cake everywhere. Dua hasn’t touched a rasgulla since she got slammed in the face with one.

“Whatever.” Tariq dismisses the subject. “Married life isn’t for me.”

“Oh, we’ve been trying to find a girl for him,” Lubna Aunty sighs, as if her life’s greatest burden is Tariq’s refusal to leave the singles club. “But so far, no luck. Those WhatsApp groups don’t help either.”

“Marriage is for miserable people, Amma,” he declares.

“Surprised you’re still single,” Ramishah retorts.

He glares at her. “You’re married to a white guy. Should you even be talking?”

She doesn’t flinch. “Half the man you’ll ever be.”

“Ramishah,” Rosy Aunty warns.

How old is Tariq again? Thirty? Thirteen? He has the emotional intelligence of a used tissue.

“Anyway,” he says, raising his voice to steer the conversation back into his petty little playground. “In case I needed another reminder why I’m never getting married. Exhibit A.” He gestures toward Raees and me like we’re a sideshow act. “Seriously, how do you even communicate?”

“Haan, that’s true,” Batool Aunty, Mama’s cousin, agrees. Of course, it’s out of the goodness of her heart. She’s always ready to deliver a eulogy, even when nobody’s died. “I don’t understand why you’re quiet, Zinneerah beti. Kuch bol bhi lo. Baat karo hamare saath.”

It’s not like I don’t want to speak with them, but I’ve hit my quota for the evening. The argument with Mama earlier left me with just enough fuel to sit here, sip my chai, and focus on not throwing a butter cookie at someone. At Tariq.

“It’s her choice,” Raees responds on my behalf. His words are aimed at Batool Aunty, but his eyes don’t leave his cousin Tariq, who’s two seats down and already smirking like he’s plotting his next line.

“Quiet wife, happy life,” he says. There it is . “Believe me, Raees, you’ll understand what I mean when she starts running her tongue again.”

The words are a punch to the gut, but I don’t flinch. Not outwardly, anyway. Instead, I inhale silently and drop my gaze to a piece of napkin on the table. However, my face muscles twitch, and I know everyone can see it.

Raees straightens in his seat. “Tar—”

“Men like you are the reason behind a woman’s silence,” Shahzad mutters. In Urdu, no less.

The elders gasp dramatically, hands clutching hearts like he just cursed the family name. Murmurs spread like wildfire, most of them directed toward Mama, who is now sitting ramrod straight.

My lovely, reckless brother leans back, his arm casually draping across the back of my chair.

I nudge his knee under the table, shaking my head at his absolutely absurd decision to throw that line out here, especially in front of the aunties.

He doesn’t give a shit.

Fair enough.

“Oh, look at that!” Tariq snaps back. “Another player who doesn’t even have the power to speak at this table, let alone sit at it.” He leans forward, his smirk widening. “Didn’t you disown your family, Shahzad? Couldn’t handle being a man after your dad died, so you ran off and abandoned your sisters and mother?”

It’s like a match to a gasoline-soaked rag.

I don’t even realize I’m half-rising from my seat until the thought of dousing Tariq’s smug face with my scalding Earl Grey flashes through my mind like an instinct.

Shahzad plants his cup down so hard it nearly cracks the saucer.

His jaw tightens, and his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek as he lets out a scoff that’s somehow more terrifying than any words he could have thrown back. The options are simple: deliver this man straight to hell, or rise above it and not play Tariq’s game.

And then the choice is made.

“I don’t think you’ll have the power to speak at this table when I cut your damn tongue out!” The table shakes as Shahzad slams his fist down, hard enough to rattle the silverware and send a collective gasp rippling through the room.

“Okay, now!” Alina shoots up from her chair like a fire alarm just went off, grabbing Shahzad’s arm and yanking him backwards. “Let’s go get some fresh air before you break the furniture—”

“No.” Shahzad doesn’t budge. He looks directly at Tariq, his hand twitching to rip the skin from his face. “Apologize to her.”

My pulse skyrockets.

I dart a panicked look toward Rosy Aunty, who’s held protectively by Ramishah, clutching her mug like a self-defence weapon if this turns into an actual bloodbath.

My hand shoots out to grab Raees’, holding on like a sinkhole has opened underneath my seat.

“Apologize for what?” Tariq stands, his lanky frame swaying slightly as he pushes his hands into his pockets. “For speaking the truth?” His eyes are bloodshot, burning with a wildness I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed before. He lets out a manic laugh, taking a step closer to my brother. Oh, my god. He’s on something. How am I just noticing this now? “Go ahead, asshole.”

“Tariq!” Lubna Aunty shrieks, grabbing at her son’s arm. He jerks it out of her grasp.

Shahzad’s nostrils flare, his breath coming laboured as his fists curl tight at his sides. “ Apologize ,” he emphasizes, which makes it a hundred times more dangerous. “While I’m still being nice.”

My heart’s in overdrive, thudding so hard it feels like it’s about to launch itself out of my chest and onto the table. I force myself to speak. “Please, Shahzad. Sit down. Just let it go.”

But my brother doesn’t let go of things. And right now, he’s looking at Tariq like he’s seconds away from driving a knife straight through his arrogant face.

“He will apologize to you in private,” Mama grits out, but still holding on to a brittle veneer of politeness. It’s for show, but I know her too well. Beneath that facade, she’s seething. She probably wants to tear Shahzad’s voice box out with her bare hands—or, honestly, even Tariq’s at this point. “My son—”

“Not your son, Maya,” Shahzad interrupts, a bitter chuckle rolling out of him. The elderly are on the precipice of a stroke. “And I don’t need you controlling what I can or can’t do. You lost that privilege the day you decided to become a mother.”

“ Shahzad !” Alina hisses, her nails digging into his arm in a last-ditch attempt to rein him in, but he doesn’t waver.

“I’m not leaving until he apologizes.” Shahzad’s focus snaps back to the slimy, drugged-out bastard.

And because he’s the human equivalent of kerosene at a bonfire, Tariq grins wider. “This,” he says, throwing an arm out, “ this is the family you married into, Raees?”

He barks out a laugh, turning toward Rosy Aunty like she’s the audience he’s playing to. She flinches, shrinking into Ramishah’s side. After everything she’s endured—being humiliated day in and day out by her husband and his family—I don’t blame her for freezing up from his nephew’s stupid act. “I mean, shit, you didn’t have the guts to work things out with Saira?” He continues, now fully leaning into his performance. “At least she came from money.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Ramishah shoots up from her chair, palms slamming onto the table with enough force to rattle everyone’s chai cups. “If you don’t sit your ass down in the next three seconds—”

But Tariq’s beyond reason now. Drunk on his own toxicity and whatever else might be in his system. “The golden boy!” He places a hand on Raees’ shoulder, who’s still as a statue, staring at his mother. “The apple of everyone’s eye here,” he says, ruffling the top of my husband’s hair, “married Helen fucking Keller.” His fingers tangle together as he mocks my ASL. “That’s me saying, ‘No offense, sweetheart.’”

I can feel the heat rising in my face as tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don’t even think about it. I let go of Raees’ hand to quickly swipe at my cheek, trying to hide the evidence before it spills over. I refuse to give this prick the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“Tariq, sit. Down!” Lubna Aunty continues with her protests.

Mama jumps in to stoke both men’s flames. “Sit down, both of you!”

Shahzad won’t sit the fuck down. He’s calm and composed, which is the worst of all signs of danger. “Apologize, motherfucker.”

Tariq snaps. His hand flies to the nearest glass on the table, gripping it with the clear intent to throw—

Raees stands abruptly and grips Tariq’s wrist, twisting it so harshly the glass slips and shatters onto the table.

Chairs scrape. Voices yell. Feet shuffle backward.

But I can’t focus on anything else except Raees, who pins Tariq’s arm behind his back. He knees him in the shin, and Tariq collapses with a groan, folding awkwardly onto the ground. Right in front of me.

He lets out a guttural whimper, his other hand scrabbling at the table leg for support, but Raees doesn’t let him move an inch. He looms over him, towering and terrifying.

“Apologize,” Raees asserts, dangerously quiet, and I forget how to breathe. “To my wife.” He looks so relaxed, holding his cousin in place. “And to my mother.”

My mother-in-law and I exchange looks, and neither one of us recognizes the man before us.

This isn’t my husband. This isn’t the man who laughs too loudly at his own jokes or sneaks extra cookies when he thinks I’m not looking. This man is someone else entirely. His face is stone. And his eyes . . . they don’t blink.

Raees presses down on Tariq’s wrist, forcing his shoulder forward, lower, until he’s bowing in my direction. The whole scene feels unreal, like I’m watching it happen from outside my own body.

“I’m sorry, Zinneerah!” Tariq yells, his voice cracking into something pitiful and small. “I-I’m sorry, Rosy Aunty!”

The moment the words leave Tariq’s mouth, Raees lets go with a sharp shove, sending him sprawling sideways. He lands awkwardly, his hands scraping against the shards of glass littering the floor.

Raees’ eyes find mine, and just like that, he’s back.

His shoulders relax, his grip on the moment softens, and suddenly he’s himself again.

The man I know. The man I love.

Without a word, he reaches for my hand, his fingers threading through mine.

And before I can think, before I can weigh the million conflicting emotions churning in my chest, I hold on. Tight. Clinging to the only piece of driftwood left in a wreckage. I know if I let go, we’ll both sink.

I should be terrified. My legs should be moving me far, far away from him. My brain should be screaming for me to run for the door, to hide from the dark thing I just saw take hold of my husband. The oblivion in his glare, the ferocity simmering beneath his soft skin, the powder-white knuckles. All it would’ve taken was one more word from Tariq, and Raees would’ve buried him.

But I don’t feel any fear. Not even close.

I feel safe. Shaken. Weak. Exhausted to my very core. The only cure is a bed and a year’s worth of rest.

The voices from outside start to flood into the house now—high-pitched, nervous murmurs that grow louder with every passing second. The kids rush in first, then my friends, then Dua, all of them looking from Raees to Tariq and back again, wide-eyed and worried.

Raees turns toward them, and for the first time, he seems to see himself through their eyes.

His hand slips from mine. Slowly. Almost like he’s pulling away from the edge of some unseen cliff. Whatever remaining darkness had claimed him disintegrates, scattering like ash on the wind. His shoulders sag, his breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and suddenly he looks fragile.

His eyes shift to Tariq, who is now being helped up by Lubna Aunty, her small frame stooped with concern. Blood smears on Tariq’s hands as he winces, keeping his gaze far from my husband.

Raees steps forward to help, but Tariq stiffens, flinching as if he might lash out again. Lubna Aunty pulls him close, her arm curling protectively around her son, and together, they shrink back—away from Raees.

Away from us.

I glance around the room, my throat dry as paper. Every single relative gathered here wears the same expression: fear.

I see it in their eyes, in the way they shift uncomfortably on their feet, in the nervous glances they cast at Raees.

Why? Why are they looking at him like this? Like he’s a monster? Like he’s done something unforgivable? He was standing up for me. Tariq had it coming. He provoked us, rambling on with that self-righteous attitude, spitting venom with every word. And now, because Raees finally pushed back, they’re afraid of him?

I glance at him, at the way his chest heaves, at the way his hands fall uselessly to his sides. And my heart aches. He just wanted to protect me. To stand up for me when I didn’t have the strength to do it myself.

But none of them see that. None of them care. They just see the shove. The glass. The blood.

And all I see is a man who loves me enough to face the consequences.

“—looking just like Usman,” mutters an uncle from somewhere behind me. Usman? Raees’ father? My stomach tightens at the name.

Rosy Aunty steps forward cautiously. “Raees . . .”

But my husband is lost inside his head, his breath hitching as he stumbles over broken apologies. Muttered more to himself than anyone else. His eyes dart to me, searching, desperate.

I move toward him instinctively, ready to let him know I’m fine, that I’m not scared, that I’m with him no matter what. But before I can reach him, he turns and marches up the stairs without a word.

Ramishah’s voice cuts through. “Take your children and see yourselves out on your own,” she snaps. Then, softer, to our friends, “Please, make yourselves at home. The living room is all yours.”

But I’m not paying attention to her.

My focus is on Tariq, hunched in a chair, his mother fussing over him. Lubna Aunty plucks shards of glass from his palm, dabbing at the blood like he’s a child who scraped his knee on the playground. And the bastard sits there, wincing and grimacing, playing the part of the wounded hero so perfectly it’s laughable.

No, it’s disgusting . He deserved what he got. Every single second of it.

I glare at him. He doesn’t look at me, of course. He won’t. He can’t. Coward.

Before I can stop myself, I nudge his foot with mine.

He startles slightly, finally looking up, and I lift both my middle fingers, the corners of my mouth curling into a smirk. “No offense, sweetheart,” I say vehemently.

He flinches, his jaw tightening like he wants to say something back, but Lubna Aunty grabs his arm before he can.

“All right, let’s sit down,” Ophelia whispers beside me, her arm sliding gently around my shoulders to pull me away before he can swing at me.

I shrug her off without a second thought.

My feet are already moving, carrying me toward the stairs.

I need to see him. I need him to understand. I’m not them, Raees. I don’t see what they see.

I need him to know that I’m still on his side.

Always.