9. Omar
Chapter nine
Omar
I was such an idiot.
The minute Matty walked into the restaurant, my brain somehow lost its connection to, well, everything else. I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, and when I wove through the restaurant to ask the hostess for our table, I bumped into three different diners, earning annoyed glances from two and an amused grin from a girl who missed the “he’s gay and inexplicably terrified on a date” memo.
Remarkably, Matty didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he was a gent enough not to say anything or act like he was babysitting a bumbling dunderhead.
Once seated at our table, Matty looked up with a grin on his lips and sparkle in his eye and said, “You look super cute tonight.”
“You said that already,” I replied, sipping the last of my fruity concoction.
“No.” He wiggled his index finger. “I said you looked handsome. That’s a compliment I might give a small child. Super cute is gay speak for ‘Damn, he’s fine.’ And you, my dear, are indeed damn fine tonight.”
I tried not to let color or heat flood my cheeks and failed. He was complimenting me, and all I wanted to do was crawl under the table. Then again, if I did that, he might think I was down there for dessert before dinner, and that would send a very bad signal on a first date. My mind reeled, bounding between how I’d fumbled our greeting and how my mind wanted to suck him off in the middle of a crowded restaurant. The rest of my body couldn’t decide whether to get all hard and excited or run for the door.
“You still with me?” he asked.
I startled. “Oh, right. Sorry. It has been quite a while since I last went on a date.”
Matty raised his glass. “Then it deserves a toast. To getting back on the horse.”
“To horses,” I said, stupidly.
He giggled, clinked his glass against mine, and took a long sip.
“Technically, this isn’t our first date,” he said, again ignoring my discomfort like a champ. “We’ve had lunch three times at the hospital. The first doesn’t count because it was part of my assignment as your ambassador. The second and third, however, were not part of any work. I wanted to see you.”
“You did?” I asked, trying to hide the wonder in my voice, despite knowing full well he’d had ulterior motives for those lunches. Why was I being such a dunce?
I flagged the waiter, desperate for more liquid courage.
“What are you having, sir?”
Midway through my explanation, the waiter’s face had twisted in ways no human feature should ever turn, so I changed my order. “Just bring me a cosmo.”
“Make that two,” Matty added, holding up two fingers and wiggling them like tiny worms. He was the cutest thing ever to live—or wiggle digits.
“So,” Matty resumed the moment the waiter vanished. “I know all about your work life. Tell me something I don’t already know. Tell me about this famous father of yours.”
My shoulders slumped. Just when I was gathering my confidence, he had to go and ask about my Baba. I blew out a heavy sigh. “He works for the Egyptian Ambassador to Great Britain. What would you like to know?”
“Oh, shit.” Matty thunked his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You told me he was high up and that you’d met lots of crazy people, but an ambassador? That’s nuts!”
I shrugged. “He’s not the ambassador, but he’s close. He was a diplomat before I was born. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“How long has he been . . . whatever he is?”
I thought a moment. “Six—no, eight years now. He got the promotion about the time I moved to the States to attend uni.”
Matty giggled.
“What?”
“You said uni. That’s adorable.”
My brows scrunched. “It’s what we call it.”
“I know. It’s still adorable.”
Americans. I let it go.
“Anyway, he’s in London representing Egypt’s interests, as he always has, with my mother by his side. She’s the perfect, dutiful wife, the very picture of a good Muslim woman.”
Matty’s face lost its shine. “That doesn’t sound . . . um, okay.”
I watched him a moment, waiting for the usual response about oppression or women wearing the hijab or whatever other stereotypical thing that might fall out of his mouth.
Matty was thoughtful and didn’t speak immediately. That was interesting . . . and different.
“How do you mean?” he asked.
A question? That wasn’t what I had come to expect.
“How do I mean what?”
He sat back. “You said she’s the dutiful Muslim woman. What did you mean?”
“Oh, that. She doesn’t wear a full niqab or anything.” Matty’s face twisted in confusion. “That’s the long black gown you see on TV a lot. They are rare in Egypt these days. Come to think of it, the hijab is no longer truly in fashion. Women wear them by choice, unlike in some other countries where law requires it.”
“And your mother?”
“She wears a hijab at many public functions. She calls it ‘part of her uniform.’ Baba hates it when she says that.”
“Why?”
“He says it’s disrespectful to Islam, that the hijab is a privilege, not an imposition.”
Matty’s screwed-up lips told me what he thought of that philosophy.
“And what do you think?” he asked, again surprising me. Matty’s thoughtfulness was completely out of character with the almost flighty, whimsical boy I’d come to know at the hospital. I’d been attracted to his bubbly personality and dimpled smile, but this contemplative Matty drew me toward him in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
What did I think?
“Well, it’s her choice. If she feels more comfortable being modest beneath the scarf, then I support her. If she felt forced, well, that would be different.”
Matty thought a moment, then asked, “What about you? What was life as the almost-ambassador’s son like?”
A wistful chuckle slipped out. “I was here during most of his ambassadorship, but I doubt things would have been much different if I had stayed in London. Children of dignitaries all know each other. For security reasons, we attend the same schools, play the same sports, that sort of thing. I would say I was a normal kid, but we both know better. Baba’s expectations were . . . let’s just say, they were unattainable.”
Our fresh drinks arrived, and we both took a long pull.
“Are you close to your parents? Any brothers and sisters? Other relatives?” His questions fired so fast I felt like ducking.
“Hm, I suppose, as close as one can be to His Excellency. I’m an only child. And yes, Teto—that’s what I call my grandmother—is the most amazing woman alive. We are very close.”
Matty’s eyes screamed, “Aw,” at the mention of Teto.
“How are they with you being gay? That’s not a very Muslim thing for you to do, is it?”
I nearly spit my drink. “No, not very Muslim at all. Baba hates it. Mother avoids it. Teto wraps her arms around me and begs me to bring boys to Cairo to meet her.”
“Oh my God, she sounds amazing.”
“She is.” My eyes drifted to some distant point in the restaurant as my mind flooded with memories of gray hair and warm smiles. “If Rose and Dorothy had a baby, that would be Teto.”
Matty squealed and clapped the tips of his fingers. “I love The Golden Girls . OMG, I want to be a Golden Girl when I grow up. Which one would you be? I dreamed of being Blanche but could never be slutty enough to qualify.”
“That makes you a rare commodity in Atlanta,” slipped out.
“Ain’t that the truth. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a horny, sexed-up boy in this town.” He giggled. “Don’t get me wrong, I could go for some oiled-up man-love with the right one.”
I set my drink down to keep from spilling it.
“Oiled up? That is very specific.”
Matty shrugged and raised his glass again. “A boy can dream, can’t he? Besides, I like how a pretty body glistens in the moonlight.”
I laughed. “And just how many oiled-up muscle men have you seen prancing about in the moonlight?”
“In my dreams, hundreds—no, thousands.”
We both laughed at that.
“Enough! I might never get these images out of my head—or the oil off my hands,” I said. “What about you? You haven’t told me anything about your family or where you’re from—or anything, really.”
Matty beamed. “I’ll make this quick. Dad is Thomas. Mom is Linda. Brother and sister are Nathan and Erin. They’re a few years younger. Everybody but me is still back in Asheville.”
“North Carolina?”
“We’re Tar Heels, yessiree!” he hooted like he was at a football game. I couldn’t help but mirror his smile.
The next hour flew by. Food arrived, and we both devoured fried chicken and waffles. It was strange, ordering the same drink, same meal, and then, by coincidence, picking the same dessert. Matty’s lashes bobbed as he batted his eyes. I just stared, captured by gray pools reflecting the restaurant’s dim light.
I didn’t exactly swoon.
Brits didn’t swoon.
That would be entirely inappropriate, too expressive, undignified.
Matty was unlike anyone I knew. His smile almost never left his lips. When he spoke, his words held such passion, such life, they were impossible to ignore or tune out. I knew his flair might not be everyone’s cup of tea. Hell, his flame could probably be seen from space once we walked outside. And next to my stiff demeanor, polished to a sheen from the first days I could walk, he shone even brighter. But like any good moth attracted to a blaze, I couldn’t tear my eyes from his.
“Would you like to come back to my place?” he asked, tossing his napkin across his almost-licked dessert plate.
“Oh, uh, right. Your place.”
He was asking me for sex, wasn’t he? That was what men did when they went back to each other’s place. I wasn’t a virgin or a complete idiot; although it had been years since I’d last been naked with another man. Maybe virginity grew back?
“I, uh, Matty . . .”
His face fell. “It’s okay. If you’re not into me, I get it. Most guys—”
My hand shot across the table like a ball fired from a cannon, gripping his so fast his eyes snapped down, then back up.
“I am very much into you, Matty Vance.” I swallowed hard. “It has been . . . well . . . I haven’t . . .” Damn it, I was stammering again. I thought I’d shoved that awkward little bastard away, but he was back. I sucked in a breath and carried on. “I like you, Matty. A lot. And for a Brit to say that, it must be a significant amount.”
His eyes brightened again, but he seemed to hold his breath.
“But?”
“But . . . being intimate is not something . . . I haven’t been with anyone . . .” Oh, bullocks! Just spit it out. “I haven’t had sex in years, and it isn’t something I like to do unless I love someone.”
Time froze.
Matty stared.
He didn’t even blink.
My hand clutched his as though releasing it might steal the last of my life . . . or self-respect.
Then he smiled, and my heart beat again.
“I love that so much,” he said. “How about a quick stroll through Piedmont? I’m not ready to let you go home, and it’s nice out.”
And just like that, I swooned.