15. Faiz
CHAPTER 15
FAIZ
T he day can’t pass by fast enough following Tara’s morning visit. All through the morning and afternoon, in between my tasks and responsibilities, she is on my mind.
Finally, come early evening, I stand in front of my closet, the hangers whispering against one another as I push them aside, searching for something suitable to wear. It’s not just any family dinner tonight — it’s a chance to see Tara again — and suddenly every shirt looks too casual, every jacket not quite right.
My hands pause on the fabric of a crisp white button-down; it’s smart without trying too hard. I slip it on, tucking it into my trousers with more care than usual. A glance in the mirror, and I see a man who’s trying to tamp down his eagerness, a man who’s worried his anticipation is etched into every curve of his face.
Ahmed’s words last night hit something deep within me. I’ve been holding myself at a distance when it comes to Tara, but perhaps I’ve been looking at things the wrong way. She’s already shown that, as our doctor, she is undeterred by the circumstances of my and Ali’s life.
So could it be that she would also be fine with something more? A relationship between us that is much more… personal?
I didn’t miss the way her pupils widened this morning or the way her breath hitched when I drew closer. The air between us was charged, full of unused potential.
Ahmed is a good judge of character — it’s one reason I trust him so much with the safety of my home and child — and I am ready to believe that he could be right. Tara might just be the perfect puzzle piece that has been missing from our lives.
“Baba? You’re leaving?” Ali’s voice, tinged with curiosity and a hint of disappointment, pulls me from my reflection.
He stands at the threshold of my room, a small figure dwarfed by the doorway. The sight of him tightens something in my chest, a familiar tug of guilt that accompanies every secret I keep locked away.
“Yes, I have a dinner I can’t miss,” I tell him, keeping my tone light, hoping he doesn’t notice the strain behind my words.
“Can I come?” he asks, and there’s an earnest hopefulness in his brown eyes that nearly breaks me.
I kneel in front of him, meeting his gaze head-on. “Not this time, buddy,” I say softly, ruffling his hair. “It’s… business stuff. Boring adult things you wouldn’t enjoy.”
He pouts, clearly unconvinced, and I hate that I have to shut him out like this. But there’s no place for him where I’m going — not yet, not until I can be sure it’s safe. His existence is a truth too heavy for the busy halls of my parents’ palace, a truth that could shatter the precarious balance of our lives.
“Tell you what — we’ll do something fun this weekend. Just you and me,” I promise, and he brightens at the prospect, the shadow of exclusion momentarily forgotten.
“We can go to the circus?” he asks hopefully.
My heart sinks. No, I can’t take him to the circus. Everyone there would know me.
“We can go on a picnic,” I tell him, thinking of a secluded spot that will be perfect.
“Okay,” he says, but I can feel how disappointed he is.
I rise, feeling the burden of my double life pressing down on me. With one last hug that I wish could shield him from everything, I step away and head towards the door. I don’t look back, because if I do, I might not be able to leave.
The drive to my parents’ is short, but it feels like crossing a chasm between worlds. As the palace I grew up in comes into view, my pulse quickens, and I wonder if it’s the magnitude of the place or the thought of seeing Tara that sets my heart racing.
Tonight, I will allow myself a new vulnerability, a chance to indulge in the connection we’ve been tiptoeing around. Tonight, I will sit across from her at the dining table, share a meal, and pretend for a little while that we are nothing more than two people who enjoy each other’s company.
And for just a few hours, I will try to forget the son I’ve left behind and the walls of silence I’ve built around us.
I’m a bit early — a strategic choice to carve out moments alone with Tara — and I fully expect the butler to greet me with his usual polite demeanor. Instead, it’s my mother who sweeps into the foyer, her arms spread wide with genuine astonishment.
“Faiz, my dear! You’re early,” she exclaims.
“Traffic was kinder than usual,” I lie smoothly, because how can I tell her the truth? That I yearn for stolen seconds with someone under her very roof?
What would my parents think of me and Tara? Would they approve? She is not from royalty, of course, but I know how much they value her, both for her sweet personality and her contributions to our family.
I kiss my mother’s cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine, and she pats my hand, her diamond rings cool and hard.
“Your father will be so pleased,” she says. There’s a question there — her wondering what has suddenly changed — but I already know she won’t voice it.
“Where is he?” I ask, navigating the conversation to safer shores.
“In his study, but don’t trouble yourself. He’ll join us soon.”
I nod, and we exchange pleasantries that dance around the deeper currents of our lives until she excuses herself to see to the final dinner preparations.
Alone, I make my way through the maze of corridors, the excitement in my stomach building until it feels it will bubble over.
At last, I find the door I’ve been searching for, slightly ajar. Tara’s office. A sliver of light spills onto the plush carpet, and I hesitate. I take a deep breath, savoring the anticipation, before I knock softly.
“Come in,” calls the voice I’ve been holding in my thoughts all day.
I enter, and there she is — Tara, framed by shelves of medical texts. She looks up from her desk, eyes meeting mine, and the air between us vibrates with an energy that feels both forbidden and essential.
“Faiz.” Her voice catches on my name. “Hello. I didn’t expect to, um, see you so soon.”
“Can’t I drop by to see how you’re doing?” I reply, hoping I’m doing this flirting thing correctly. It has, after all, been years.
“Of course,” she says, rising from her chair.
Her attire is impeccable as always, a tailored blouse and form-fitting skirt, yet it’s the subtle hesitance in her movements that draws me in, whispering of nuances that I’ve yet to discover.
We chat about inconsequential things — how I’m feeling better since this morning, the weather — but the words are just vessels for the unsaid, each sentence carefully navigated like a path through a minefield. Ali’s name rests heavy on my tongue, but I dare not let it slip free in these halls where it could echo into the wrong ears.
“Did you receive my list of foods for you to avoid?” she asks. “I sent it to your email.”
“Yes, I did,” I assure her, suppressing a smile at the concern in her gaze. This is what draws me to her — not just her beauty, but the way she cares so deeply about her work, about us. “I’ve already weeded out all the problematic items from my pantry.”
She nods, visibly relieved. “Good. I know it’s annoying, but it’s important for your?—”
“Heart,” I finish softly for her, letting a meaningful pause linger in the air. The word echoes between us, an unintentional metaphor for the vulnerability we’re both grappling with.
She laughs. “Heartburn. Indigestion.”
“Oh. Right.” I laugh along with her. “Yes, it’s important. For my health.”
Her cheeks flush a delicate pink and she looks away. It’s this kind of unexpected reaction that reveals another layer of Tara — shy and endearing.
“I suppose I should go down to dinner,” I say, noticing the time on her wall clock.
She nods. “I’ll be there shortly. I just need to wrap up an email.”
I linger a moment longer, absorbing the sight of her, committing it to memory for when the loneliness creeps in. Then, with a quiet farewell, I step back into the corridor, closing the door on the gift of her presence.
Turning on my heel, I’m about to make my way towards the grand dining room when a flicker of movement catches my eye. It’s my brother, lingering at the end of the corridor, his presence almost ghostly with the way shadows cling to his lean form. For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s been there long, if he’s seen more than he should. But his expression is unreadable, not giving away a thing.
“Hamza,” I call out. It comes out colder than I intend, years of distance jammed into those two syllables.
He doesn’t move closer, nor does he vanish like a mirage. We stand there, separated by familial tension and the length of the hallway — a space filled with unspoken words and eroded trust.
“Faiz,” he answers, his voice carrying an edge I can’t quite decipher.
Is it curiosity or something darker? The question lingers, but I brush it aside.
We haven’t spoken much since Ali came into my life, his existence a secret that has built walls between everyone I once held close. Hamza and I, we used to share everything — our dreams, fears, the stress of all the expectation. But now… now there’s just this empty space that neither of us seems willing to bridge.
“Everything okay?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to know. Part of me prefers this detachment — it’s simpler, less volatile.
“Fine,” Hamza replies, his gaze not meeting mine. “Just didn’t expect you to show up early. Or at all.”
“Mother would have my head if I missed another dinner,” I say with a halfhearted attempt at humor, yet the jest falls flat, dissolving into the silence.
“Right.” A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before it disappears as quickly as it came.
“See you downstairs,” I tell him, not waiting for a response.
I start walking away, not quite satisfied but eager to end the conversation. As I make my way down the grand staircase, a pang of something akin to regret flares briefly in my chest. We were brothers in arms once, Hamza and I. Now we’re just brothers in title, orbiting the same sun but worlds apart.
It’s not ideal, but it is necessary. And while I do mourn what we once had, my devotion to our country and my son is greater. Also, I know that there’s a possibility now — a true possibility — that my days of loneliness might be over soon.
For Tara has slipped her way into my life and heart. God willing, she will be here to stay.