Chapter 2
“Thank you, everyone. Assalamu alaikum,” the imam said, and I got to my feet, making my way out of the prayer hall with some while others stayed behind to perform their dua or to chat with their friends and family.
Although, on an island as small as Mayberry Holm, everyone was family. Especially when the Muslim population was so tiny. Everyone hung onto whatever shreds of community they could. Not that I could blame them. It was nice having a support network, wherever one went, in their nearest mosque.
“Samir,” someone called out behind me, and I turned to look at an uncle running to catch up with me.
“Hi, Uncle Haroun. Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m very well, Al Hamdullillah. How are you? Are you going already?”
I sighed. I didn’t know how many times I had to have this conversation before it stuck.
“I’ve got to return to the store, Uncle. You know that,” I said.
I was hoping this would be the end of the conversation, but he followed me out into the entrance where our shoes were kept.
“You young ones. You’re always working.”
Considering I was already forty-one, I didn’t know that I would describe myself as a “young one,” but I decided not to broach that subject right now.
“What can we do? We’ve got to make ends meet, Uncle.” I shrugged and found my shoes. The uncle just watched me, not caring to find his own.
“You and your wife should pop by one evening. It’s been a while since we’ve had dinner together.”
I squeezed my shoe and took in a deep breath, trying to compose myself.
“Zainab is not my wife anymore, Uncle,” I said.
I didn’t know how many times I had to repeat it until he, and everyone else, got the message.
“How about Sunday? I’m sure you and your wife don’t have to work on Sunday, do you?” he said, ignoring me.
“We do, Uncle, and like I said, I don’t have a wife. I’m divorced? It’s been two years already.”
“Ah, nonsense,” Uncle said, dismissing my statement with a wave of his hand. “She’s still your wife. You should give it another try.”
“We can’t give it another try, Uncle. We’re gay, for crying out loud,” I said before I felt a pair of hands behind me, and Zainab pulled me back, giving a fake smile and a nod to Uncle.
“How are you?” she asked him, and we made our escape before I said something inappropriate. “Whoa, Sami, what was that all about? You know his poor heart can’t take it,” Zainab said.
“His heart couldn’t take it two years ago, either, when we first split up, but he’s still fine,” I reminded her as we went down the steps of the old, converted community center and crossed the road heading back to the town centre.
Pastor Antonia came out of her church and waved at us with a warm smile.
“Hi, kids,” she said, and we greeted her back before we resumed our walk back to town.
“You know what might help make all the uncles and aunties realize you’re gay?”
“If I start wearing leather and waving a rainbow flag around?” I raised an eyebrow, and Zainab slapped my arm.
“Don’t be stupid. You don’t have to go to those extremes. You just need to get yourself a boyfriend.”
I groaned.
“Oh yeah? Really? How did I not think of that? Oh wow, Zay, you’re a genius. Let me get that sorted right now!” I said, and my ex-wife—and best friend—rolled her eyes.
“I’m not saying it’s easy—”
“Pfft. Easy. You have no idea how weird gay dating is. It’s nothing like you lesbians. You go on a date, profess your love for one another, and move in together the next day. Believe me when I say that is not what happens on a gay first date!”
“Hey! Don’t stereotype us,” she said.
“Isn’t that what happened with you and Alina?”
Zainab bit her lip and sighed.
“Okay, yeah, but we didn’t move in the next day.”
“Oh yeah. I’m sorry. You had the pesky little issue of divorcing me first.”
“Hey!” Zainab groaned.
I wasn’t complaining. I’d known I was gay all my life.
The only reason I got married was because I thought that was what I had to do in order to keep the “sinful” thoughts at bay.
Naturally, that didn’t help one bit. But luckily, I’d somehow found a queer wife.
Not that we knew that at the time. We had tried to make our marriage work for years before we gave up and became pals who never slept together or tried to procreate.
If it hadn’t been for Zainab’s crush on Alina, and her courage to come out, we’d probably still be living together pretending we were in love.
“Besides, what would you know about gay dating anyway? It’s not like you’ve done anything since we broke up.”
“And how would you know what I’ve done and what I haven’t done?” I asked her with narrowed eyes and pressed lips.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you tell me what a boring, sad life you lead!”
“Hey!” It was my time to groan. “My life isn’t boring or sad.”
“Well, it’s not exciting either.”
I gasped. I stopped in my tracks to look at her in scorn.
“I’ll have you know; my life is plenty exciting.”
“Sure, it is. Buried deep in books and cat litter.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Oh, it’s cruel. Your true colors… they’re not red, orange, and pink. They’re black. Black like your soul!” I cried.
Zainab rolled her eyes with a snort.
“There is the drama queen we all know and love.”
“Hey! Who did you call a drama queen?” I asked.
“You? Why? Are you trying to tell me you’re not?”
My shoulders sagged, and I pursed my lips before I spoke. “Yeah, but you don’t have to call me out like that.”
“Someone’s got to. You’ve dedicated your life to that store and the cats. But there’s more to life than cats and romance books.”
I glared at her.
“There’s nothing better in life than romance books and cats!”
Zainab laughed. But it sounded a little like a pity laugh. Like a “wow, Sami, you need to get laid because you’re starting to sound like a virgin” laugh. Like a “oh, Sami, you’re such a silly gay man you might as well not be gay at all if you’re not going to enjoy some gay sex” laugh.
Of course she didn’t say those things, but it was all I heard in my head. Maybe because it was all I could think about when the subject of the conversation turned to my personal life.
Because, yeah, I might sell and read queer books all day long, but it didn’t mean I had any experience on the subject.
I still remembered when Zay came to me and told me she’d met someone.
It had been a joyful day. Because it meant I could finally live my truth.
And yet, when it came to it, and we dissolved our marriage, I’d focused all my energy into taking Books and Claws off the ground.
It had been my excuse since then, even if it had been two years since I opened the bookstore-slash-cat shelter.
And yeah, if it wasn’t evident enough, I was scared.
Scared shitless to explore this suppressed side of me and do something—or someone—about it.
I may act all confident and in touch with my whole self, but it didn’t mean I was.
Which was kind of mortifying, especially when other queer people visited my store, picked up my book selections, came to my book club nights, and lauded me as a role model or whatever.
The truth was… I was a scared little boy in the body of an aging Muslim man.
“So, you’re going to stay single and celibate the rest of your life because you’re an avid reader and cat dad? Yeah, that sounds like a good excuse,” Zainab said.
“Come on, Zay. It’s not like the guys are lining up outside my door, bending over backwards to be with me.”
Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t exactly true, either. The island was full of gay guys. I should know. A lot of them were regulars at Books and Claws. But a lot of them were also all paired up or something.
“Hm…” Zay hummed, and I turned to her, shaking my head clear of my internal monologue that was making even me yawn.
I was pathetic.
“I would have thought you’d be doing the bending over.”
I choked on nothing but air.
“Zay!” I said through my coughing fit, and Zainab patted my back, cackling like a witch.
“What?” she asked when I managed to breathe and straighten up again.
I huffed.
“You’ve gotten way too comfortable, missy. Ever since you got all cooped up with your lesbian lover—”
“Girlfriend, thank you very much.”
“Lezzzz-bian lover,” I repeated, adding emphasis just to mess with her. “You’re way too comfortable in your own skin. I don’t like it. Take it off.”
She chuckled.
“Someone had to be. And I’m not taking my skin off, thank you very much. Do you know how grotesque that would be? And Halloween was weeks ago. No one needs to see that.”
“Ha ha. You’re hilarious,” I mocked.
“Aren’t I? I should be a comedian.”
I rolled my eyes and stopped in front of the bookstore. My baby. My baby full of my feline babies that ran up to the glass display to greet and welcome me home.
“Please, don’t. I couldn’t handle the jokes about your stupid ex-husband.”
Zay stared at me and smiled.
“What about jokes about my queer ex-husband?”
I chortled, unlocked the door, and shut it in her face.
“Hey!” she shouted.
“Go to work. Leave me alone,” I shouted back through the glass.
“Fine. I’m never rescuing you again from any aunties or uncles ever again. See how you like that.” She wagged a finger at me and then turned around and marched off.
She appeared at the backdoor two seconds later.
“I thought I told you to go away,” I said.
“No, you told me to go to work, so here I am.”
I sighed, and I opened the store so we could welcome in the crowds again, thinking maybe it was a mistake to start a business with my ex-wife. Although, to be fair, as soon as she was done with her interior design degree and got some clients, she’d be out of here.
Maybe that was a reason I hadn’t moved on. Maybe I was still scared to do anything, because even though we weren’t married anymore—not even in the slightest—I still felt like I was married.
Or maybe, just maybe, I was making every excuse possible to delay the inevitable. Putting myself out there and getting rejected.
Because why wouldn’t they reject me?
I was a forty-one-year-old Muslim guy with a late-in-life coming out, a store full of books and cats, and an ex-wife as a business partner. Wasn’t I quite the package?
Who would ever want me?
I sighed and picked up Missy, the male ginger kitten I had picked off the streets just the other day, and who nuzzled up to me like I was his everything.
At least there was someone—or many someones—in this store that wanted me. That loved me.
So what if they had four legs and shat in a bucket?