19. Adelaide
NINETEEN
ADELAIDE
“This might be a tad bit excessive .”
Three days after the engagement, Umaima and I stood in front of Osama’s unbelievably large mansion he called home with a nicely wrapped gift box in her hands.
I’d spent the past three days moping in bed. Mindless, occasional tears slipped down my cheeks. One by one. When I wiped them away, they returned the next night. Why did his words have to hurt?
Maybe because—and I’m just spitting random thoughts here—despite being broken up for years, you still might have feelings for him?
Absolutely not.
Is that why you keep thinking about him sleeping with that girl?
It’s not like I cared. We communicated that it was fine for him to sleep around— if you call being short with one another communicating then okay . My image was tarnished. If the media caught him with someone else…
I’d see it.
Other than that, Umaima barged into my apartment this morning to tell me the gang was meeting here.
We were not a gang .
We were something but definitely not a group of friends who hung out together for fun—it sounded incredible—but I wasn’t a group gal.
When I was with one person, I could talk just fine. But add two more people and suddenly I became mute.
Large groups are uncomfortable.
It was hard. Not just because they were all listening carefully, but what if they weren’t? Then I’d just look stupid.
Somehow, Christian, Osama, and Hasan became bros—Umaima started working with Osama, so they were sort of friends now? I was still putting the pieces of everyone’s newfound relationship together.
In the end, I was always the one left behind. I’d always been slow, there was doubt in that. Yet, it was ultimately worse being the person no one waited for. Not saying that my friends didn’t, but they’ve made waiting for me seem more like a chore than a want.
Umaima seemed pleased that our trio was expanding, but I was pretty sure it’s because there was a certain man who caught her attention.
She looked at him when he wasn’t looking, fixing her hijab like something was wrong when nothing was. This morning, instead of wearing her usual long dresses, she wore a kurta shalwar—a gold-studded organza dupatta draped over her shoulder and moved in elegant designs across the shirt. Umaima dressed for herself, but this wasn’t her dressing just for herself.
“Hey, my Ammi Ji taught me to never go to someone’s house empty-handed.”
Should I have brought something? I was so busy putting myself together, that I didn’t stop to think about being at Osama’s house for the first time. What would he think of me?
The wind whooshed past us, reflecting the turmoil of feelings in my head.
Umaima squeezed my shoulder, tucking the box under her left arm. “Babe don’t overthink it. This is from both of us.”
Too late, I was overthinking it.
The door suddenly swung open and unlike the wind, my body settled down calmly—almost peacefully at the sight of him. Until I remembered our engagement party.
“Hey Umaima,” he greeted her first with a kind smile. Then he turned to me, and my heart gawked at him like he was a newly awaited smutty book on my bookshelf, “Adelaide.”
Christian stood with his hair a mess like he’d been frustrated and ran his hands through it multiple times. He definitely had a vendetta against me because those pants were making me forget why I was pissed.
Men in sweatpants were attractive, sure.
But Christian in grey sweatpants was a recipe for wet underwear and a vibrator.
Which would unfortunately have to wait until nighttime.
“Adelaide,” he addressed me with a tilt to his head.
“Christian.” I rasped. Seriously? Drink some water, gargle, stop acting like you’ve never seen a well-bred man before .
His eyes darkened and if I wasn’t mistaken, hands tightened on the door. Annoyance lingered beneath the shadows of his gaze. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get down on my knees and suck him off or strip solely for his pleasure.
Neither of which would be happening now or ever.
I was becoming a horny idiot around him.
While he was sleeping around with beautiful women.
Umaima cleared her throat, eradicating the air of thick tension.
“ Oh-kay , I’m getting hives just by staring at you.”
“Hello,” lips curved from the boisterous sound. Osama gently moved Christian aside and widened the door. “Welcome to my humble abode!”
Umaima rolled her eyes, walking inside. “Great, consider me hived .”
“What did I do?” Osama gawked after her like she owned the place.
Umaima had that kind of impression no matter where she went.
“Exist, maybe?”
“This is like our second time meeting, why do you hate me?” He put a hand to his heart. “Is it because I have longer hair than you?”
“It’s exactly that,” she deadpanned. “Your hair gives me rashes.”
“She’s mean,” he said to me before disappearing into another room.
Tingles ran down my spine when I stepped through the door and Christian’s arm brushed mine.
The entryway led into a circular foyer where the ceiling was adorned with a dramatic chandelier. Below it was a wooden table with— there was no way —a clay statue of Qaid-e-Azam’s face. Except half of his face was lopsided.
On one side, the open concept led to an enormous kitchen and whatever was cooking in there smelled phenomenal.
On the other side of the table—a living room—where the so-called gang had taken their stop. The room looked like a kid threw up in it. Pinks and yellows and blues. I think I entered the set of The Doodlebops.
“Osama, stop harassing my sister.” Hasan sat on the floor cross-legged and grim as usual. In front of him, Yunus stacked Lego blocks on top of each other. His adorable face scrunched up in concentration.
“She’s the one harassing me,” Osama whined.
Umaima snickered while slumping down on the couch closest to Hasan. “Is that how you refer to mindless conversation?”
Osama exasperatedly gasped, “You… I… Wow .”
“This is for you, by the way.” She slid the box across the glass table in between. “Don’t overthink it, I bought it from a garage sale.”
Osama’s face visibly brightened. “Sure, I believe you.”
She rolled her eyes, but a slither of a smile creased her face like fresh madeleines coming out the oven. It was the type that made you cover your face to make it seem like you weren’t smiling.
Where’s Christian?
“He’s cooking,” Osama answered my thoughts. “That’s what he does when he’s here.”
Umaima looked at me and then back at Osama. “Doesn’t he cook all the time?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I make him cook ‘cause I can.”
It seemed like Christian took after Eunbin. All the Wednesdays she spent time cooking with me and her son hovering over the island rubbed off on him.
Hasan studied my face when I sat behind Yunus—who shuffled backwards into me—his goofy smile eliciting my own. “You okay after Wednesday?”
Not really, but I had to be right? A whole company relied on me.
Hasan seemed satisfied by my nod.
The four of us—meaning the three of them—talked a bit as we waited for food. Osama and Umaima bantered about random topics, while Hasan kept to himself with Yunus, pitching in when needed. I, on the other hand, remained quiet.
My awkward commentaries usually led people into distancing themselves from me. When I was nervous, my words came across as rude. Sometimes when my anxiety hit the highest level, I seemed uninterested, when really, I didn’t understand the sensations my body was going through.
There were pins and needles, but then there was the feeling of your stomach clenching, fingernails digging into your throat, and having an out-of-body experience. Like you’re physically present and can see everything happening around you, but at the same time you couldn’t. Your eyes were a mile ahead—but your ears, your sense of smell—were far behind and it was hard to catch up.
Which is why it was easier staying silent.
It was better than overthinking every word or undermining myself for behaving a certain way.
“She has nothing to be jealous of,” Osama’s voice broke in a haze in the corner of my thoughts. Half-listening and half-distracted. “He flew to Switzerland to fight for her ring?—”
“He what ?” Why would he do that?
“Shit, pretend you didn’t hear that.” I opened my mouth to ask more questions when Osama looked past me with relief. “There you are.”
My breath caught on my throat.
Christian leaned against the threshold of the wall with hands folded over his chest, simply staring at me with an indescribable look.
“Food’s ready,” he gruffed.
“Thank god,” Osama slapped his hands on his thighs before all but running into the kitchen.
“Tell me how that man is twenty-seven,” Hasan muttered under his breath before standing up.
Umaima backed him up with, “The same way you’re thirty-three and a bore?”
Hasan shook his head while scratching his brow. “I’m not wasting a breath on you.”
Christian easily took Yunus from Hasan. My ovaries ached with the need to be filled with babies of my own.
Was it more surprising that Hasan did that without any care in the world or the fact that Yunus naturally leaned his head against Christian’s chest? He puked on him once and all of a sudden, they were best buds.
Yunus scrunched his nose when I lightly poked his cheek. I was filled with the sudden urge to nuzzle him with kisses.
A soft caress to my hand shook me to the core.
Christian stared down with fierce concentration, fingers thumbed over the blue diamond. “You have nothing to worry about.”
My breath hitched. I should pull my hand away and take a step back, but I didn’t.
And maybe I should ask about the ring, but my mouth had other plans.
“What am I worried about?”
“I’ve never slept with her,” his brows pinched in severe focus. “Nor will I ever.”
“I didn’t ask,” I replied.
“I know.”
“Then why tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
While that answer wasn’t the best, it was good enough for now. Gone were the teary misunderstandings. “Does this mean we can be… friends?” I asked.
Christian’s finger feathered over the diamond. “If that’s what you want.” His hand lightly brushed mine, but I couldn’t fully feel it. Only a slither of it, a whisper of it—a promise of it.
There was a time when I was the yapper, while he was the listener.
Now we seemed to bask in silence, and it was comforting knowing we were both feeling the same way instead of suffering under it alone.
Christian’s nostrils flared with a deep inhale. “Adelaide,” he spoke thickly.
How had I lived so long without hearing my name on his lips?
Three syllables, one word, and it belonged to him.
“Christian,” my pulse quickened.
Forgetting about everything. About the others a couple of feet away from us, about the child barred to his hips, Christian tilted his head down with parted lips.
I wanted him to eviscerate ?—
The doorbell rang.
Stumbling backwards, what just happened?
Our chests heaved as we stared at each other.
It reminded me that night when I first kissed him and pulled away, he looked just like this. Heaving and speechless.
Disappointment flooded my stomach.
Being attracted to him couldn’t mean forgetting how he treated me all those years ago.
With a final glance at Christian and our newly labelled friendship, I walked into the kitchen to find Umaima munching on fries.
“Are you expecting someone?” A piece of potato fell out of her mouth, and she blushed sheepishly, picking the piece, and eating it again.
Osama was also stuffing his mouth with fries.
These two…
“Everyone, this is Detective Rowlen. He’s gonna be helping us.” Christian walked in with an extremely dashing man behind him. Buzzed head, grey eyes, and a smile that could melt any girl’s panties.
Not mine, obviously .
A scruff bracketed against his dark skin. “You guys can call me Jake.”
And he was British.
Jake Rowlen looked over at me, showing off his pearly whites. “Adelaide Mikael. I haven’t seen you since you were a kid.”
Visceral shock that bloomed out of my skull. “You’re Blackwell Rowlen’s son?”
“In the flesh.”
No thoughts came to mind when I wrapped my arms around him.
Jake Rowlen was the son of my dad’s best friend.
There were times—increasingly now—where memories of my parents started fading. Their laughter was no longer loud in my mind and the sound of their voices were distant.
It was still nice to see an old, familiar face again. It was a reminder that my parents existed at one point.
He pulled back, keeping me at arm’s length. “You’re the splitting image of your mother.”
My cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”
A hand brandished over my abdomen.
Christian pulled me against his chest.
“Dinner—” he glowered “—is ready.”
I would have found it funny that he was still holding Yunus with one arm and pulling me in with the other if his scowl wasn’t reminding me of our almost kiss just a few minutes ago.
A blush fell across my cheeks.
Jake looked back and forth between us with a cocky grin. “Seems like there’s a lot to catch up on.”