Chapter Twenty-Four
AS SOON AS WE GOT TO the hospital cafeteria, my nerves were fried. I’d performed emergency C-sections with less anxiety.
I sat at the table, picking apart a napkin, watching the entrance like a criminal waiting to be caught. Khalifa, of course, looked like he was waiting for a casual brunch—arms crossed, posture relaxed, not an ounce of dread in sight.
“Stop fidgeting,” he murmured, not looking up from his phone.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I said, fidgeting harder.
He glanced up, unimpressed. “You’ve been shredding that napkin to death for ten minutes.”
I glared. “You don’t understand. Sarah’s...intense.”
“She’s your best friend,” he said mildly, setting his phone down. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”
“It’s the worst thing. She can smell guilt like a shark smells blood. One time, she knew I stole her eyeliner just from my breathing pattern.”
He blinked, unsure whether to laugh or call for help. “You have...interesting friendships.”
“Don’t deflect.” I leaned closer. “You have to act normal. No weird answers, no rudeness, no sarcasm.”
“So...not myself at all, then.”
“Exactly.”
He reached for his coffee. “Remind me again why this matters so much?”
“Because Sarah is my person. If she doesn’t like you, she’ll tell me. Brutally. And if she suspects anything about our arrangement, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“You mean the arrangement where we’re married?”
I kicked him under the table.
He winced. “You’re violent when you’re nervous.”
“Occupational hazard.” I shot him a look. “This is your fault, by the way.”
“My fault?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be this nervous if you hadn’t fallen asleep before I could test you. You didn’t even have any ice cream. I had to eat the entire tub alone.”
That earned me the smallest curve of his mouth. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh, I did,” I said. “It was for emotional support. Some people work out after their husband triggers them—others eat dessert meant for two.”
“So you punished the ice cream for my crimes.”
“It’s what it would’ve wanted.”
He chuckled, but before he could say more, I saw her—Sarah—breezing through the cafeteria doors, radiating the kind of charismatic confidence that made everyone else straighten up. She spotted me instantly and waved.
“Oh God,” I muttered, standing. “She’s here. Okay, remember—normal. Be. Normal.”
Khalifa raised a brow. “You keep saying that like it’s a switch I can just flip on.”
I plastered on a smile as Sarah approached, her gaze bright and curious.
“Lilly!” she said, hugging me. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting your husband.”
Khalifa stood. “It’s nice to meet you, Sarah.”
Sarah sat down across from us, eyes glinting like she’d just been handed front-row tickets to her favorite reality show. She didn’t say anything at first—just stared at him. And kept staring.
Khalifa leaned closer to me, his voice low and deadpan. “Is a staring contest the first question?”
“Just getting a read,” she said sweetly, folding her hands in mock seriousness. “So, you’re the mysterious Khalifa.”
“I suppose I am,” he said easily, settling back in his chair.
I could already see the gears turning in Sarah’s head—the investigative journalist mode. Once she started, there was no stopping her.
“Sorry,” she said after a beat. “I guess I’m still a little shocked that you exist. It feels like spotting Bigfoot in a suit. Or, you know, a unicorn with tenure.”
Khalifa’s brow lifted. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” she said, eyes flicking between us, “you know Lilly. She’s been the reigning president of the Anti-Men, Anti-Marriage Coalition since high school.
Her manifesto was basically ‘romance is a capitalist scam.’ So you can imagine my reaction when we met for coffee, and she told me she was getting married in a week. ”
I shifted in my seat, the back of my neck warming, but Khalifa stayed perfectly composed, fingers loosely interlaced on the table as if this were a seminar and not my personal humiliation on full display.
“I’ve never been asked to meet someone’s friend before. This isn’t exactly...traditional.”
“I’m not her friend,” Sarah corrected. “I’m her family. And I don’t want to see her get hurt—even if this is six months too late—especially after everything she went through.”
His composure faltered. “Went through?”
“Growing up with a woman who makes Cinderella’s evil stepmother look like a saint.
” She shook her head, a humorless chuckle slipping out.
“I mean, her mom is literally the worst person alive. Yeah, we all know Arab mothers treat their sons like they walk on water simply for existing, but this was a whole different species of awful. She didn’t just like Lilly’s brothers more than her—she didn’t like Lilly, period.
Most parents would kill to have a daughter as successful as she is, but her mom saw that ultrasound marked with an F and apparently thought it stood for failure. ”
Khalifa glanced in my direction, but I kept my eyes forward, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. My stomach dropped so fast it could’ve filed for frequent flyer miles.
I forced a laugh that sounded about as natural as a car alarm. “Wow, okay, maybe let’s not unpack my entire childhood trauma in the hospital cafeteria?”
“Entire childhood trauma?” she echoed, brows lifting. “You thought you were dying when you got your first period because she pretended not to know what one was.”
My face went nuclear.
“You were eleven. You took the bus to the ER sobbing because you thought something was medically wrong with you. And when you went home and asked her why she didn’t explain menstruation to you, she blinked and said she ‘forgot’ because she never had to deal with that kind of mess with your brothers. ”
The cafeteria felt too blinding, too loud, every light swiveling to shine specifically over me.
Sarah, of course, did not take the hint.
“Or how about when she’d give you the silent treatment for weeks at a time if you even dared to defend yourself?
The nights you’d sit outside her room instead of sleeping, slipping notes under the door that said Sorry.
I love you. Please forgive me, only for her to push them right back out? ”
“I—” I stumbled, words tripping over each other. “Whatever. That was forever ago. Can we just—?”
But she was already mid-spiral, her eyes flashing back to Khalifa.
“She wouldn’t even buy Lilly clothes. She made her wear her brother’s hand-me-downs throughout school.
Lilly—all bright colors and sunshine—was forced into baggy greys and blacks.
It was like watching someone dim a lightbulb on purpose. ”
“Sarah,” I warned, panic rising.
“And then she got a secret tutoring job one summer,” Sarah continued, ignoring me. “I went over to see the new clothes she’d bought, and her mom walked in on our little fashion show—”
“Sarah,” I repeated, sharper this time.
“—took one look at Lilly in this super cute pink dress that highlighted those gorgeous, mile-long legs of hers—”
“Sarah.”
“—and slapped her across the face.”
The words hit the air like a gunshot. My cheeks burned. I couldn’t look at Khalifa, but I felt his attention snap back to me again.
“Just because she bought herself some clothes,” Sarah said with a disbelieving scoff.
“I went home that day and hugged my mom so tight I nearly cracked a rib.” Then she turned that same unwavering gaze on Khalifa.
“So yeah, maybe this isn’t traditional. And if you don’t know her favorite color or that she only eats the crust on pizza, it won’t be the end of the world.
But if you hurt her, or make her feel like she has to shrink herself again, I will shove my four-inch heel into your eye socket. ”
Silence settled over the table. I dared a peek at him from the corner of my eye, but Khalifa wasn’t looking at Sarah. He was still looking at me.
This wasn’t something I’d ever planned on telling him.
It was the only time she’d ever laid a hand on me.
..because she didn’t need to. Her words punctured more than a slap ever could.
And true to form, the worst part of that day wasn’t even the sting.
It was the humiliation of Sarah—my best friend, who had the kindest, most loving mother in the world—standing there, watching mine treat me like something scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
I never willingly shared anything about my mom with Sarah, but some realities announced themselves long before you were ready to admit them out loud.
Eventually, the seams started showing: the floppy boy clothes I insisted were a “phase,” the empty seat at every award ceremony, spelling bee, valedictorian speech, school play—tiny heartbreaks I kept trying to explain away long after I’d run out of excuses for them.
You could only rearrange the evidence for so long before someone caring and perceptive started putting the pieces together.
So I offered her the watered-down version—carefully measured sprinkles of toxicity, the amount of palatable hurt someone with a healthy upbringing could digest without choking.
The kind that didn’t make people shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Just enough honesty to explain the cracks, never enough to expose the whole foundation.
Besides, no one liked to hear gossip about your mom being mean to you.
Meanness sounded petty and juvenile—like a child complaining about curfews or getting grounded.
It only sparked interest if things got physical.
That’s when it mattered. That’s when it counted.
Bruises were something people could quantify, measure, sympathize with. Pretty stories for ugly truths.
I fired Sarah a look that very clearly said, What the hell are you doing?
She fired one right back and mouthed, “My scary best friend speech. How is it going?”
I widened my eyes, silently screaming, Catastrophic. Abort mission.
Her dimples popped. Never.