Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

Epilogue

RAEES

8 YEARS LATER

“Did you just red-shell me, Princess?”

“Sorry, Baba, but there can only be one winner!” Yasmine chirps, pushing the console keys as she zooms past to take first place reign.

Zinneerah growls under her breath, drifting her motorcycle with Daisy on it, and accidentally driving it over the grass that lowers her speed. “This is rigged.”

I chuckle, tossing a banana peel behind me. “Enjoy.”

“What—? Ah, shoot!” She takes the banana bait, her motorbike spinning around. Her rank drops from fifth to tenth in a matter of ten seconds while I reach for first. “That’s not fair. I’m your wife. You need to treat me with respect.”

“Outside Mario Kart 8, absolutely.”

She pinches my nose when I start laughing.

“Shush, parents,” Yasmine hisses. She sniffs the air, then sighs wistfully. “You two smell that?”

I sniff the air, brows furrowed. “Smell what?”

“My victory.”

Zinneerah and I exchange quick looks over our daughter’s wild mop of black curls, stifling our laughs.

Yasmine has a very peculiar way of speaking, and it’s gotten very theatrical since she joined her drama club at school.

The other day I caught her sneaking into my office to borrow my Oxford dictionary, then laid on her bedroom floor, reading through it. In a span of three hours, she completed definitions from letter A to K. She also inherited Zinneerah’s flawless baking skills, and I personally had a pink apron customized with her name on it, and a matching one for my wife in black. Each time I see them baking together, I become all mushy.

Aliza lets out a soft tiny moan from where she’s sleeping inside her crib, cozied with two fluffy pillows, her yellow blanket, and a Bluey stuffed-toy that Amina gifted her when she was born two years ago.

Something raises the hair on the back of my neck.

I look at my wife, frowning as she stares at the T.V. screen and her red Switch remote. Nope. Can’t allow that. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

I give her my remote to play as Mario while I take Princess Daisy. “I’ll bring up your rank.”

“But I’ll lower yours.”

“I lied. I also like respecting you inside Mario Kart.”

“Either way, you’re both losing,” Yasmine sing-songs as we reach the final lap.

Zinneerah blows me a kiss. My cheeks ache as I stare at her, down to our little girls, and our matching pajamas and socks. We really haven’t set a limit on how many children we want. If I could have a thousand—“Raees, move!”

I blink out of my daze and find Daisy immobile and at twelfth place. “Oh, shoot.”

“God, I should’ve never switched with you.” Even though she’s got Mario in ninth place.

“You’re one to talk.” I drift around the corner and collect Bullet Bill for a boost. “What will the little kids in Tokyo think of me when they see I’ve descended the charts?”

“What will your kid think, Baba?” Yasmine retorts, closer to the finish line.

I shrug. “Just how cool her baba is.”

“The coolest.” Zinneerah chuckles, dropping me down to tenth place.

I press my lips together. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry —she crashes into another barricade. A curse nearly slips past my lips. I’ve gotten her to sixth place, and she’s brought me down to the last.

Donkey-Kong takes the victory.

“Let’s go!” Yasmine rockets from our bed, doing a victory dance by waving her arms in the air. “Kick butts, take names, suckers! This calls for some ice-cream.”

Silence encompasses Zinneerah and I as we quietly get our characters to finish the lap.

A tiny “I’m sorry” leaves her lips.

I stare at the screen then at her big, black eyes gleaming at me. And she’s got me trapped again. “I’d rather be ranked number one in your heart, anyway.”

She smiles and all my worries of losing my ranking vanishes.

Inching closer, she kisses me, tasting like the chocolate-fudge cupcakes she baked for dessert. Aliza had squished it between her hands and eaten it messily before knocking out from the sugar rush. Seeing the chocolate all over our daughter’s face reminded me of my pictures as a baby.

Speaking of pictures, my entire camera roll is filled with Zinneerah and our girls—so much that I had to purchase an extra terabyte. Every tiny thing they do, from giggling to trying to crawl to kicking ass at Mario Kart 8, I’m there with my phone with the camera ready to roll. Whenever I’m having a bad day, all I have to do is whip out my phone and scroll through the pictures, and boom: sayonara temporary depression.

Aliza stirs from the side, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“And that’s the end of the game,” I say, shutting off the television and switching on the projector lights that display the twinkling stars on our bedroom ceiling. I help Zinneerah stand up. “Why don’t you go use the bathroom first?”

She nods, ruffling my hair and entering the space.

“Yasmine?” I call.

Her voice comes down from the kitchen a second later. “Jee?”

“Just a little scoop, okay? You’ve got school tomorrow.”

She laughs. “The education system cannot control my need for sweets, Father.”

I blink. Okay, that’s normal.

I stretch back on the sheets and stand up, looking down at Aliza in her sleeping cot. She breaks into a smile when I tickle her under her neck, thrashing her legs. “Good evening, my heart. Have you woken from your fourth nap?”

She starts blabbering. “Baba—Bab—” Aliza’s a talkative baby, blabbering non-stop at three months, learning to wave, and differentiate between her aunties and uncles. The person she’s most comfortable with aside from her parents is Nyla. Probably because her fashion-designer Aunty gifts her with the best dresses, headbands, and sleeping onesies.

“All right, let’s get that diaper changed.” I pick her up and lay her down on the changing table. When Yasmine was born, we built the nursery inside our room by buying a small bookshelf, making a play corner, and moving the crib next to our bed—though she enjoyed sleeping between us before she moved out into the room next door, and broke my heart.

Now, it’s Aliza’s turn.

“Staws!” She exclaims, distracted by the twinkling lights moving above.

“Yes, stars. Good job, baby.” I quickly change her into a fresh diaper and zip up the onesie again, giving her a flurry of kisses all over her adorable, round face. “All right, go strut.” I set her down on the ground, and she goes padding off into her play corner.

Just like Yasmine, she came trained. Only cried for the first few weeks in the beginning, eats all her meals without throwing a fuss, sits in a stroller without begging to be let out, loves sweet treats, and is constantly vying for attention even when I’m showering her with it every day of her waking second. Unlike Yasmine, her first word was ‘Mama.’

Speaking of my angel, Yasmine appears, licking the ice-cream remnants around her lips. When I give her a no-nonsense look, she just bursts into a big grin and hugs me around my waist.

“Manipulator,” I grumble.

“Magician,” she says, tilting her head all the way back. “Because my hugs are magical!”

I chuckle, bracketing her round face with my hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Go brush your teeth.”

“Can I sleep with you guys tonight?”

My heart swells in my chest, and I swear I almost cry. The thought of my daughters moving out for college, or getting married— No . I can’t put myself through that pain just yet. “Absolutely, you can,” I whisper. “Go. Hurry. Bring your stuff.”

She giggles and skips off to her room.

Zinneerah walks out of the bathroom, enlightened by the sight of Aliza awake.

“Mama!” Our daughter pushes off on her palms to stand and waddles over to Zinneerah, stretching forward to be in her mother’s arms now. “Up, up, up.”

“Rude,” I mumble, feigning a pout. “Have you forgotten who changed your diaper, young lady?”

“Don’t worry.” Zinneerah feigns a scowl at Aliza, tapping her tiny mouth. “She’s only excited for milk. Needy little princess.”

I chuckle, dropping a kiss on the top of both their heads, and grab the bottle on the nightstand to hand it off to my wife.

Zinneerah grabs my wrist before I can go to the bathroom. “No, come here.” She puckers her lips, and I wholeheartedly kiss them. “One more.” I can see where our daughters get their clinginess for affection. To be fair, I am the clingiest of them all. So, I give her two more.

I give her a third, long kiss on the lips then a small smack to her ass making her gasp and give one back.

Chuckling to myself, I enter the bathroom and sigh contentedly.

I’ve never been so happy in my life.

After doing my usual routine, I drop my clothes in the hamper and step into the shower, washing off today’s work, and my newfound love for gardening.

I’m planning on a vegetable and flower garden around the backyard. Yasmine said she’d help and has already written out notes. Very helpful notes, actually. We’re in August, so we’ve been a little hesitant to plant anything because of winter. Zinneerah says to just do it as a practice so by the time the snow’s gone, we’ll be able to build my greens quickly. I’ve bought a bunch of succulents for the kitchen window to take care of. Aliza almost chewed one when I showed it to her. She’ll chew anything except her silicone teether.

Maybe I should get her some gardening toys. Just imagining Aliza in a straw hat and tiny gloves with a little plastic watering—okay, change of plans: I’m buying her gardening toys tomorrow.

When I return from the bathroom, I find Aliza giggling with her small legs bunched up and reaching out for the flower- rattle toy Zinneerah shakes, planting kisses over our daughter’s face every time she captures it. Yasmine lays next to her sister, reading . . . well, the dictionary.

I lay down beside Yasmine, both our babies in between, and watch them, wiping the trail of drool leaving Aliza’s lips. Every time Zinneerah leans down, she takes it as a sign to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Stop trying to steal my girl,” I say, covering Aliza’s mouth when Zinneerah leans low again.

My wife raises a sassy brow. “Me or her?”

“Her, obvious— ow .”

Zinneerah taps my head with the toy and I feign pain by sobbing. Aliza watches amused then looks back to her mother then to me. “Stop being a big baby. Isn’t your baba a big baby, Minnie?”

“Precisely,” Yasmine mumbles.

“Is that a new word you’ve learned?” I ask, laying my head back on the pillow to see where she’s progressed. My eyes widen. “You’re already halfway through ‘S’?”

“Oh, my god?” Zinneerah’s head snaps up, too. “That’s amazing, baby!”

Yasmine shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

“To us, it is.” My wife squishes her cheeks and lays a loud kiss on her left one. “My little nerd. Just like your father.”

Yasmine giggles, scooting closer to me. I rest my arm underneath her head, patting her stomach. “Can we go book shopping?”

“We went last week,” Zinneerah says, letting Aliza shake around her rattle. “Don’t tell me you’ve already finished the series we bought you?”

“Guilty as charged.” She licks her index finger and flips to the next page. “Alina Aunty took Zaid shopping for toy cars yesterday, and he’s got a million already. Just saying.”

“Well, you’re going to wait—”

“No need,” I butt in. “I’ll take her.”

Zinneerah glares at me. She lifts her hands to sign: You are spoiling her.

So, I sign back, Books. Not drugs .

As for the spoiling part? She’s the eldest daughter, and the one I spent every day taking care of while Zinneerah recovered from postpartum depression. With Aliza, we’ve split the duties. But Yasmine was attached to me before Zinneerah felt safe enough to hold her again.

“It’s okay if you can’t afford it,” Yasmine says, snapping her dictionary shut and giving it to me to put it away. “Thank you.”

“We’re not broke,” Zinneerah defends. “Your mother runs a successful café, and your father’s the dean of the English department. We can buy you a hundred books.”

Yasmine breaks into a toothy grin. “Perfect!”

I choke on my laugh as my wife stammers, trying to recover from the well laid trap our daughter laid out. I can’t help but pull her close to my chest, kissing her head through her thick curls.

Zinneerah narrows her eyes, shaking her head. “You got me good there, Princess Yasmine.”

She feigns snoring.

I chuckle, bringing the blanket up with my feet while Zinneerah gets up to get her guitar from the closet. The girls cannot sleep until their mother plays at least one song. With Yasmine, I used to play the piano while she was strapped to my chest to put her to sleep. Then, Zinneerah decided to take over the duties with her guitar to get closer to her, and now it’s become a ritual.

She tunes the strings and gives them a long strum. Our daughters are already watching with fascination.

“This one is for my favourite people in the whole universe,” Zinneerah says, blowing a kiss in our direction. She starts plucking the strings to “Love Of My Life” by Queen, one of Aliza and Yasmine’s favorite ballads in the car. They’re both 80s classical rock junkies like their parents. Train them while they’re young, you know?

Aliza’s eyes are already droopy as she gazes at her mother. Those excited legs and arms deflate. Only soft gurgles and sighs leave her along with a yawn or two.

Yasmine curls up like a cat in my arms, smiling softly as she murmurs the lyrics, then slowly . . . slowly . . . snoring.

Somewhere between Zinneerah’s freestyling, they fall asleep. She sets the guitar aside and kisses their foreheads, setting the blanket up to their chests.

My wife and I stare at one another.

I reach out and cup Zinneerah’s cheek, bringing her in for a kiss. “You’re my number one girl, but you’ve got some serious competition, woman.”

“I’m the favorite parent, so.”

I snort. “Is that so?”

“You didn’t carry them for nine months.” Zinneerah fixes Yasmine’s curls from her face, tucking them behind her ear. “Children are naturally closer to their mother’s.”

“You know what?” I surrender with a sigh. “I agree. I was glued to my mother’s side when I was little, too. But you should know, girls are naturally closer to their father’s.”

“I do,” she replies with a sympathetic smile. “Good fathers, though. Baba was excellent, and after his death, I tried to seek the exact love in someone else.” Her fingers brush over Yasmine’s black dust of curls. “I don’t want her to grow up and make the wrong choices like I did, Raees.”

“You didn’t—”

“I did,” she says, caressing her knuckles over my cheek. I give the underside of her wrist a kiss. “Until I met you, I did. That’s why I want us to give Yasmine and Aliza as much love and more as we possibly can. I want them to be able to talk to us about anything before turning to their friends for advice. I want them to meet someone who’s able to protect their hearts and not let it shatter for eternities. I don’t think both of us can bear the sight of our babies having their hearts broken.”

My throat constricts. If someone dared to break my girls’ hearts, I’d break them before the thought could even enter their brains. That goes for our future children as well. I would never allow a single tear to fall from their eyes unless it’s falling off a bicycle when learning or accidentally touching a hot pot.

“You’re right,” I say, clearing my throat. “You’re always right. We’re not here to follow our parents’ footsteps. We’re going to walk our own path. A proper, healthy, loving path.” My thumb brushes over Aliza’s chin to wipe away more drool. “So that when our children look back, they’ll find us standing there.” My eyes meet my wife’s glistening ones. “Together.”

She raises her hands and signs: Together.

I raise up and kiss her forehead. “You’re a wonderful mother, a loving wife, and a talented, hard-working woman. Your mistakes, your past, your scars, they don’t define you. Just like mine don’t.” My fingers tuck the strands of her hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t have asked for a better soul than yours, darling. My heart belongs with you.”

Zinneerah slides her hand behind my nape and kisses me deeply. She smells like fresh soap and citrus and baby powder. “You’re the love of my life.”

“You are the love of my life, and every lifetime after.” Then, I hold up Aliza’s small hand and kiss it. “And you are also the love of my life, my heart.” Lastly, I curl my arm around Yasmine’s waist, drawing her close to my chest. “And you are also the love of my life, Princess.”

Zinneerah places her hand on my cheek. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, darling,” I whisper.