Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

1. Zinneerah

1

Zinneerah

Mama: You’ll have to consummate with Raees tonight, Zinneerah.

T hat’s the first text I receive while I stand in the middle of my new bedroom’s, new bathroom in my new detached suburban home.

How thoughtful of her.

I graze my thumb back and forth over the grey bubble, focused on the words ‘consummate’ and ‘tonight.’ I wish I could smudge the letters on my screen, but they demand action. Action I won’t be getting tonight.

Consummate.

How do I sign that word? Do I want to sign it? I’ve read enough to know that legality doesn’t hinge on a single act, but societal expectations love to clutch its pearls over these things.

Maybe I could delay, find an excuse tonight, buy some time to gather my courage.

But what if that creates more tension between us? What if it signals a lack of commitment or willingness? What if Raees wants to consummate?

No, he isn’t like that.

I’ve seen enough of his character during our arrangement—the year I made him wait before agreeing to be his wife. He’s always been patient with me, never pushing beyond what I’m comfortable with.

So, he’ll understand now, right? I mean, I can’t just assume. It’s not about saying no; it’s about how it might shift things between us.

Unless I’m misjudging.

Maybe I am.

Maybe I should have talked about this before.

But what if that makes it awkward? I don’t want to end something that’s just started.

Enough, Zinneerah.

Another concern to keep me up tonight, I guess.

Slipping out of that monstrous lehenga that felt like carrying a mountain on my hips, along with the scratchy jewels that left red marks on my skin, I carefully lay them on the cold counter.

After triple-checking the bathroom door lock, I step into the shower.

The steam envelopes me like a suffocating embrace. My eyes dart around, landing on the unexpected bench nestled in the corner of the stall.

Sitting on it, I curl into myself, knees drawn up to my chin, feeling the heat seep into my bones. The scalding water hits my skin like a thousand needles.

I sniffle softly, tracing the mehndi patterns on my palms. The henna artist praised my stillness during those three spine-aching hours of her process.

In my old apartment, I’d spend hours staring at the wall, counting the seconds as they slipped away.

Tick, tick, tick.

I stand up slowly from the bench, my heart racing as I start to rinse the stiffened curls of hairspray from my hair. The shampoo and conditioner Raees’ mother picked out are the exact ones I used back when I lived with Dua.

Interesting. Did my sister give her a list of my must-haves?

Once out of the shower, I wrap myself in a towel, and open the drawers of the bathroom counter with trembling hands, bracing myself for what I might find. And surprise, surprise—my familiar cleanser, moisturizer, toothbrush, and essential hair oil, all neatly arranged as if they’ve been waiting for me.

I don’t have Dua’s elaborate skincare rituals; her shelves are overflowing with serums and masks. My essentials fit neatly in a corner, much like my presence in our once-shared space.

I carefully apply oil to my hair, starting from my scalp and going all the way down to my knees. Mama keeps telling me to cut it, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Abbu used to love braiding or styling my hair when I was younger, always fulfilling my demands with a smile. I’ve let my hair grow out for him, as a way to pay tribute to all the effort he put into it.

Each time I weave a plait, I’m honoring his memory.

Slipping into my black nightgown, the hem tickling my toes, and the long sleeves shielding my arms all the way to my fingertips, I finish my bathroom routine with a quick brush of my teeth.

There was a hollow point in my life, around twenty-four, where I couldn’t muster the strength to even shower or tend to basic hygiene. Dua had to step in for the tiniest tasks, and on the rare occasion when she was tied up with her studies, Shahzad had to bathe me.

Most nights, I couldn’t tell whose hands were running the loofah down my back, or soothingly massaging my scalp, or prying my jaw open to brush my teeth.

Time was fiction during those endless, numbing two years.

When I clutch the door-knob, twisting it slowly to peek out, I spy Raees adding extra pillows on my bed. He adjusts them around like a fortress and dusts his hands over the comforter, analyzing his cleanliness.

For a minute, he buffers.

His foot taps a rhythm on the wooden floor, a syncopated beat that matches my heartbeat. “Which side does she sleep on?”

The answer sticks in my throat like glue. Left side.

Instead, I slip out quietly and shut the bathroom door with a soft click.

Raees spins into view, and like always, my breath catches at the sight of him. It’s been ages since my stomach fluttered like this, but today, it’s like those butterflies want to burst out and paint every inch of his timeless face.

He’s so . . . handsome .

His hair, a mix of onyx waves and whispers of gray around his temples, frames his face perfectly. Broad shoulders and a muscular, but lean physique that catch every woman’s eyes. And that jawline, sharp like a diamond, paired with his full lips and those honey-brown eyes protected by thin, black-framed glasses.

I remember how he squinted during our wedding, struggling to see the crowd. It made him seem distant, like he was scrutinizing everyone, maybe even me.

But I know it’s just his terrible eyesight. I hope he doesn’t find me lacking somehow.

“I’ve set the bed for you.” Raees’s baritone cuts through the air like gravel on a quiet road. He’s probably used to speaking loudly, addressing crowds of students day in and day out.

I glance up, nodding in response, my eyes inadvertently drawn to the Ralph Lauren logo on his sweater, a distraction from the awkward silence that follows.

“Was everything in the bathroom to your liking?” he asks politely.

My head gives a small nod.

He adds, “My room’s down the hall if you need anything,” and I nod once more, a gesture that has become my default response.

With a dip of his head, he politely exits the room, leaving behind trails of his sandalwood scent.

I close the door, my fingers automatically checking the lock multiple times, a habit born out of my anxious mind’s need for reassurance.

Being in a new environment has me homesick. It’s a newly renovated house, after his mother bought it last month and handed it to us right after we signed our nikkah papers. Ammi couldn’t contain her joy, Dua managed a strained smile despite losing her roommate, and Shahzad still has his qualms, even though Raees hasn’t done anything to provoke my brother into shooting him between his brows.

I curl up on the left side of the bed, picturing Dua on my right. We used to sleep like this, whispering about her dates with Zayan or her struggles to secure a journalism internship since Raees vouched for her. What if she’s feeling alone now? What if she needs someone to talk to? Should I reach out? I don’t want to bother her if she’s winding down with Zayan.

I close my eyes.

For two long years of my recovery, I found myself staring up at the ceiling on that cold, unforgiving floor, no soft blankets or comforting pillows to ease the pain in my body.

Dua respected my need for space and claimed the couch as her own makeshift home. There was a tiny, living part of me, buried in the cavities of my chest, that screamed for my sister’s company, for her small body to spoon mine.

Yet, I stayed silent.

Maybe Dua misunderstood my empty gazes and lack of words as a signal to keep her distance. Even if she hadn’t, I would have still silently pleaded for her to stay away. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone, even family, invading my fragile space.

Every morning, Shahzad would come to check on me, gently lifting me off the floor and placing me back onto my mattress. Sometimes he would lie down nearby, separated by mere meters, while other times he would join me on the floor.

I crane my neck up from the pillows and gaze at the polished, wooden ground of my new house.

The ghosts are still here. The old patterns and habits, lurking just below the surface. Even in this new setting, they’re still with me. It’s strange, to be offered a comfortable king-sized bed, a large space to aimlessly wander around as I please, a bathroom with a bench installed in it. Raees and his family gave me all this, but it’s almost too good to be true.

It’s hard, so hard, to quiet the doubts that whisper in the canals of my ears. But I have to try. I have to believe that I can find peace in this new life, that I can continue healing the wounds and build something beautiful, something real.

So, I close my eyes, clutch the blanket tighter, and breathe. Deep breaths, just like Dr. Ayesha taught me.

This is your home now. This is a safe space you’ll be sharing with your husband. He is a safe man. He will not hurt you. This is a safe space that belongs to you, too. This is your home now. This is a safe space you’ll be sharing with your husband. He is a safe man. He will not hurt you. This is a safe space that belongs to you, too. This is your home now. This is a safe space you’ll be sharing with your husband. He is a safe man. He will not hurt you. This is a safe space that belongs to you—

The melodious singing of birds slowly awakens me from my sleep.

Sleep?

I slept ?

In a new environment?

My nose wrinkles as I take a deep whiff. Cinnamon . One of my favorite spices travels up my nostrils and spreads like wildfire around my brain. I can almost taste its flavor on my tongue.

I stretch my limbs, realizing I slept stick-straight for eight hours without tossing and turning. Eight hours in a place that isn’t my old apartment. It feels like a small victory. This is a safe space , my brain assures me, and I nod, slowly swinging my legs off the bed.

I pull back the heavy black-out curtains, instantly greeted by the toasty embrace of the sun. With a deep breath, I unlatch the balcony door, letting in the crisp morning air tinged with the scent of freshly mowed grass from the neighboring yards.

Below lies a shimmering, blue pool I’m debating on putting to use. Can I swim without panicking? Absolutely not. But I would like to dip my toes to cool off. Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve visited a pool, back when I was just a little girl splashing around in the shallow end.

I go through my morning routine, cleansing my face and brushing my teeth until they gleam. My fingers weave my hair into a crown braid atop my head, letting a few strands fall to soften the angles of my face.

The shadows beneath my eyes have healed with time, and the bronze hue of my skin is a friendly reminder that you are no longer a corpse, Zinneerah.

Dragging one of my three suitcases onto the tiled floor, I unzip it and take out an ivy-patterned maxi-skirt and a simple black long-sleeved shirt. I change in the bathroom, tracing the small scars and marks scattered across my stomach, thighs, and throat. Then, I give myself a long look in the mirror and whisper, “This is a safe space.”

Stepping down the stairs, I let the familiar morning sounds guide me: the kitchen faucet running, and the muted chatter of a CP24 news reporter blend into the backdrop.

As I reach the bottom step, I catch a glimpse of my husband around the corner of the open kitchen, wrestling with a stubborn jar of strawberry jam. His concentration is split between the jar and the sprawled newspaper on the island counter.

An actual newspaper.

I’ve never seen anyone read the paper under the age of seventy. In fact, I thought we, as a society, had collectively agreed to ditch the newspapers and move onto tablets by now, but I guess Raees missed that memo.

“What? He retired?” Raees mutters, engrossed in whatever article he’s squinting to read despite the glasses. His fingers grip the jar’s lid, muscles straining against his dress shirt. I tear my gaze away, fixing my eyes on the ceiling, where each line resembles the outlines of countries on a world map.

My heart flutters like a caged bird as I gaze down at my hands, noticing the faded crescent marks embedded on my henna decorated palms.

Something odd catches my eyes in the design as I hold my palm in front of me.

Amongst the delicate ivy and blooming flowers, there is a letter ‘R’ subtly hidden within the artistry.

It was just Dua and my mother in the room with me when I was getting my henna done, and this little trick is definitely my sister’s doing.

“You win,” Raees declares.

I pivot my head back only to see him abandoning the jar on the counter, sullenly munching on his buttered toast without any toppings. He pours himself a steaming cup of coffee into a ceramic, green mug, and then adds three tablespoons of sugar. After a thoughtful sip, he shakes his head in mild dissatisfaction and reaches for a fourth spoonful.

I stand with my jaw hanging slightly open, hoping that he doesn’t hail from a bloodline cursed with diabetes.

Raees moves fluidly around the L-shaped kitchen. He tidies up his newspaper, scribbles something on a notepad, washes his dishes, attempting once more to salvage the strawberry jam jar with no success.

I find myself hiding behind the wall, hidden from his view, aching from the strain of trying to stifle my smile.

Only when I hear his footsteps fade away do I tiptoe into the kitchen, picking up the notepad with his excellent cursive writing.

The refrigerator and pantry are stocked with ingredients. I’ve bought cookbooks and left them on the kitchen island.

I survey the three towering stacks of cookbooks lining the kitchen counter. How ironic that my husband, a digital media journalism professor, is thumbing through physical newspapers and flipping through the pages of old-school recipe collections.

And I like it.

I really like it. I like it to the point I smile and finish the last bit of his note.

Feel free to take a tour of the place. I’ll be home by six.

Placing his note in my pocket, I scrounge the fridge and pantry and realize, very slowly, that it’s only packed with snacks and frozen foods I like. Potato-garlic perogies, curly fries, taro flavored milk in tetra packs. I pause, considering the possibility that maybe Raees also avidly enjoys the niche taste of taro flavored milk. I must be completely in over my head to believe he went out of his way to buy everything I like.

The stacks of sugar-free oatmeal cookies are a dead giveaway.

With a carton of my beloved taro-milk in hand and a trio of oatmeal cookies tucked away for later, I decide to explore the nooks and crannies of the house.

First stop: the basement.

I make my way downstairs, opening the first door to an indoor gym. The equipment stands patiently to sweat out my worries. Yeah, no. Never.

The second door belongs to the home theater, immediately drawing me in.

Sinking into one the plush, red cushions, I let out a sigh, my fingers tracing the grooves of the armrests.

I chuckle softly, shaking my head at the DVDs lined up neatly nearby. In this age of streaming services, Raees’ love for physical discs and newspapers is kind of . . . No, actually, it is adorable.

Heading over to the glass cabinet, I start browsing through the discs.

Has Raees always been drawn to the macabre?

From the SAW franchise to Texas Chainsaw Massacre to Silent Hill, 28 days, Insidious, Resident Evil —it’s an endless alarming collection of goriness and my all-time favorites.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I carefully place them back in the cabinet. At least we have our movie tastes in common.

Next, I explore the living room, drawn specifically to Raees’ family pictures.

His mother, Rosy Shaan, is a well-known and respected real estate agent in Toronto, in charge of housing many A-list celebrities and sports figures. Sahara has collaborated on numerous projects with Rosy Aunty. My cousin once mentioned that Rosy reached out to her specifically when looking for vacation home rentals in Italy, long before Raees and I crossed paths.

During our weekly calls, Sahara had nothing but glowing praise for Rosy Aunty, assuring me that she would make a wonderful mother-in-law should I choose to accept Raees’ proposal.

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I gaze at a photo of toddler Raees with his ruddy, chubby cheeks squished by his older sister, Ramishah, a diabolical smirk on her lips.

When she first set foot in my apartment with Raees and Rosy Aunty for the proposal, it felt like the arrival of an excitable puppy. She dashed around, exploring every corner, fiddling with Dua’s collectible figurines, while my sister nervously bit her nails.

Ramishah insisted on a tour, only to peek into our walk-in closet and casually rearrange the clothes strewn on the floor. Then, she started dispensing skincare tips, which Dua eagerly noted down in her phone’s app. If the advice was coming from a dermatologist whose skincare line was a luxury item, sold in high-end stores for the price of a vital organ, then I, too, made a mental note to pay attention.

She is more than just a friend; an older sister I never had. The kind of person who would sneak out with you for a late-night fast-food run or throw a punch at your bully without batting an eyelash. I’ll never forget the story she told me about how she met her husband Harry in high school—by breaking the bones of his bullies and becoming his closest friend.

As I continue down the wall of frames, I can’t shake the feeling of emptiness that washes over me. It’s like my family’s history is a puzzle missing half its pieces. Whatever photographic evidence Baba held dear from our childhood is collecting dust in one of Mama’s old suitcases, buried in some forgotten corner of our home in Islamabad.

I’ve thought about asking Mama to hand over those photos, to let me piece together our past, but the thought of reopening old wounds is too daunting. So instead, I cling to the one tangible memory I have—a faded photograph from my middle-school graduation, where Baba stood proudly by my side. It’s a small piece of our story that I keep safe in my wallet.

My phone decides to interrupt the moment.

Doo-Doo: guess what?

I raise a brow.

Me: What?

Doo-Doo: the professors in my program found out about your husband’s relationship status. they’re interrogating him like he’s in a courtroom. poor guy. he looks like a tall, helpless puppy.

She sends me a picture of Raees surrounded by a trio of professors, two female and one male. Looking at the photo, I can’t help but agree—he does have that lost puppy look about him.

Me: Make sure he doesn’t get eaten alive.

Dua’s quick response pops up, complete with a thumbs-up and a heart emoji.

I snort at the picture again before pocketing my phone and carrying my breakfast out to the balcony upstairs.