45. Raees
45
Raees
T he noise of the festival crowd outside is the kind that sinks into your bones when you’re near a stadium on the brink of a show.
Out there on the football field, bands are tuning instruments, cheerleaders practicing flips, the audience filling the bleachers, and sound techs yelling into mics.
Backstage, there isn’t much of a difference.
Zinneerah is stunning, as usual. Alex has done something to her long hair, turning it into waves that cascade down to her hips. She’s dressed in black baggy jeans, a tank top, and a leather jacket, standing at the communal dressing room mirror as she adjusts her eyeliner or touches up her dark-red lipstick.
In the background, Ophelia is helping Juliette with her homework, though Juliette’s attention keeps drifting to the ballerinas rehearsing for their performance.
“How do I look?” my wife asks, glancing at me through the mirror.
“Perfection,” Sahara answers, cutting in just as I say, “Out of this world.”
We glare at each other.
This has been the standard dynamic since Sahara landed in Toronto. I haven’t seen her since the wedding, but now that she’s here, she’s apparently decided to dedicate herself to critiquing every aspect of my existence. Yesterday, she took issue with my tie. My tie . Today, it’ll be something equally riveting, like my choice of shoelaces or the amount of cream in my coffee.
As for the glaring? That’s all on her.
From the moment she stepped off the plane, she’s treated nitpicking my knowledge in Zinneerah-ology like it’s her new hobby. Even Shahzad wouldn’t stoop to some of the things she’s managed to find fault with.
Zinneerah likes her apples in wedges, not slices. Zinneerah likes her socks folded into balls, not flat. Zinneerah likes her pillows fluffed in the morning, not before bed. Zinneerah likes her pens in the cup holder faced up for easier access, not down. Zinneerah likes a quarter of cold water for her bath and the rest hot.
Aside from feeling like a failure of a husband, she’s been on my personal case, too, trying to change the way I do things for myself.
Like when she caught me trying to brush my teeth this morning: You should squeeze the toothpaste from the middle, not the end. Or when she was checking out the guest bathroom: You should place the toilet paper roll facing under, not over. When she examined me tying my shoelaces: You should do double knots, not single. And when she was going to use our television: You arranged the remote controls in the wrong order on the coffee table. We have two controllers—one for the television, the other for the soundbar.
What’s the goddamn order?
And Zinneerah is just soaking up the attention from both of us.
Alex walks in with her band members, bypassing the pre-show nerves in the room and heading straight for the snacks table. She grabs a bowl of chocolate pretzels and announces, “One of the staff told me there are five hundred people in the audience.”
Zinneerah freezes. “What?”
“You heard me,” Alex says, popping a pretzel into her mouth. “They just cut the line at the ticket booths. Full house, people!”
My wife’s eyes dart to me. Her hand finds mine, and her pout is nothing short of a weaponized plea for reassurance.
“You’re going to be fantastic,” I tell her, letting my hand settle on the back of her neck. My thumb traces the slight tension in her jaw, trying to soothe it away. “You’ve practiced every day for six weeks. You’ve got Alex, Ophelia, and everyone who loves you cheering you on. I’ll be right there in the front row if you don’t want to look at anyone else.” Her lips tremble into a half-smile, and I lean in, brushing a kiss to them. “I’ll be there to witness your magic as always, darling.”
She exhales a shaky breath and pulls me into a hug, her arms looped tightly around my neck. Her fingers weave into the back of my hair, trembling, and I can feel her heart racing against me.
“You’re going to be fine,” I murmur into her ear. “You’ve already made all of us proud. You’ve made your father proud.” Her grip loosens just a little as she presses closer. “If you can’t look at me, look at the sky. Look at him. You know he’s watching you tonight.”
Zinneerah nods, a soft sniffle escaping her as her hands slide down to my shoulders. Thank you , she signs.
“Don’t thank me, my love. I’m always here for you.”
She frames my face with her hands as she kisses my cheek. Twice. “Front row. Nowhere else. Understood?”
“Nowhere else,” I promise.
She grins, leans in for one last kiss—on the lips this time—and wipes the maroon smudge from my mouth with her thumb. “See you in a minute,” she whispers, winking before turning to follow Alex and Ophelia out of the room.
“You’ve got lipstick on your cheek,” Sahara says without pulling her eyes away from her phone.
“And I wear it with pride.”
She raises a brow at me, says, “Azeer could learn a thing or two from you on being a better husband,” and walks away.
I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.
When I reach my seat in the front, it’s a battlefield. Alina and Azeer are sitting as far apart as possible, with Shahzad and Nyla acting as a buffer. Zoha is next to Alina, chatting away with Juliette, who’s engrossed in recording everything on her iPad.
Lovely.
“Everything all right?” I ask, sliding into the seat between Shahzad and Azeer. Immediately, I regret my choice. The little ones would’ve been better company. They’d happily talk about Nintendo and LEGOs instead of dragging me into what’s clearly a marital Cold War.
“How are you, Raees?” Nyla leans forward, her rose-gold hair catching the sunset. “I’m sorry I missed your dawat. I was at a fashion show in Shanghai.”
“I’m well,” I reply. “Don’t worry about it. You dodged a disaster anyway.”
Her lips press together in sympathy. “I heard. I’m sorry. You and Zinnie didn’t deserve that.”
Tariq’s face flashes in my head. He’s been on my mental hit list since we were children. “I wouldn’t have cared if it was about me. But no one disrespects my wife and walks away from it.”
“Damn right,” Shahzad mutters, his arms crossed as he scans the growing crowd behind us. It’s an open-field festival at the SLU stadium, and he’s on high alert, probably spotting snipers or fraternities.
I glance at Azeer. He’s also sitting with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, and sporting the pout of a man who’s clearly been banished to the doghouse. I try for neutral ground. “And you? Excited to be a father—?”
“Don’t talk to me,” Azeer snaps.
I close my mouth, biting back a laugh. Alina must’ve really done a number on him.
“Stop being a dick,” Shahzad says, not even looking up from his vigil.
“I’m not being a dick.”
“Yes, you are. Just answer his question. Not everything people say to you is an attack.” Shahzad leans back in his seat, cursing his cousin out under his breath. He only lightens up when Nyla distracts him by having him take pictures of her.
Azeer lets out a long sigh, his jaw unclenching enough to throw me a sideways glance. “I am excited.”
“That’s great news,” I say. “One day, you’ll have to give me tips.”
Azeer’s lips twitch into something resembling a smile—or maybe a snarl. “Well, according to my wife, you’re the gold standard of husbands. So, you won’t be needing any advice from a dick like me.”
I raise a brow. “Why are you and Alina fighting?”
He turns his head fully now, glaring at me like I’m the one who started the war. His mouth opens, then shuts just as fast. “Mind your own business, Raees.”
I hold up my hands, palms out. “Sure thing. Just keep in mind, when Zoha eventually writes a memoir, she’s going to include every fight you and Alina ever had. It’s going to sell millions.”
That earns me another side-glare, but he doesn’t reply.
My gaze drifts to Alina, who’s fidgeting with her wedding ring, her eyes fixed on her lap.
She looks . . . un -Alina-like.
People love to gossip about her and Azeer’s marriage, like their constant bickering is proof the cracks are about to split wide open. I never bought it. She’s the only one who can put a dent in his ego. But now, with the pregnancy and everything she’s gone through with her epilepsy, I wonder if it’s all taking a toll.
If I were him, I’d be next to her. Asking if she needs water, or food, or if she wants to head home. The strobe lights on the stage are about to fire up. It’s too hot out here. She looks drained.
I lean forward toward Nyla. “Do you mind switching seats with me, please? I need to catch up with Alina.”
Nyla shrugs. “Sure.”
We swap, and as I settle down, Alina’s picking at a scab on her thumb.
“Hey,” I say.
She glances up, startled, then forces a smile. “Oh. Hi, Raees.” She gestures toward the stage. “Excited to see Zinnie?”
“Of course. She was nervous backstage, but I talked her through it.” I nod toward the staff clearing the stage for the ballerinas. Two minutes until the show starts. “What about you? Excited for the baby?”
Her hand drifts to her belly, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “So excited. Just . . . nervous too. The whole giving birth thing, you know? And losing my good looks. But that’s the trade-off, right?”
“Alina, who cares about appearances when you’re growing a human being? You’re beautiful now, and you’ll still be beautiful after. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your family.”
Her smile falters. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs, muttering, “I don’t know.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, her chin trembling. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, but it’s no use. Tears start falling.
I slip my handkerchief from my pocket and place it in her hands. “Whatever it is, you know you can come to Zinneerah and me anytime, right? I’ll cook whatever weird craving you’ve got, and she’ll bake something overly-sweet to cheer you up. We’ll put on a movie, or break out a board game, or whatever you need.”
That pulls a small smile from her.
I raise my hands out. “Or, hey, if you need to get out of the house, you can help us with Zinneerah’s café renovations. Bring Zoha, too. She’ll love it.”
Alina dabs at her eyes, nodding. Her gaze shifts to Zoha, who’s off in the corner vlogging with Juliette. For the first time tonight, her smile feels genuine. “Zoha’s the only thing keeping me sane at home right now.”
I take her fingers. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with Azeer, and I’m not going to pry. But I know this—you’re strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. And things will work out. Sometimes it just takes a little patience. Believe me, I waited six years for Zinneerah. Now I’m her husband.”
She squeezes my hand, her other dropping on top of mine. “You’re a good man, Raees. A very good man. Zinnie’s lucky to have you. She deserves it.”
“You’re too kind, Alina.” I grin. “If I’m good, you’re brave. Braver than most.”
Her smile widens, bright enough to chase away the grey clouds in her eyes. “You’re like the older brother I never had. It’s just hard sometimes, being the eldest daughter, you know?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, “but Ramishah would back you up on that one.”
That earns a laugh.
The microphone feedback cuts through the air, startling both of us. Alina jumps slightly, and so do I.
The host apologizes and redirects everyone’s attention by launching into his opening speech. A brief history of Saint Lawrence University, a few words about the festival, and then it’s time to introduce the sports teams.
First up: their prized volleyball team. Dua runs onto the stage alongside Zayan and the rest of the squad, their navy-blue and gold varsity jackets gleaming under the lights. She scans the crowd and spots Nyla, who’s waving like a madwoman. Dua waves back with twice the energy. Shahzad, ever the proud brother, has his phone out, recording every second of her red-carpet moment.
The host starts rattling off each team’s achievements from the spring season, and as expected, the volleyball team gets the loudest applause—they’ve got the most trophies.
Once they jog off the stage, they climb into the bleachers to join the rest of us.
“Hello, hello!” Dua chirps, practically bouncing as she sits down between Shahzad and me. Or tries to. Zayan sits first and just pulls her onto his lap like she’s a backpack. The two of them laugh and banter with Shahzad like old buddies, leaving me to wonder just how close these guys really are. And how can I get to that level with Shahzad?
It’s fine, though.
I don’t feel left out. I’m used to being the odd one out in this group—an outsider in a family of friends who grew up together. Still, they always make me feel like I belong. Maybe it’s because I’ve known Dua as my student for two years, and I’ve known Zinneerah even longer, though from a distance, for most of it.
“Oh, Raees bhai!” Dua claps my shoulder, practically knocking me forward. Goddamn, she’s got strength. “I totally forgot to tell you. Professor Holmes cornered me the other day to talk about that internship. You know, the one you asked her about? First off, thank you so much for that. I didn’t get the position, but it’s all good—she said I could train with one of her friends instead. I’ll basically be writing articles for my sports blog, and they’ll proofread and critique them for me. It’ll be great for my portfolio.”
I didn’t expect Holmes to go out of her way like that, especially since Dua isn’t her student. The thought makes me a little proud. “That’s great news! Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Oh, please. You’ve done plenty already,” she says, grinning. “You’re literally the best professor any future journalist could ask for. Seriously, everyone loves you. I mean, I already love you because you’re my brother-in-law and everything, but still.”
“Nice save,” I say.
She laughs. “You’re a G, bhai.”
“A what?”
Her face falls. “And I’ve lost him.”
It seems that teasing me about my age is a family sport.
The next two hours pass in a haze of performances. Ballerinas, dancers, singers, even a stand-up comedian who tries too hard to make a joke about the student center food. There’s pie-ing professors, a dog that somehow bolts across the field mid-performance, and even a public “Can I be your boyfriend?” proposal from a football player.
Then my phone buzzes. Alex’s name flashes across the screen.
I answer quickly. “Yes?”
“Your girl’s throwing up everywhere, Professor!”
I’m already on my feet before she finishes, ignoring the girls, and Shahzad, calling after me as I make my way down the stands and towards the women’s locker rooms.
Outside, I spot Ophelia checking her watch.
“Is she inside?”
Before she can get out a response, I push through the door.
“Zinneerah?” I call.
“In here!” Alex exclaims from one of the stalls.
I move past her and find my wife hunched over a toilet bowl, her face pale and clammy, with mascara stains running down her cheeks. “Get me a bottle of cold water and some tissues,” I say to Alex before kneeling next to Zinneerah, gathering her hair in my hands. “Are you okay, my love?”
“No,” she rasps, leaning back against me, completely washed-out.
Alex hands me tissues, and I use them to wipe her mouth as gently as I can. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
“Move,” Sahara’s voice cuts through the room as she steps inside, already holding two water bottles. She doesn’t so much as glance at me before crouching down beside Zinneerah. Unscrewing one of the bottles, she presses it to my wife’s lips. “Drink.”
I take the bottle from her and tilt it carefully, helping Zinneerah take a few sips. From the way she winces, I assume her throat must be inflamed from vomiting. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “We’ve got you.”
“Let’s get her off the floor,” Sahara says.
I slip my arms under Zinneerah and lift her, settling us on the bench with her resting against me. “What happened?” I ask, looking between Alex and Sahara.
“She was fine one second,” Alex says, wringing her hands. “Stuffing her face with sushi at the buffet, then bolted to the bathroom.”
“She loves sushi,” Sahara and I say at the same time.
“I know!” Alex squeaks. “I didn’t poison her, okay? I don’t even know what happened, but, like, we need to fix it. We’re about to hit the stage in T-minus ten minutes.”
Sahara crouches and grabs Zinneerah’s face in her hands, muttering something that I’m sure isn’t polite. “Change of plans. Your band’s going first. You three will go after.”
“But the symphony’s set up,” Alex protests. “They’re literally tuning up as we speak!”
“I’ll deal with them.” Sahara gets to her feet and levels Alex with a look. “You and the curly haired one are coming with me.” Then to me: “You stay here. Don’t move her.”
With that, she’s gone.
“Raees,” Zinneerah whispers.
“I’m here.” I wipe her mouth and give her another sip of water, though she taps my arm after the second. “You’re fine. Take a minute. We’re rearranging the setlist, so no pressure.” I rest my hand on her head, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You’ll be good to go. Just breathe, okay?”
“It was a matter of time I threw up,” she whispers. “I’ve been nauseous for days now.”
“Use ASL. Don’t overwork your throat.”
“Raees.”
“Yes, darling?”
“Look at me.”
I look at her. Her hands are on my face now, her thumbs brushing my cheeks. “What is it?”
“I’m late.”
I frown. “You’re not late. You’ve got, what, thirty minutes before you’re on stage—
“Oh, my god.” She groans, rolling her eyes. “You adorable, adorable idiot.”
“What?”
“I’m late, Raees. As in no period. A week late.”
Oh.
Oh.
The realization drops on me like an atom bomb.
My brain scrambles, pulling up old memories of my sister Ramishah calling Ammi-ji and me with the exact same phrase. Right before she announced she was pregnant .
“You’re pregnant?” I manage.
“I am.”
I stare at her, stunned.
“You’re going to be a dad,” she mumbles.
My head feels like it’s been wiped blank. “Test?”
Without a word, she pulls out a crumpled paper towel from her pocket, carefully unwrapping it to reveal three pregnancy tests lined up like trophies.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
“I was going to surprise you after the concert,” she says.
My eyes are wet now, my chest growing lighter, and she’s laughing—her hoarse, scratchy laugh—like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. Her hands are back in my hair, pulling me closer, and I can barely think straight.
“I’m going to be a dad,” I whisper.
“Let’s keep it a secret for now,” she says, sipping from her water bottle.
“We have to baby-proof the house.”
She freezes mid-sip and stares at me. “You’re joking, right?”
“And clear out the third guest room. We can make it a nursery—no, no, wait, the baby will sleep with us at first. We’ll need a cot. I’ll find one tomorrow. And we should start looking at baby names. I’ve already got a few in mind, but I’m open to suggestions—”
“Raees!” She grabs my face, laughing so hard she’s coughing. “The baby is the size of a sesame seed right now, and you’re already clearing guest rooms?”
“Precautions.”
She clears her throat, succumbing to ASL. Seven months. At least.
I almost say, “Who cares?” but think better of it. “Then I dedicate these next seven months to you, my love. Whatever you need, I’m here. I’ll even force HR to give me maternity leave.”
They won’t.
“Doesn’t hurt to try.”
She kisses my cheek, then stops, sniffing the air. Her eyes drop to the wet speck on her t-shirt. “Crap.”
“Take my shirt.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. I’m an extra small.
I pat down her hair. “Yes, I’m aware. If you get to mock my age, I get to mock your height.”
She rolls her eyes. In clothes.
I kiss her forehead. “Now, seriously. Take my shirt. I’ll wear your leather jacket. That is an extra-large, isn’t it?”
Her love of oversized clothing works in my favor for once. She nods, crossing to grab the jacket off the stall door. I shrug out of my shirt while she pulls hers over her head. Her cheeks go pink, and mine do, too. My wife is stunning without or without clothes.
I button her into my dress shirt. It’s a little ridiculous how big it is—long enough to brush above her knees—but she makes it work, rolling the sleeves to her elbows. I slide on the jacket, which zips up perfectly.
Zinneerah gapes at me, wide-eyed. You look so good.
“Do I?”
She steps in, unzipping the jacket enough to show the white tank I’ve got underneath. Her fingers sweep through my hair, leaving it messy. “My rockstar.”
“All right, darling. Rinse your mouth out, and we’ll head back to the dressing room to fix your makeup.”
Her lipstick is smudged, her mascara streaked, and I can feel my blood rushing south. Not that it’s a rare phenomenon.
Unbelievable.
We’re going to be parents.