Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
Somewhere in my chest, a small, stubborn piece of me hoped Khalifa never saw her again. And another, bigger piece—the one that loved him—hoped he did, just so she could see what he became despite her.
SARAH SHOWED UP A FEW hours later, hair wind-tossed, eyes bright with alarm.
“Hey, I got your nine-one-one text, what—?” She stopped short, taking in the mess. “Oh...my God, what the hell happened in here? Did you get robbed by an elephant?”
I exhaled, head in my hands. “No. This was all me.”
Her gaze widened in horror. “That’s so much worse. Did you become the Hulk overnight?”
“Maybe,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “I was mad.”
“Mad?” she repeated, stepping over the remains of my desk plant like it might bite her. “Lilly, this looks like a crime of passion.”
“It was,” I said. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Sarah straightened, still scanning the chaos. “Yeah, whatever you need. What’s going on?”
I hesitated, my throat burning because before I could tell her about Dalal, I had to tell her the truth—my truth. “Don’t hate me, okay?”
“I could never hate you.”
I took a slow breath, my heart hammering. “I...lied to you.”
Her posture stiffened. “About what?”
“My marriage to Khalifa.” I stared at the cracked photo frame on my desk.
“We weren’t...in love. It was all fake. He wanted his mom to see him married before she died, and I wanted to move out.
” Her mouth fell open, but I quickly rushed on.
“I know you’re mad, and you have every right to be, but can we save that part for later? I really need—”
“You lied?” she snapped, her voice cutting through mine. “To my face? After I asked you, over and over, to tell me what was going on—you just kept lying?”
I opened my mouth, but she didn’t give me the chance to speak.
“I told you that I wanted what you and Khalifa had,” she said, voice rising, “and you just stood there and nodded, like your marriage wasn’t some tacky, overdone trope in a romance novel.”
“Yes, okay, but things changed—”
“No. I don’t want to hear it.” She shook her head, blinking fast. “God, Lilly, you always made me feel like I was some stupid airhead for wanting to get married, for wanting to be in love, to have a family—but you know what I think?”
My pulse stuttered. “Sarah—”
“I think you do want what I want,” she said, voice breaking. “What every girl wants. You’re just too much of a coward to open up and love anyone other than yourself.”
Her words landed like a slap. “Excuse me? Where is this coming from?”
“It’s been a long time coming,” she said.
“Let me guess—Khalifa made a mistake, right? He messed up like any normal person does sometimes, and instead of giving him a chance, you trashed your office and called me to what? Coddle you? Tell you that you’re right and he’s wrong and men suck and blah, feminist, blah?
” She laughed once, bitter and low. “I love you, Lilly, but you need a reality check.”
I stared at her, my vocal cords suddenly too stunned to work.
“You need to get over yourself,” she said softly. “Or you’re going to spend the rest of your life alone.” She looked at me for a long moment—hurt, angry, maybe even disappointed—and then added, quieter still, “And maybe that’s secretly what you want. To be alone.”
Before I could find my voice, she turned and walked out, the door clicking shut with a gentle finality that sounded louder than any of our shouting. The silence that followed pressed against my chest until breathing felt like a chore I no longer wanted to perform.
I sagged in my chair, surrounded by the destruction of my own making—shards of ceramic, torn paper, soil scattered like ash.
The smell of coffee and dust clung to the air.
It looked like grief had lived here for years and only now decided to make itself visible.
Sarah’s words replayed in my ears, each one carving its own wound.
Coward.
Alone.
Was she right? Had I built my entire life around keeping people at arm’s length and calling it independence? Around pretending that solitude was a choice, not a consequence? Maybe I’d been confusing strength with fear, disguising self-protection as self-respect, mistaking numbness for peace.
I thought of Khalifa’s face when he said my name, how there’d been something raw in it, something that had terrified me because it asked for trust. And I’d run from it, as I always did—from love, from vulnerability, from anyone who made me feel too much.
His voice echoed in my head—You always do this. You form a story in your head before you hear people out.
The accusation burrowed deep, refusing to let go. Did I always assume the worst before giving people a chance to prove me wrong? Before giving them the grace I so desperately wanted for myself?
Maybe that was her—my mother—still pulling the strings. Maybe I’d learned mercy was a currency best withheld because she’d never spent a dime of it on me. Maybe mistrust was her inheritance, and I’d been dutifully cashing it ever since.
Now, sitting in the ruins of my office and my pride, I realized Sarah might not have been cruel. She might have been honest.
And honesty, I was learning, hurt worse than heartbreak ever could.