Chapter Four #2
“Construction,” Musa added quickly.
“I’m at the garage,” Abdullah said, squirming in his seat.
“And Adam?” Khalifa asked, his gaze flicking over them.
“I’m in sales,” Adam muttered.
Khalifa nodded once, then let his eyes rest on me. “And Lillian delivers babies. Saves lives. Creates families. Sounds like she has all of you beat, and not just at the dinner table.”
The silence that followed was brief but heavy, the words cutting more for how respectfully they’d been delivered. My brothers shifted, and I sat a little straighter, stifling a snicker.
Before anyone could respond, Khalifa’s father cleared his throat. His eyes—piercing, scrutinizing—landed on me. “So, you’re a doctor. OB-GYN, yes?”
“Yes,” I said.
He bobbed his head in approval. “Impressive. A doctor in the family.” Then, with a wave of his hand, his focus switched to Khalifa. “Unlike this one. He leaves Lebanon, studies to become—what? A history professor. As if stories of the past will feed him or feed a family.”
The room went very still.
I glanced at Khalifa, whose eyes had hardened, though he didn’t flinch, didn’t rise to the bait.
Something in me tugged unexpectedly, an instinctive wince at the bluntness of his father’s words.
I’d teased him about his job too—lightly, thoughtlessly, called it boring and useless—but hearing the dismissal spoken aloud like that made the jokes feel thinner, meaner.
I did an awkward little wiggle of discomfort, suddenly aware of the weight of them.
“History nurtures people in ways you can’t measure,” I said without thinking. “And anyone can feed a family with money. Feeding their minds is harder.”
Khalifa’s gaze snapped to mine, no longer unreadable but scathing.
His expression wasn’t gratitude—it was anger, silent and tightly contained, like I’d stepped into a battle that wasn’t mine to fight.
His jaw flexed once before he looked away, and the message was clear: he didn’t need me to defend him.
My mother clapped her hands together, the gracious hostess smile stretched across her face. “Shall we head to the dining room? Dinner’s ready.”
The transition from living room pleasantries to the long table set with steaming dishes was smoother than I expected, but the atmosphere was still strained.
The clinking of silverware against porcelain filled in for small talk that never quite found its footing.
My brothers needled each other, Amina asked pointed questions, and Khalifa’s father’s silences spoke louder than anything he said.
I tried to keep my focus on the meal, on passing the rice and replenishing the breadbasket, but every lull in conversation seemed to land on me, like I was the one expected to haul the burden of everyone’s standards.
By the time dessert plates were cleared, the awkwardness had softened the slightest amount. My father pushed back his chair and rose with a smile that was uncharacteristically wide. “Khalifa,” he said warmly, “we’re excited to welcome you into the family.”
The words fell like a gavel, sealing a verdict I already regretted agreeing to—even as everyone else seemed perfectly satisfied.
There were hugs, cheek kisses, last-minute discussions of the kitab ketab and wedding details exchanged like grocery lists.
I stood at the fringe of it all, nodding when I needed to, smiling when I should, and then I caught it—his dark eyes on me from across the room.
He gave the smallest tilt of his head toward the door.
My heart thudded once before I slipped outside.
The night air was keen against my skin, almost cleansing, until Khalifa turned on me, closing the distance with every curt step, forcing me to retreat until my back met the cool siding of the garage.
He didn’t dare touch me, but he didn’t have to.
The space between us was barely a breath, heavy with his anger.
“You were out of line in there,” he said.
I blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t ever speak up for me—especially not against my family.
” His jaw worked as he stepped even closer, as though proximity alone could make his point clearer.
“Do you realize how much of a fool you made me look like? I hold no shame in my career, in the life I’ve built.
That job you mocked? It pays for my father’s comfort. It carries my family.”
Heat surged through me—fury, defense, something far more dangerous tangled underneath. “What about you?” I snapped, refusing to shrink. “You think I needed you to defend me from my brothers? Please. I’ve lived with their words my whole life. It doesn’t affect me.”
It was a lie, but I’d rather choke on it than let him think a man’s words could ever break me.
Khalifa scoffed, his breath ghosting against my cheek. “You’re right,” he murmured. “I only did it for your father's sake, but I wish I could take it back.”
“Don’t worry,” I bit out. “Your opinion is the least of my concerns.”
We glared at each other. For a second, I was worried he might try to close the distance entirely. Instead, he pushed away.
“I’ll see you at the wedding. Don’t be late this time.”
He turned toward his car, shoulders rigid, but I couldn’t stand the thought of him walking away like that, of him having the last word.
“And you,” I called, louder than necessary, “don’t forget to wear a suit.”
He didn’t look back, but I saw it—the faintest quirk of his mouth.
“Asshole.”