Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
AZARA
“Hey, kbida diali ? 1 .
It’s Mum. Just calling to see what time you think you’ll be home. I’m off to the shop to pick up a few bits for dinner since babak ? 2 is running late, like he always is.”
She let out a small laugh, and I felt a small smile pull at my lips at hearing it again.
“Alright, I have to go. I will see you later tonight. Love you.”
A tear slipped down my cheek as I pressed the replay button for the third time this morning on the last voicemail she’d left me, just moments before a driver collided with her after running a red light.
This time of the year was always hard, but for some reason, the weight attached to it felt more difficult today.
My mother had passed away fourteen years ago, yet whenever the anniversary of her death loomed closer, my grief felt as fresh as if we had been transported back to that fateful day.
I’d been so eager to get home and share the news that I’d been accepted into my top medical school. I'd received the letter earlier that day and had gone out to buy a few things to surprise them, so I’d ignored her previous call, telling myself that I would see her soon enough.
But the moment I’d stepped into our home, an eerie atmosphere had cloaked the air, almost suffocating. I’d called out for my father, noting that her car still hadn’t been in the driveway, but there hadn’t been any response. I’d searched for him in every room until I’d walked into our guest bathroom to find him on the floor, clutching Zayd to his chest so tightly, as if he was terrified he would vanish.
Little did I know that he’d just lost the love of his life.
I’d stood frozen in the doorway, confused as to why my father’s face had been so pale, his eyes red-rimmed, when I’d never once in my life seen him cry. I still remembered the sense of disbelief that had washed over me when he’d uttered the words “your mother” and “killed” in the same breath. The words had sliced through my reality, reshaping everything I’d known.
I’d never experienced the loss of someone I loved before and the world around me had felt achingly hollow. Yet in that moment, I’d realized that I couldn’t allow the grief to drown me. As I’d watched my father cradling my baby brother, I’d understood that our lives had been irrevocably changed and both of them would need me.
I had never been one to sit in my feelings or allow them to dictate my choices because it always left me feeling powerless of what would happen to me or the outcome of the situation I was faced with.
So I’d always chosen to ignore the initial swell of emotions I felt, shelving them for later, and focused instead on what needed to be done.
I’d only been seventeen at the time, but I’d taken it upon myself to care for both of them. And to this day, I still did.
Shaking myself from the sorrowful memory, I rose from the wooden bench in my kitchen and headed for my bedroom to change. It was Monday and I’d just gotten home from a weekend on-call. I usually relied on my job to keep my mind from drifting to thoughts of her and what December 23rd marked, but I’d gotten unlucky this year and had a fairly quiet weekend.
Instead of heading for a shower, I changed into a pair of high-waisted leggings and a long sleeve top. I needed to clear my head and the most effective way I knew how was to distract myself with something else. Because discussing or acknowledging my feelings seemed too difficult of a task.
I grabbed a fleece mockneck pullover from the entryway closet, pulled it on, and laced up my trainers. The morning air burned my face and seeped through the fabric of my clothes as I stepped out of my flat, but I ignored it.
I started to jog, my feet pounding against the wet pavement in a steady beat. I willed each stride to be an attempt to shake off the lingering shadows of grief, but it failed every time.
Images of my mother at the hospital flooded my mind, her lifeless body in that sterile, sickly white room, the acrid scent of antiseptic ingraining itself in my brain, as the doctors told us they’d done everything they could.
I shook my head, desperate to dispel myself from the haunting recollection. Turning a corner, I entered Regent’s Park from its southern end and quickened my pace, occasionally passing other early morning runners. I’d lost track of how long I’d been going and the cold air combined with the biting wind made the fingers feel numb, but I welcomed the distraction as I pushed myself harder.
My heart raced faster, the pounding echoing in my ear, and I could practically hear my blood rushing through my veins as my vision blurred, but I didn’t care.
I kept pushing myself, aware that it wasn’t the wisest decision since I’d barely eaten after my shift, but I was more focused on forgetting than on what was sensible.
Just as I was about to turn another corner, I suddenly collided with something— someone .
I let out a gasp at the force of the impact, and my phone flew out of my hand, clattering against the pavement. Strong hands wrapped around my upper arms as the stranger who’d hit me helped steady me.
My eyes darted to my phone a few feet away, noting the now cracked screen. A sudden rush of anger, fueled by the adrenaline battering against my ribcage, washed over me. I looked up, ready to give them a piece of my mind but my scathing words caught in my throat when our eyes met, thoughts of my broken phone vanishing instantly.
Heat seeped through my shirt from where our bodies connected and pooled into my veins. I wasn’t one to be rendered speechless by looks, but the man before me looked as if he’d just stepped off a runway.
A strong jawline framed with light stubble, high cheekbones and captivating full lips that I found myself lingering on longer than I should have. Even his dark, medium-length hair was just the right length at the top to run your hand through and grip tightly while he…
“You should be more careful,” the stranger said. He tipped his chin down and although his expression was indifferent, there was a hint of annoyance in his tone.
I blinked once, unsure if I’d heard him right.
“You should be more careful before you run into another completely innocent bystander,” he said louder this time, dragging out the last word like I couldn’t understand.
His words felt like ice water had been poured over me, snapping me out of my trance. The utter audacity to reprimand me when he had been the one who’d ran into me.
I yanked myself free from his embrace. “I beg your pardon,” I replied, bewildered by his response.
He took out one of his wireless earbuds as he raised an eyebrow, his expression unfazed. “Just watch where you’re going next time,” he said curtly before turning on his heel and continuing his run, leaving me standing there, momentarily stunned.
I watched him jog away, irritation bubbling up inside me with each distancing step he took. “Arsehole,” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes as I bent down to pick up my phone.
The screen was worse than I’d thought. The cracks spiderwebbed across it, rendering it nearly unusable. I attempted a few times to unlock it, but it was useless. I’d have to get it fixed.
Fantastic. This is just what I needed.
My frustration lingered like a stubborn shadow, but I decided to take a deep breath, trying to let it go. There was no point in being angry when there was nothing I could do at this moment to solve my problem.
I straightened up and made my way out of the park, needing to go home and put some distance between me and this ridiculous encounter. Feeling slightly dizzy, I fished out one of the small packs of Skittles I always kept on me and shoved the entirety of the bag in my mouth.
As I walked back home, I kept replaying the incident in my head, picturing the man’s nonchalance. Who was that arrogant this early in the morning and when they were at fault? He didn’t even bother to feign remorse or acknowledge that he’d broken my phone.
My annoyance clung to me as I reached my flat and stepped into the shower. I hated it because why was I letting him get to me from such an insignificant encounter?
“Zizou, did you see that?” my brother shouted from the pitch, his arms raised in triumph after scoring. He was far away from where Hazel and I were seated in the bleachers of Tassili Stadium, but we laughed and clapped in encouragement.
“Yes, I did,” I replied, my voice echoing throughout the empty arena, but he’d already turned his attention back to the one-on-one game he was playing with Edward O’Donnell, the renowned goalkeeper for the Atlas FC who was one of my brother’s all-time favorite players and my friend Hazel’s fiancé.
Speaking of which. “I still can’t believe your dad agreed to this,” I said, glancing at her.
Hazel and I had been friends since our first year at uni. She knew how difficult the holidays were for us, and had managed to secure us private access to the stadium.
She shrugged, a playful smile on her face. “I’m his only daughter and good luck charm. He can never bring himself to tell me no, even when he tries.”
I shook my head and chuckled at her response because she wasn’t wrong. Diego Mendoza might be famous for being one of the greatest footballers in the history of the sport—from his incredible dribbling skills and speed to leading Argentina to their first victory in the World Cup in the nineties—but to Hazel, he was the doting father she had wrapped around her finger.
He’d also been the Atlas football club’s manager for the past nine years, which was how we found ourselves at their home stadium the Sunday after Christmas.
As for O’Donnell, well aside from being madly in love with Hazel, he owed her father one—especially after he’d fallen in love with his manager’s daughter despite being warned to steer clear.
“We’re never leaving here in time for the movie, are we?” Hazel asked, amused.
We’d planned to go see the latest Samia Farès film at our favorite little cinema in the heart of London, but I doubted we’d be able to convince my brother to leave this place.
“Count us lucky if we’re out of here before the sun sets.”
Zayd let out a jubilant scream as he stole the ball from Edward—or rather, Edward let him—and dashed toward the goal and scored once more. Warmth sprouted in my chest and I couldn’t suppress the grin on my face at witnessing how happy my brother was at this. He was a massive fan of both the sport and the team, so this was a dream for him.
“I’m sorry your father couldn’t make it today,” Hazel said, a sad smile on her lips.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, pulling the blanket we’d borrowed from the facility closer to my chest. Hazel didn’t mean any harm by bringing my father up, but her observation still stung.
We’d invited him to join us, as he was also a fan, but he’d given me his familiar excuse about being too busy.
Mum’s passing had hit him the hardest. Even now, it felt as if a part of my father was gone the moment he’d gotten the news. I didn’t think anyone could ever truly heal from losing the love of their life, but I had hoped he might eventually find his way back to even a fraction of who he once was.
Over the years, I’d done my best to shoulder our family and be the anchor, clinging to that hope, but it never seemed to come to reality. It was heartbreaking to see him like this and I wished there was something— anything —I could do to bring my dad back.
But instead, he buried himself in work to avoid the painful memories that came with what happened fourteen years ago. I understood his coping mechanism better than anyone because I often did the same. Keeping my focus on my job and becoming the best was a way to forget, but I’d learned to eventually recognize how I felt when I was more in control.
My father, on the other hand, refused to even talk about her. And that weighed heavily on everyone, especially Zayd. He’d been just a baby when she passed, and while I tried my best to share my memories of her, my dad knew her better than anyone.
I just wished he’d share more of her with us.
“You know how he is with work,” I said quickly, before changing the subject. “Now, tell me about the wedding.”
Hazel’s face instantly lit up at the mention. She was always happy to talk about the latest party she was planning, but her excitement radiated off her whenever the topic of her September wedding came up in conversation.
A little over two years ago, Hazel had launched Rosada Events, and quickly became the city’s most sought after luxury event planner after she organized Isaiah King’s latest birthday party.
King, who was one of England’s most eligible bachelors and a beloved Formula One driver, had sung Hazel’s praises to anyone in the Paddock who’d listen and ever since, she’d been perpetually booked.
She reached for the seat beside her and pulled out her pink tablet, before facing me. While Hazel shared every detail she’d planned so far for her destination wedding, the boys played for another hour before Zayd finally ran out of energy and collapsed on the pitch, a wide grin plastered across his face.
We’d missed the first screening of the movie, but we’d managed to snag tickets for the last showing of the day. With two hours to spare, Hazel and I walked to the cafe around the corner where Hazel met Eddy for the first time while the boys got cleaned up at the facility.
“God, I’m starving,” Hazel announced, her stomach growling as if to provide proof. We both burst out laughing as I held the door open for her.
Inside, the small restaurant, famous for its homemade empanadas and serving traditional maté, buzzed with energy. I’d never been here before, but Hazel always raved about it and had been trying to convince Nakia and I to come to the Argentinian spot for one of our monthly get-togethers.
We made our way to the counter, placed our rather large order, then snagged a table at the back to wait for our food. Eddy had just texted Hazel to say that they were on their way when my last name was called up.
I headed to the counter where a lovely older woman named Emilia informed me that our drinks were ready, but the food would be along shortly and be brought to our table.
I picked up the tray with the two beverages in their traditional gourd already prepared, a large thermos with extra hot water, and the soda I’d ordered for my brother, knowing the Argentinian drink would be far too bitter for him.
As I turned to head back, the bell above the front door chimed.
This might be them , I thought to myself, but when I turned to confirm if it was them walking in, my movement was abruptly interrupted when I collided into something.
Searing pain shot across my chest and I struggled to draw in a breath as the herbal tea splashed down the entire front of my blouse since I’d taken off my coat the moment we’d walked in.
“Bloody hell,” a voice hissed.
The tray slipped from my fingers, the cups clattering to the floor somewhere near my feet. “ Wili ? 3 , wili, wili ,” I muttered repeatedly, pulling the silk fabric off my chest to avoid first-degree burns.
“Are you alright?” a strangely familiar voice asked.
What a ridiculous question that was. Scalding herbal tea had just soaked my front, and this stranger was asking if I was okay?
No, I wasn't, dickhead.
I took a deep breath to rein in my emotions. When I finally looked up, the frustration I’d managed to restrain flared again as I recognized the set of eyes staring back at me.
Not him again.
The annoyingly handsome and rude stranger who’d broken my phone after running into me a few days ago was standing in front of me, his mouth morphing into annoyance. I rolled my eyes and scoffed. He had no right to be anything . I was the one with tea all over her.
“Are you stalking me?” I asked, irritation boiling beneath my skin. Running into him—quite literally might I add—once could've been a coincidence, but twice was becoming suspicious.
“Stalking you?” he frowned, clearly taken aback by my accusation.
“Yes, stalking me. This is the second time you’ve run into me. Do you ever watch where you’re going?” I snapped.
“Me? That’s quite rich, considering you’re the one not paying attention to where you’re going.”
My eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Chivalry was clearly dead and buried seven feet under hell. This was exactly why I didn’t like men. They were only good for one thing and it certainly wasn’t for keeping their mouth shut.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the sleeves of his jacket inching up to reveal a hint of tattoos.
Why do the most attractive men have this uncanny ability to make you want to throttle them?
“I said?—”
I snapped out of my thought and interrupted him with a laugh of disbelief. “Oh, I heard you,” I said, turning to walk away.
But I paused and instead closed the distance between us, leaning in. Hearing the small hitch of his breath sent a thrill of satisfaction gliding over my skin.
“Just a piece of advice for the next time you plough into another innocent civilian,” I whispered. His eyes darted down for a brief second before he locked his gaze with mine again. I noticed the small flush rising in his cheeks, but ignored it as I continued, “Don’t be such an arsehole and learn to apologize instead of berating them for something you clearly caused.”
With that, I turned away only to find a small audience had been watching our exchange, Hazel being one of them. Her eyes were wide as she signed to ask if I was okay. She knew I wasn’t keen on confrontation and having an audience to witness it made it all the more uncomfortable.
“Can you believe this guy?” I signed back, still in disbelief.
Hazel had been born deaf so shortly after we met her, Nakia and I had started learning British Sign Language. Although she wore a single cochlear implant, we often used it whenever she needed a break from the sensory overload she experienced from wearing it or in moments like these.
She handed me a few napkins as I approached her. Eddy and Zayd walked through the door just as I began to attempt salvaging the top I’d just bought a few days ago.
They both rushed over to us. “What happened?” they asked in unison.
I glanced over at them and shook my head. “Nothing, just an accident,” I lied, not wanting to recount what just happened and risk a barrage of questions from either of them.
Eddy’s skeptical expression clearly suggested he wasn’t buying it. He exchanged a glance with Hazel who signed that she’d explain everything to him later.
That’s when I remembered the mess that must be all over the floor and moved to tidy it up only to discover that it had already been sorted. I scanned the area to find the small group that had been watching us was also gone.
Even the clumsy stranger was nowhere in sight.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Hazel whispered, concern etched on her face as she passed me more napkins.
“I’ll be fine,” I insisted as I attempted to dab more of the liquid from my shirt. “I’ll be back,” I told her before following the signs to the loo.
Once inside the tiny room, I looked at the extent of the damage in the mirror and grimaced at my reflection. There was a large, dark brown stain directly over my breasts.
Just brilliant. Things just keep getting better.
With a heavy sigh, I turned on the faucet and removed my top, attempting to rinse the fabric. But all I managed to achieve was a damp mess that seemed to only make the stain stand out even more.
After several minutes of futile effort, I grabbed a handful of paper towels, doing my best to blot at the stain. The blouse was beyond saving, but at least by the time I finished, it was somewhat dry and had faded to a light green.
When I emerged from the toilet, I found all of them seated at the table with a fresh round of drinks and our food spread out before them. We’d ordered four of each empanada, hoping it would be enough for all of us. But judging by the way Eddy and Zayd had already devoured half of it, we’d likely need to order more.
I slid into the seat next to Zayd, doing my best to push the earlier incident from my mind. I managed to keep it at bay throughout our meal, during the film, and even as I dropped my brother off at home.
But the moment my head hit the pillow that night, the only thing that seemed to occupy my thoughts was the stranger I’d had the misfortuned luck of crossing paths with one too many times.
1 ? Sweetheart (Moroccan darija)
2 ? Your dad (Moroccan darija)
3 ? Oh my god! (Moroccan Darija)