15. Raees
15
Raees
“ J esus, looks like we’ve got a thunderstorm rolling in.”
Professor Holmes breezes into the faculty lounge, holding her empty coffee mug.
“Not room for worries here, Nicola. I’ve got myself a bike poncho.” Professor Harrison pops his head up from behind the fridge, grinning. He’s got this weird enthusiasm for things that no one else cares about, like bike ponchos or solar-powered calculators. “Waterproof and windproof, baby.”
Holmes gives me a ‘help me’ look. It’s the universal faculty signal for I can’t interact with this man today . She even throws in a bonus eye-roll.
I’m parked on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on my knees, trying to make progress on my lecture slides for next week.
Usually, I’d be in my office, but it is currently out of commission thanks to a leaky roof that turned into a full-blown waterfall. Maintenance is working on it, but by the looks of things, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve just installed a kiddie pool and called it a day.
So, here I am, stuck in the lounge. My choices are limited to this:
Listen to my colleagues argue about rain gear, tardy students, and how Dean Martin allegedly tried to fight Professor Paldoni over a game of UNO. He got a little too into the spirit of competition, lost a round, and went full animalistic mode. And by “animalistic mode,” I mean he threatened to fight the head of the engineering department over an accidental draw-four card. They were both intoxicated, obviously. I’ve got no other choice.
“So, what’s everybody doing this weekend?” Professor Olsen asks, snapping a hair tie off her wrist, and pulling her fiery red hair into a ponytail.
“I’m taking the family fishing,” Professor Carlson pipes up. “We booked this cozy albeit costly little cottage at Newfound Lake. It’s supposed to be the spot for trout.”
“Fishing?” Professor Benedict scoffs, barely looking up from his crossword puzzle. “I’m going clubbing.”
The room falls silent. For context: he’s seventy-five.
“You’re—wait.” Olsen blinks. “ You ? Clubbing?”
“Yes. Clubs still exist. Don’t act like I’m a fossil.” Benedict shoots her a flat look.
Holmes, quietly stirring her coffee, says, “Maybe he means book clubs.”
Laughter erupts around the room, except for Benedict, who grumbles something inaudible but definitely not polite.
“I’m hosting a dinner party,” Saira cuts in. She’s perched at her usual table, surrounded by a spread of papers, highlighters, and coffee cups. “My best girlfriends from college are visiting, so I’m making coq au vin. Very fancy.”
“Coq au vin?” Carlson repeats, testing out the words like he’s never heard French in his life. “What is that? Chicken in wine?”
“Exactly. It’s very elegant.”
“Wine and chicken,” Olsen says, shrugging. “Sounds like a good weekend to me.”
They all laugh again, except for Holmes, who’s been leaning against the counter, sipping her coffee and silently judging the lot of them. She raises an eyebrow and nods in my direction. “And what about you, kid? Big weekend plans with the missus?”
As if I’d indulge any of them. “Not sure yet,” I say with a shrug, eyes back on my screen. I’m hoping that’s vague enough to deter follow-ups, but with this faculty? Fat chance.
“Oh, come on!” Olsen gasps, clutching her necklace. “You have to have a plan. Weekly dates are mandatory, Professor Shaan! Movies and dinner?”
“Camping?” Carlson chimes in, unhelpfully, while poking at his salad.
“Romantic bike ride?” Harrison tosses out, as if I even own a bike.
“Clubbing?” Benedict. There’s always a Benedict. “Get drunk, dance it out. You know, rekindle the magic.”
“Jesus, Paul.” Holmes smacks him on the back of his head. “Not everybody lives their life in a nightclub.”
“What?” he protests, rubbing his head. “I’m just saying—”
“Yeah, no. Stop saying.” Holmes cuts him off with her no-nonsense professor glare. “What Raees and his wife do on the weekends is none of our business anymore.”
Benedict throws up his hands in mock surrender while the rest of them chuckle. Holmes is clearly the staff-room general, and her soldiers take the hint, retreating back to their grading and schedules.
Everyone except Saira. Who catches my eye with a wave.
Ever since that shopping trip last week, she’s been . . . extra friendly. She drops by my office now, asking about my day or a specific topic from her course plan she’s unsurely very sure about. After lectures, she’s out in the hallway, laughing with a couple of my students about pop music and TV shows, blending right in like she’s always been part of their circle.
She’s there in the small moments, too—handing me sugar packets when I’m making coffee, grabbing an extra cream-cheese bagel for me even though I’ve already eaten (which, for what it’s worth, I used to skip entirely when we were together).
I know what she’s doing. I can see it for what it is. She’s smoothing things over, trying to mend whatever’s left after the way we ended. She wants to be . . . normal again. To be the person I wave at across campus, chat about the weather with, or exchange polite smiles when we cross paths.
But for me, every little act feels rehearsed, soaked in guilt she’s trying to shake off but has trouble doing so.
This—her stopping by, the little gestures—this is her way of apologizing without saying it outright. Her way of making peace for the way she sabotaged our engagement.
I don’t have the energy to entertain it. She’s a colleague now. Just a colleague. That’s all.
Professor Holmes sinks into the couch beside me, letting out a sigh. “Okay, listen,” she begins, “ have you thought about taking your wife on a date this weekend? Or is that still on your ‘maybe someday’ to-do list?”
I glance at her. “What makes you think I haven’t?”
She lets out a snort. “Oh, please. You talk about your wife like she’s the second coming of Christ and you’re her most loyal disciple.”
Fair point.
She glances down at her phone, scrolling through what looks like an endless string of student emails. “Also, I met her last week when she came to drop off your lunch. Delightful woman, by the way. Shy as hell though. She reminds me of a baby bird—like she’d probably apologize if someone stepped on her foot. But sweet. Sweet is good.” She waves her hand like she’s done with the compliments. “You need to take her out. Because, from where I’m sitting, you two have nothing in common other than your mutual ability to sit silently in a room and not freak each other out. Which, okay, endearing, but not enough to build a marriage on, kid. Go on a date before she figures out there are other people out there who know how to use their words.”
She shakes her head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “young people” as she goes back to scrolling through her phone.
What Holmes doesn’t know, and neither does Zinneerah, for that matter, is that I’ve already got plans.
Well, ideas. A list, really. Places I want to take my wife. Foods I want us to try together. Sceneries I want us to experience—be it cobblestone streets in Turkey, beaches in Thailand, or a drive through the Rockies.
But for now, I have to think small. Baby steps. I’m not about to spring international travel on her when I haven’t even tested the waters locally.
Maybe dinner and a movie is the way to go. Something simple but thoughtful. I can cook without veering into over-the-top territory. And then we can watch a horror movie in our home theater. The kind of date where clinging to her arm is not only acceptable but expected.
The best part? We wouldn’t even have to leave the house. No reservations, no awkward small talk with waiters, no crowds. Just us.
Now all I need to do is wrestle down the anxiety about asking her out.
“We’re going to her friend’s concert tomorrow night,” I say.
Holmes raises an eyebrow over her coffee mug. “Anyone I’ve ever heard of?”
I snort. “Not a chance.”
Her eyes narrow immediately. “Are you calling me old?”
“What? No, of course not,” I rebuke quickly, although there is a nugget of truth to it. “I just mean her music is more popular with a specific demographic of people who like alternative stuff.”
“So,” she says, dragging the word out for maximum effect, “you’re calling me old.”
“I’m not winning this, am I?”
“Nope,” she replies, taking an annoyingly triumphant sip of her coffee. “Anyway, is this your first date together, or do you just like torturing yourself with bad music?”
I nod, ignoring the jab. “It’s not exactly what I pictured for our first date, but it makes her happy, so I’m happy.”
Holmes leans back on the couch and studies me for a second, her usual snark softening just a bit. “It’s kind of nice seeing you like this. When you first told me about her years ago, I thought you’d finally lost it. You were out here acting like a character from a bad Tom Cruise rom-com, building castles in the sky—”
“Gee, thanks.”
“— but ,” she continues, “I like that you still talk about her the same way you did back then. That’s rare, and honestly, a little delusional. But in a good way.”
My lips curve up.
Back then, the first people I told about Zinneerah were my mom, Ramishah, and, for some reason, Holmes. My sister got most of the scoop, though. I’d call her every time I went to the café to watch Zinneerah perform. I still remember the first time she actually spoke to me—I had to excuse myself to the bathroom mid-conversation just so I could call Ramishah, stumbling over every detail like my life depended on it. She laughed at me for hours.
“Delusional” was pretty much my middle name back then.
Look who’s laughing now, ladies.
“Everything good with you and Professor Nadeem?” Holmes questions.
My eyes flick to Saira in the corner of the room, where she’s suddenly very interested in pretending to write in her notebook.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I force myself to look back at Holmes. Big mistake. She’s watching me with the kind of scrutiny that could crack concrete. Impossible task. I never told her about Saira, thank God.
She paints a picture of casual disinterest. “Oh, no reason. Just that since you two got back from running errands for Wei’s retirement party, she’s been staring at you like a hyena sizing up its next meal. But then again, every single woman on this campus does. You’d think you’re the last man on Earth the way they act. And I know you hate being stared at. Makes your introvert soul want to crawl into a bunker or whatever.”
“Ignorance is bliss,” I deadpan, fiddling with the alignment of my slides on the laptop. “And as for Professor Nadeem, everything’s fine.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Holmes rises from her seat with a stretch. This conversation has somehow been as taxing for her as it has been for me. She glances at me, one brow raised. “But hey, if something isn’t fine, go talk to your wife about it. I don’t have the bandwidth to play therapist for you—or anyone, really.”
“That’s already the plan.”
Holmes lets out a short laugh, shaking her head as she heads toward the door. “Smart man,” she calls over her shoulder before stepping out.
The staff room falls quiet again, save for the clicking of heels against the hallway tile.
Except those clicks? They’re not retreating. They’re getting louder. And just as I start to look up, Saira slides into the seat Holmes just vacated, like she’s been waiting for her cue.
I don’t turn to face her, fingers tapping briskly on my keyboard as I finalize the lecture slides. “Yes, Professor?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Raees. Drop the formalities, will you?”
That earns her a sharp look. “Yes, Professor Nadeem?”
Her smile falters, slipping into a pout. “Fine. Have it your way. I was just wondering if you had time to review my presentation notes tomorrow. We could meet at—”
“I have plans with my wife.”
She doesn’t budge. “Where are you guys going?”
“Somewhere,” I say, dismissively, correcting a typo before pasting an image onto the slide.
“Raees, we can’t just ignore this,” she murmurs. “We need to talk about how this is going to work.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I reply, still typing, though the words are starting to blur.
“ This ,” she says, gesturing discreetly between us. “This needs to be talked about. I needed this job. Do you know how long I’ve been jumping between freelance gigs, trying to get something stable? North Haven didn’t have anything open, so Saint Lawrence was my shot, a real opportunity. I couldn’t say no—even if it meant seeing you again. Talking to you again. If I’d known you were—”
“Married?” I finish for her, finally giving her my undivided attention. “Tell me, how exactly does my marital status impact your career? Or your decision to work here? Enlighten me.”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
“That’s what I thought,” I whisper. “Let me make this clear: what’s past is past. I’ve moved forward. Built something better, something whole. I would strongly recommend you do the same. And while we’re at it, let’s set a rule. Don’t bring this up again. Not privately. Not publicly. Not ever.”
Her face hardens, her eyes trying to read something written on the surface. I think she’s about to snap back, but then her jaw tightens, and a brittle smile appears on her lips. “You sounded a lot like your father just now.”
My body locks up.
Completely.
Not a single muscle cooperates.
My legs, my arms, even my breathing—it’s all stuck, frozen.
She stands, says nothing more, and leaves the room.
You sounded a lot like your father just now.
The words hit me like a metallic bat to the chest, and my head starts to spin. Of all the things she could’ve said, that is the one she chose?
I’ve always disliked Saira—resented her, even—but this crosses a line I didn’t know existed.
What part of my confession sounded like my father’s? Him? That man? That selfish, destructive man who blew up my family and walked away like it was nothing? The man who abused my mother again and again, and never even pretended to care about the wreckage he left behind?
He didn’t just ruin his marriage; he ruined us. All of us.
And I’ve spent years— years —trying to be better than him.
No, more than that: trying to be nothing like him.
I’ve done everything in my power to be the kind of man who would never cause that kind of pain. It took months of honest conversations with myself just to decide I could risk marriage at all. Months of convincing myself that I wasn’t going to be the same pathetic excuse for a husband that he was.
When Saira said ‘yes’ . . . God, it felt like proof. Proof that she didn’t see him in me. Proof that I’d finally separated myself from his shadow. That she didn’t believe I was doomed to follow in his footsteps. And for one damn year, I let myself believe it, too.
Only for it to be shattered.
Sure, I could’ve approached Zinneerah back then. I could’ve asked her out, dated her, made her my girlfriend—hell, I could’ve even married her. But I didn’t. I didn’t because I wasn’t ready. I didn’t because I knew how much work I still had to do on myself, and I couldn’t drag her into the mess of who I was. I couldn’t let myself hurt her.
So, I bided my time. Patiently. I worked on myself. I went to therapy. I did everything I could to become the kind of man who could actually love someone without breaking them in the process. And I thought—no, I believed —that patience, that hard work, was worth something.
I don’t know what happened to Zinneerah. I don’t know why she disappeared from performing, or who stole her voice. All I know is that everything I did—the waiting, the healing—was supposed to prepare me for the day I finally met her again.
But now . . . now all I can hear is Saira’s voice.
You sounded a lot like your father just now.
I clear my throat, shut my laptop with more force than I mean to, and instantly regret it.
“Everything all right, Raees?” I hear someone ask. “You look a little pale.”
I think I might pass out. God, I feel faint. What is happening?
Grabbing my stuff, I leave the staff room and repeat the mantra that appears every time my anger slowly makes its way to the surface.
I do not sound like my father. I do not act like my father. I will not be my father.
I do not sound like my father. I do not act like my father. I will not be my father.
I do not sound like my father. I do not act like my father. I will not be my father.
I repeat it again and again as I stride down the hall, my vision tunneling in a way that makes the fluorescent lights feel harsher.
My fingers fumble with the lock on my office door, but I get it open. A sharp chemical odor from the roof repairs hits me, making my head spin.
I slam the door shut behind me and throw the lock.
And then my legs give out.
I’m on the floor before I know it, sitting with my back to the door, my knees bent awkwardly, and my breaths coming too fast. Way too fast.
I’m gulping air through my mouth like I’m trying to chase it down, but my lungs feel like they’re collapsing instead.
He’s here. No, no, he’s not here. But it feels like he is, like his shadow is somehow stretching into this tiny office, filling the space with him.
That silhouette. The raised hand. The sickening snap of skin meeting skin. The force of it so hard it almost feels like I’m back there, on the floor of our living room, nimble and powerless, my face stinging, my body convulsing.
“Stop,” I whisper hoarsely. “It’s not real. It’s not real.”
But my brain doesn’t care. My hands, shaking so violently now they barely feel like mine, flutter uselessly to my chest, clawing at it like I can somehow pry the pain away.
I look down at them, and clench them into fists so tight my nails dig into my palms. The urge to punch something—to punch through something—flares white-hot, but I fight it.
In. Out. In. Out.
Slow it down.
Slow.
It.
Down.
I curl forward instinctively, knees drawn to my chest, my body folding in on itself to protect me.
The world around me is blurry. I can’t tell if I’m crying or if it’s just the sweat dripping down my face.
And then come the sounds again. I swear I hear him shouting. I swear I hear the slap again.
Why can I still hear it?
My hands move from my temples to my ears, clamping down.
I rock back and forth against the door, pressing harder and harder to block him out.
I do not sound like my father. I do not act like my father. I will not be my father. I do not sound like my father. I do not act like my father. I will not be my father. I do not sound like my father. I do not act like my father. I will not be my father. I do not sound like my father. I do not act like my father. I will not be my father.
I take my glasses off and swipe at my face with the back of my hand, pressing my lips together hard enough that they hurt.
My body is on fire, my muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline, but the worst of it begins to pass.
The constriction in my chest loosens by degrees.
My hearing comes back first, the ringing in my ears fading until I can hear my ragged breaths.
Then the dizziness ebbs.
I don’t know how long I stay on the floor, slumped against the door, legs stretched out like a used puppet that’s been dropped.
My hands are shaking less now, but they’re ice cold, and my skin feels clammy. I rub my right thumb over my left palm, back and forth, back and forth, trying to force some life back into them.
Bit by bit, the room stops spinning.
My burning eyes flick up to the clock on the wall. It’s half-past five. I should’ve been home half an hour ago.
But I can’t. Not like this. Not near Zinneerah.
Not with this . . . whatever this is still sweltering under my skin.
You sounded a lot like your fa—
I press my hands to my ears, rubbing them numb, so I can erase her voice by force.
It doesn’t work.
I need water. I dig through my bag and grab my bottle, but then my hand brushes something else—something that stops me.
The CD. The one Professor Daniels gave me. The one with Zinneerah’s song for her father.
I stare at it for a moment.
Using the door handle for leverage, I force myself back onto my feet and stumble over to my desk. My computer hums to life when I press the button.
Sliding the disc into the PC’s tray, I pull my AirPods from my pocket, connect them, and press play.
And then, finally, I let myself breathe.