Chapter Thirty-Five
FOR THE SECOND TIME in my life, I woke up tangled with Khalifa—except this time, there weren’t any clothes involved.
Sunlight spilled through the curtains, painting gold across skin that wasn’t mine, and for a long, suspended moment, I just lay there, struggling to figure out what universe I’d woken up in.
I didn’t grow up fantasizing about my first kiss, let alone my first time.
I was the shy and slightly immature girl who turned off the TV when the kissing scenes came on, who thought “fade to black” was merciful and realistic, and yet, here I was, thirty-two years old, freshly deflowered by the human embodiment of a bad decision.
Somehow in the chaos of last night, I’d lost both my first kiss and my virginity to a man who couldn’t even say the word “feelings” without breaking into hives.
I stared up at the ceiling, trying to remember at what point I’d decided that was a good idea. Somewhere between “I hate you” and “don’t stop,” apparently.
Now, as his arm lay draped across my waist, muscled and warm and entirely unfair, I had no idea what came next. Was I supposed to...make him breakfast? Wake him up for round three—or was it four? I lost track around the time I forgot my own name.
I glanced down at him—peaceful, infuriatingly beautiful, ridiculously long eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks—and immediately looked away.
Nope. Not doing that.
Because any breakfast made by me would probably poison him, and my lady parts needed an un peace treaty, a hot bath, and several aspirin, I decided to do what men had been doing to women for the last century and a half: slip out without saying a word.
I inched out from under his arm with all the stealth of a jewel thief, wincing when the bedsheet rustled.
The moment the mattress dipped, he followed instinctively, hand drifting after me until it reacquired my waist like I was a misplaced pillow.
He tugged me back in, fingers skimming over what, until recently, had been uncharted territory.
He mumbled something in his sleep—probably Arabic for “don’t even think about it”—and I stopped, holding my breath until his chest settled into its steady rise and fall again.
When I finally made it to the edge of the bed, I stood there for a second, staring at the heap of his tux jacket, his watch glinting faintly beside it, his phone face down.
Evidence of a night I was definitely not emotionally prepared to unpack.
Steve was perched in her fancy nook, very much awake and deeply unimpressed, staring at me like she was the sole juror who’d already reached a verdict.
I found my dress crumpled on the floor, my hijab draped carelessly over the lamp—may it rest in peace—and started gathering the wreckage of my dignity. My legs wobbled, my heart still hadn’t figured out if it should feel exhilarated, mortified, or just plain stupid.
“Where are you going?” His voice came out husky, eyes closed, body perfectly still.
I froze mid-step, clutching my dress like it could shield me from being caught doing the walk of shame. “Um...I have to shower, pray, and go to work. I have an...emergency delivery?”
One corner of his mouth curved. “Wait a minute. I’ll join you in the shower.”
I groaned inwardly, trying for a laugh that came out more like a strangled squeak. “Sorry, no time. Go back to sleep.”
He hummed in response, half-amused, half-in dreamland, and I escaped before my resolve could betray me. I caught my reflection in the mirror—hair knotted, lips swollen, eyes soft and terrifyingly bright.
He’d looked at me like I was flourishing last night. Like I was worth touching, worth wanting.
And that was the problem.
Because if Khalifa woke up and looked at me like that again—if he so much as said my name—I wasn’t sure I’d survive pretending it hadn’t meant everything.
The shower was too hot, too honest, every droplet reminding me what I’d done—or rather, what we’d done—hours ago. My skin felt feverish, raw from where his hands had been. Every movement, every inhale, felt threaded with him.
I scrubbed harder than necessary, like I could rinse off the memory of his mouth, his voice, his body. But when my eyes stared at me with accusation through the fogged-up mirror afterward, I still looked the same—hair damp, mouth tingling, limbs wrecked and restless and just a little bit alive.
By the time I’d thrown some clothes on, the clock had declared me late for...well, for nothing, technically. But I couldn’t stay there, not with him sleeping in the bed we’d just—
Yeah, no. Out. Now.
The hospital was less hectic than usual. I couldn’t sit in my office. I couldn’t call Sarah, not after lying to her about what my marriage really was. So I went to the one place where honesty didn’t hurt, where it didn’t have to be spoken at all.
The nursery doors slid open with a light hiss. The air inside was warm, perfumed with talc and faint lavender. A handful of newborns slept beneath little blankets, tiny chests rising and falling with the tranquil rhythm of beginnings.
A nurse glanced up from her clipboard and smiled. “Dr. Tariq. What brings you in?”
I hesitated. “Are any of them...alone?”
Her face softened. “Unclaimed?”
I nodded.
She pointed toward the far corner, where a baby girl slept in a bassinet decorated only with a single pink blanket. “She was left at the ER two nights ago. No name yet, but she’s healthy. They found her a family, but they still haven’t been in to see her.”
I crossed the room. Her baby face was round and impossibly delicate, her lashes like dark crescents on her cheeks.
“Hi there,” I crooned, lifting her and carrying her to the rocking chair.
I sank slowly, her tiny hand curling instinctively around my finger.
“You’re still nameless. You look like a Noor.
You’ll probably grow up to own a bakery in Paris or cure an incurable disease, or maybe just fall in love with a man who brings you coffee every morning without you ever having to ask. That’s a good life, Noor.”
She blinked, mouth forming a small, sleepy “O.”
“I’m sorry your mom left you,” I said. “But there’s a family in the process of adopting you right now, so you won’t be alone forever.
You’ll have people who love you, people who stay.
” I rocked her gently, the chair creaking beneath us.
“I know how it feels to have a mom who didn’t want you, but believe it or not, she’s the person I want to talk to the most right now.
My mother and I never did girl talk. When I was getting married, I thought she’d want to prepare me—warn me, maybe.
But she didn’t.” My voice faltered. “I texted her a while ago after my mother-in-law passed away, and she never replied.”
Silence wasn’t new between us. She’d been wielding it for years, long before I had the language to name it for what it was. Back when I was a kid, she could go months without speaking to me, without looking at me, like if she erased me hard enough, I might actually disappear.
And sometimes, I almost believed her.
I used to pinch my arm just to be sure—small, secret presses of my fingers against my skin, over and over until I was covered in bruises, like evidence of life. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
But this time felt different, because when I lived under the same roof, even her absence had a shape.
I still saw her moving through the house, heard the clink of dishes, felt the cold gravity of her presence.
It was cruel, yes—but it was something. She was there.
And if she was there, then I must’ve been too.
It turned out that you didn’t need love to tether yourself to someone.
My mother’s disdain did the job just fine—an invisible cord pulled taut between us, binding me to her in a way I didn’t know how to undo.
Twisted, unkind, but unbreakable all the same.
As long as she existed in my orbit, I had proof that I did too.
The nursery blurred suddenly. I blinked fast, but the tears clung to my eyes.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, Noor.
I don’t know why she doesn’t like me. And now.
..” My voice cracked. “Now I was just intimate with my husband for the first time, and I think I’m in love with him, but we said no feelings, so I don’t know what to do or who to talk to.
I need my mom, Noor, but she doesn’t need me. ”
And the moment the words slipped out, I felt something inside me tilt because they were true.
That was the secret rot of having a mother who never really wanted you: you still wanted her.
You wanted her in stupid, tender instants like this one.
You wanted her opinions, her comfort, her terrible advice.
You wanted to call her and whisper, Mama, something happened, like you were fifteen instead of a grown woman with a medical degree and a wedding ring.
If I couldn’t talk to my own mother about boys and love and accidentally falling for my husband. ..then who was I allowed to talk to?
I buried my face in Noor’s little neck and inhaled her delicious new baby scent.
She wriggled, warm and alive and completely unbothered by my emotional tailspin.
And I let myself imagine—just for a single, impossible second—that maybe this was what it felt like to be loved without earning it.
To be someone’s whole world without even trying.