6. Zinneerah
6
Zinneerah
I sit in the middle of my walk-in closet with my guitar bag in front of me.
For the past half hour, I’ve been contemplating whether to unzip it.
Inside lies my first guitar, which Baba purchased for me on my tenth birthday. A customized Blackwood, Martin D X-2E, with a golden crow embellished on the pickguard.
I’ve composed nine hundred pieces using this guitar, starting from middle school, then playing in cafés and bars, and performing a solo on the day of my graduation from SLU with a Bachelor of Music degree.
I packed it up midway through my previous relationship and forgot it ever existed afterwards.
Dua must’ve snuck it into the U-Haul truck when I was moving my things into Raees’ house a week before our wedding. It only caught my eye then before I tucked it behind my clothes to keep it away.
I pinch the zipper and run it along the shape of the guitar bag, lifting the case, and shuddering as my mind transports into an unwarranted memory.
“No way!” I lift the cover of the guitar case, and as soon as I see the gleaming blackwood inside, my eyes start to fill with tears. “No freakin’ way! Baba, you really got me this?” My gaze flicks over to my siblings; Shahzad’s grinning like he knew this secret all along, and little Dua is already waddling toward my new treasure.
Before she can reach out with her sticky fingers, I gently pull the guitar out, clutching it close. Shahzad scoops Dua up just in time, plopping her onto his lap and peppering her with kisses to quite her.
“You like it?” Baba asks from his spot on the armchair, his eyes warm and twinkling. “It’s the same one you spotted when we went window shopping.”
“How did you know I wanted it?”
He chuckles, settling onto the floor beside me. “Meri zindagi, you might not say much, but your eyes do all the talking.” I look at him, silently asking if I can play it. He smiles, nudging my shoulder. “You don’t need my permission, Zinnie. You’re the captain now.” He glances at my siblings with a playful frown. “Was that offensive? I’ve never actually seen Captain Phillips.”
“The only thing offensive was your shitty impersonation, Baba.”
“Shut up, Shahz!” I snap.
“You shut up!”
“Enough!” Baba interrupts, giving Shahzad the “dad glare.” I flash him a triumphant smile. “Apologize to your sister.”
“Me? She started it!”
“And you, as the older brother, should be setting an example for your sisters. Apologize, and while you’re at it, apologize to Dua for scaring her.”
Dua giggles, holding her tiny hands up. “I’m not scared.”
Baba winks at her, dropping the strict act for a moment. “I know, meri pyari.” He’s back to being stern a second later, though. “Go on. Apologize.”
Shahzad sigh. “Fine. I’m sorry for raising my voice at you, Zinnie.”
“Apology accepted.” I lean over, and Baba plants a kiss on my cheek. Shahzad tries to dodge, but Baba catches him and smacks a kiss on his forehead anyway.
I hug the guitar close. “Can I play now?”
“Yes, yes.” Baba laughs, settling back with a proud smile. “Let’s hear something from our little Gilmour.”
I snap the case shut, shutting away the memory along with it.
Walking out of the closet, I head straight to bed, pulling the comforter around me. Why am I still like this? Curled up, hiding from things that shouldn’t have power over me anymore? I close my eyes, hoping sleep might give me an escape, but it just comes in pieces, giving way to flashes of moments I wish I could unfeel—
Three knocks on the door pull me out of my fog, and I flinch, my heart jumping into my throat.
“Zinneerah.” It’s Raees. “Would you like to join me for dinner?”
I feel my body ease a bit, but I just sink back into the comforter, tucking my chin down. I want to say yes, but I’m stuck. And God, I hate it. I hate that a single moment from a grocery store still has me blaming myself for how I reacted, like I’m the one who did something wrong.
She’s not apologizing for something that isn’t her fault.
It only happened days ago, but I can still feel the unwelcome press of that stranger’s hand at my waist, his chest too close against my back. I’m tall—Abbu’s genes gave me a solid 5’9”—but those eggs were stacked high and shoved way back on the shelf. Just before I could turn to ask Raees to reach them, that man closed in. When I felt his clammy grip, I acted instinctively, shoving him away, recoiling from the unwanted touch.
“Clap twice for yes, once for no,” he says softly, patiently waiting.
I want to. I really do. But instead of clapping, I just lay here. Because maybe he’d be better off without a wife who freezes up over some small, stupid touch. A wife who wouldn’t be like this.
Raees’ footsteps fade away.
I cover myself and squeeze my eyes shut.
Dear brain, this is a safe space. Raees is a safe man. He had defended you at the grocery store. He protected you from that man. He paid for the groceries. He is going to take care of you. He is a good man. This is a safe, good space. Please, try to understand.
I slip a hand out from under my comforter, fishing for my phone and pulling it back under the covers to dial Dua on FaceTime. The camera opens and, man, do I look like a mess?
Black streaks of dried eyeliner trail down my cheek from all the ugly-crying I’ve been doing these past few days. And my smudged lipstick looks more like I had an intense make-out session with a bowl of melted chocolate than anything else.
Chocolate. Sweet. Raees. Damn it.
Dua doesn’t pick up, of course. She’s probably monitoring a game or out with the guys’ volleyball team again.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, sinking back into the quiet, and repeat my bedtime mantra.
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.
I wake up to the still-dark quiet of six a.m., eyes gritty but mind alert, already ticking through the steps of my routine.
Wash face. Brush teeth. Braid hair. Cotton sweater and maxi skirt. I’ve followed this ritual for years.
Out on the balcony, I step into the cool morning air, locking eyes with the Bells’ orange cat perched on the fence between our yards. She stares at me with her green eyes. I give her a small wave; she just blinks slowly to humor me.
In the kitchen, I brew a cup of Earl Grey, breathing in the soothing scent, and start breakfast for Raees and myself.
The truth is, I’m terrified of diving into a career, of putting myself out there in a world that still feels too big and too loud. So here I am, leaning into Mama’s training, determined to be the best house-wife I can be. Raees deserves that, at the very least—he waited an entire year for me to say yes, without a single complaint.
After the way he stood up for me without hesitation, I can’t shake the feeling that he deserves more than I know how to give. Every little thing he does—always checking with me before even the smallest gestures, treating me like I’m something precious—it’s rare, and it’s something I want to spend this marriage understanding.
I start with his coffee, carefully scooping in three tablespoons of sugar even as I second-guess myself. Three’s a lot, but I don’t want to mess up his morning by holding back. I pour in the oat- milk creamer, debating whether to text Ramishah and ask if her little brother has always been so committed to his sweet tooth.
When the toaster dings, I spread strawberry jam over one slice and butter on the other—more generous with the butter than the jam—before pressing them together. I slice up a crisp apple, add a handful of blueberries and some mango cubes, and set them in a small bowl with his favorite spoon.
Upstairs, the shower is running.
I take a long breath, drying my hands on a dish towel before starting on his lunch. I bought all his ingredients yesterday, carefully chosen just for him since the pantry’s already packed with my go-tos.
In the pan, garlic sizzles as I add the chicken breast, sprinkling paprika, pepper, salt, onion powder, and a hint of sriracha over it. The kitchen fills with the smell of spices, and I turn to the baguette slices, spreading mayo, a dab of ranch, and another small swirl of sriracha. I layer on fresh lettuce and tomato slices, then gently place the grilled chicken on top, pressing the sandwich closed.
Raees steps into the kitchen, looking almost surprised to see me already awake, his gaze sweeping over the breakfast I’ve set up. He’s in a navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses slightly askew as he blinks at me.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, still looking a bit dazed.
I sign, Breakfast for you.
It takes a minute for him to process. Then, a smile. He picks up his coffee, takes a sip, and I hold my breath. “Is it selfish if I ask you to make my coffee every morning from now on?”
I shake my head with a small smile.
He raises a brow. “Are you sure?”
Yes.
His grin deepens, and he notices the sandwich I’m wrapping up in a lunchbox. “What’s that?” he asks, curious.
For you , I sign.
He blinks, a bit taken aback. “For me?”
Lunch.
“For me?” He repeats, eyes widening as if he’s been handed a priceless treasure.
I nod, closing the lid on the lunchbox and sliding it across the counter to him. I will make lunch for you always.
He stares at the box, and then at me, the sunrays brightening his gaze. It’s adorable, really. The slight tilt of his head, the purse of his mouth. “I apologize. I didn’t catch that.”
I point to the lunchbox, then to myself, and give a thumbs-up.
“Zinneerah . . .” He chuckles, rendered speechless by the bare minimum. His hand runs down the side of his face, like he’s trying to hide how much this means to him. “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll make you proud and savor every last crumb. Deal?”
I nod.
He glances over my shoulder. “Have you already eaten?”
I lift my Earl Grey as an answer.
“That’s your breakfast?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
Later , I sign, trying to shrug it off.
“You’ll eat . . . later?” he repeats, his brows knitting together in concern. Without a second thought, he splits his sandwich in half and offers me the larger piece. “Eat. Now. Or I’m calling in sick, and all your hard work on this incredible lunch will be for nothing.” He dangles the half-sandwich in front of me.
I carefully take it without brushing his hand, and his face lights up in a way that makes my chest tingle. Like a kid, he munches his sandwich and pops a blueberry into his mouth, watching me as he chews. He even nudges the bowl of fruit toward me and pulls out the stool beside him.
I shake my head, gesturing that I prefer to stand when I eat.
“Very well.” He shrugs, standing up to match me, now towering over the kitchen counter. It’s small, but my heart skips at his gentle thoughtfulness, and I feel the faintest twitch of a smile.
“You can drive, yes?” he asks.
I nod.
“I’m not sure if you’ve had the grand tour of the garage, but there’s an extra car in there. It’s yours if you ever need to get out.”
My hands instinctively mime steering a wheel. A car? Then I point to myself. For me?
His cheeks are still full from the last bite. After a quick sip of coffee, he swallows and says, “Yup. It’ll always be ready if you need some fresh air. Maybe a trip to see Dua or a friend.”
I don’t have any friends , I sign, forgetting to slow down.
“What was that?” he asks, frowning slightly.
Ah, shit. I probably signed too fast. Nothing .
“No worries.”
Side by side, we eat our breakfast in the soft early light.