Chapter Nine
“AH, FINALLY,” KHALIFA said, standing up. “You made it.”
Right. Because of course they’d met before.
In a professional setting. My husband and my.
..ex? Could I even call him an ex? Could you call a relationship that never actually blossomed into anything an ex-relationship?
The universe really was one long-running prank show, and I was apparently the gullible contestant who kept falling for the same hidden camera bit.
Malik grinned, that same charming grin I’d once mistaken for sincerity. “Sorry we’re late,” he said, nodding at Khalifa before his gaze flicked back to me.
“No problem at all. We were just getting started.”
I should’ve looked away, should’ve focused on anything else—the cutlery, the menu, the slow death of my composure—but my eyes were locked on his hand, the one intertwined with hers, the subtle squeeze, the way their fingers fit perfectly.
My mouth felt excessively dry, my thoughts tangled in a stubborn, painful knot.
“It is you,” Malik said as they sat down across from us. “Wow. I haven’t seen you since medical school. How have you been?”
Slowly, reluctantly, I let my eyes lift to her.
The girl. The one holding him. She was..
.beautiful. Flawlessly five-four, definitely not heavier than a hundred and ten pounds, delicate, poised, the kind of soft elegance that made it impossible not to notice her.
Everything she was, I wasn’t. She was calm where I was restless, graceful where I was raw.
And yet...why was I surprised?
Because that’s exactly what he’d said to me. That same smirk, that same infuriating certainty, the day after he’d stood me up in front of my parents: “You’re not the type of girl to settle down with, Lilly. You’re only good for a fun time.”
The memory cut sharper than I expected. I could feel the echo of his words, the sting that had never fully faded, the humiliation, the abrupt, keen knowledge that he had meant every syllable.
The girl laughed, a velvet sound that made him turn his head, and suddenly, she wasn’t just beautiful—she was his, and my heart throbbed with the weight of every tiny fracture I’d tried to glue back together over the years.
Khalifa nudged my shin under the table lightly, but I still flinched. His eyes were searching my face, but I couldn’t look away from them, from the scene frozen in front of me. I felt like a ghost, hovering outside of life, outside of happiness, outside of him.
I willed myself to blink, to pull my gaze away from her, and finally—finally—tipped my chin and let a small, measured grin curve my lips.
“Malik,” I greeted. “I’m great.”
He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?”
“No,” I spat out sweetly.
His eyes hardened for a moment, then he laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to scrape at some corner of myself I didn’t want him touching.
Khalifa glanced between us, oblivious. “You two went to school together?”
“Briefly,” I said, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace.
“Back when she was terrifyingly competitive,” he corrected.
“I prefer the term ambitious,” I shot back.
“Sure. Ambitious enough to make the rest of us question our career choices.”
My voice came out before my filter could catch up. “You mean before you went back to school and got your PhD?”
He smirked, clearly pleased I remembered. “Yup. Guess you could call me a double doctor now.” He glanced at the girl, his smile melting in a way that made me want to throw my water glass. “This job makes it so I can spend more time with the love of my life.”
I had to repress the urge to vomit. “Touching. I’m sure your students are thrilled.”
He chuckled. “You’re still as funny as you were ten years ago.” He turned toward the group, sweeping them in with that fluid charisma. “She always kept us on our toes in school. I don’t think I would have passed without the challenge of wanting to beat her.”
“Really?” I said. “I was under the impression you passed thanks to my late-night tutoring sessions—you know, the ones where I quizzed you and handed you tissues like a full-service emotional support human, because if you failed, your Baba would’ve severed the financial umbilical cord.”
The table went still, and I felt a little thrill at the crackle between us. Malik’s smirk fell, but the fire in his eyes didn’t fade.
“You got me there,” he said. “I guess we were all dramatic at that age.”
He let go of the girl’s hand, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her impossibly close, as if marking his territory, while his gaze never left me.
“This is Habiba, by the way. My wife,” he said, emphasizing the last word, savoring it.
I scoffed inwardly. Of course her name would be Habiba. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d made her legally change it just to fit some perfect picture in his head.
A wild, reckless impulse sparked in my chest. Before I could think better of it, I reached for Khalifa and hooked my arm through his, catching him completely off guard, and yanked him close, almost making him topple from his chair.
“Nice to meet you. This is Khalifa. My husband.”
Khalifa stiffened, blinking at me in confusion, but didn’t pull away, and my pulse skipped a beat at the sudden proximity.
Malik raised a brow. “I never would’ve guessed you were the ‘Lillian’ Khalifa married. You weren’t the settling-down type, but I’m glad you managed to change.”
His words stung, a keen reminder of who I used to be...and who I’d become.
And then, because my brain had obviously gone rogue, I leaned in and planted a kiss on Khalifa’s cheek. His eyes widened in shock as I said, with a mischievous glint, “Apparently all I was missing was a man worth settling down for.”
Malik’s smirk faltered, igniting a triumphant rush. The tables had turned. The game was different now, and for once, I was playing by my own rules.
“Well,” he said finally. “I’m glad you’re doing good, Lilly.”
The air had started to crystallize into something tight and brittle when the waiter appeared—mercifully—with our food.
Malik turned to the others, seamlessly sliding back into conversation as if the last five minutes hadn’t been a slow-motion car crash.
I watched him laugh, perfectly composed, and briefly entertained the idea of introducing my fork to his eyeballs.
Meanwhile, Khalifa slipped out from under my arm, straightening in his seat like nothing had happened, and my chest plunged.
Oh.
The realization dunked over me like a bucket of ice water. I had hugged him. And—oh God—kissed his cheek. In public.
I sank lower in my chair, face burning, fingers gripping the table. My first cheek kiss...and I’d wasted it on him.
Khalifa’s eyes found mine, a flicker of curiosity mixed with amusement, and I begged the floor, the ceiling, literally any structural element to do the humane thing and take me out.
“Nice,” I muttered under my breath, scowling at no one in particular. “Real nice, Lilly.”
Dinner dragged after that. My appetite had completely vanished; I spent most of the evening pushing food around my plate while Khalifa occasionally glanced my way.
Across the table, Malik fed Habiba a bite from his plate, wiping away a smear of sauce that clung to her cheek, and I pretended my steak was the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.
The drive back was quiet, the city lights streaming past in blurry lines through the windshield. When we finally stepped inside the apartment, he ditched his keys on the counter and broke the silence.
“Are you going to tell me what that performance was?”
“Our whole marriage is a performance,” I said with an eye roll, kicking off my shoes as I crossed to the fridge, dropping my purse and scarf onto the floor along the way.
My hands were already reaching back to tug the scrunchie from my bun, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders as I grabbed a diet soda.
I gave the long waves a quick fluff and drifted into the living room, slumping onto the couch and sliding my fingers into my roots to work out the tight ache the bun-plus-hijab combo had left behind.
Somewhere in the wake of my destruction, he let out an exasperated sigh and bent to tidy up—sliding my shoes neatly into the closet, hanging my hijab just so, setting my purse on the island.
“So,” I said when he sat down across from me, “are you guys like besties or something?”
His brow furrowed. “Are we what?”
“Besties,” I repeated.
The confusion on his face only deepened.
I huffed. “Best. Friends.”
“Oh. No, I don’t have best friends.”
I snorted. “Right. Just colleagues who conveniently show up to dinner with their wives to ruin my night.”
“He’s just another professor at the university,” Khalifa said. “I barely see him.”
“Huh. Funny. You seemed pretty friendly—an emotion I’ve personally never witnessed directed at me, so that was new.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on me. “Friendly is not how I’d describe whatever that was back there.”
My chest went tight. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said carefully, “that wasn’t just awkward. That was personal.”
I picked at a thread on the couch cushion instead of answering.
“Were you...married before?” he asked after a pause.
My head snapped up. “No! Of course not.”
“Then what was that?”
I exhaled, crossing my arms. “Fine. You want the truth? I met him in medical school. I caught semi-feelings. He made me think that he wanted to marry me. And when I finally told my dad, when my parents invited him over to meet them, he...” My throat tensed.
“He never showed up.” I met Khalifa’s stare, chin tilted in defense. “Happy? Now you know.”
“I wouldn’t use the word happy. How long did you guys talk?”
Heat rose in my cheeks, shame prickling under my skin. “Six months,” I admitted.
His eyes widened. “Six months? Why would he talk to you for that long and then not want to marry you?”