CHAPTER 3
Back in the Same City
Solomon's first return was not permanent.
After roughly two months away, he came home for a few weeks, and Safiya discovered that anticipation had made ordinary proximity feel luxurious.
She did not need a grand reunion every day.
She wanted breakfast across from him, his hand reaching for her fries without permission, a drive that took too long because they kept talking after they arrived.
Zahra met him during that short return, but she entered his life exactly as Safiya's friend. There was no instant three-person closeness. At first Solomon knew Zahra mostly through Safiya's stories, and Zahra knew him as the man whose name changed Safiya's face.
One evening Zahra and Layla stopped by while Solomon was there. Layla recognized him before Zahra finished saying hello.
"Phone man!"
Solomon looked offended. "That's my name now?"
Layla nodded seriously. "You were in the phone."
Safiya laughed. "She's not wrong."
Solomon pointed at Safiya. "You started this."
The visit lasted less than an hour. Zahra and Solomon joked a little. Layla showed everybody a drawing. Then Zahra took her daughter home and Safiya had Solomon to herself again.
That mattered. The worlds touched, but they had not merged.
Then Solomon had to leave again.
This time the assignment was closer to a month, not two. Safiya hated the second goodbye differently because she had just gotten used to his physical presence again.
"A month," Solomon told her.
"You said that like a month is three business days."
"It'll go fast."
"For you."
"For us."
Safiya looked away.
Solomon knew the look. "Don't start writing a sad movie in your head."
"I'm not."
"You are. I can see the soundtrack."
She laughed despite herself.
During that month, Zahra and Layla became even more embedded in Safiya's ordinary life.
Movie nights. Grocery runs. A children's museum trip where Layla touched every interactive exhibit twice.
Safiya did her Islamic study at Zahra's table while Layla colored beside her.
Every now and then a wedding dress would appear on somebody's phone and the two women would start teasing each other.
"Not for me," Safiya said, laughing.
"Sure," Zahra said. "Keep saying that."
"I don't have a date."
Safiya bumped her shoulder. "Mind your business."
Safiya stared at her.
Zahra grinned. "Fine. But when your day comes, I get one opinion."
"One," Safiya said. "And I can ignore it."
They laughed, moved on, and weeks later did almost the same thing over a completely different dress. That was as deep as Safiya let it go. The private parts of her future with Solomon belonged to Safiya and Solomon.
Another time, months later, Zahra held up a cream-colored dress while they were shopping for something completely unrelated. "This one is you."
Safiya barely looked up. "Put that woman's wedding dress back before somebody charges you for touching it."
Zahra laughed. "I'm just saying."
"And I'm just minding my business."
They moved on to the next aisle. Safiya did not tell her what Solomon had said in private, and Zahra did not press.
Solomon called halfway through.
Zahra whispered, "Tell him I said you need better taste."
Safiya threw a pillow at her.
"Why you throwing stuff?" Solomon asked through the phone.
"Nothing."
"That sounded like something."
"Mind your overseas business."
When Solomon finally returned after that second, shorter trip, there was no third departure waiting behind it.
He was home for good.
That was when the story changed.
Not because Zahra suddenly appeared. She had already become part of Safiya's life.
Not because Safiya and Solomon were starting over. They weren't.
It changed because the relationship Safiya had built over many months and the friendship she had built during Solomon's absences were finally going to occupy the same city, the same weekends, the same emergencies and eventually the same table.
Solomon came home on a Thursday.
Safiya knew because she had checked his flight information enough times to memorize the delay. Seventeen minutes. She knew when he departed, the layover, the approximate time it should take him to reach baggage claim.
What she did not know was when she would actually see him.
And Solomon apparently found this hilarious.
So are you going to answer the question? she texted.
What question?
Safiya stared at the screen. "This man."
She sat at the folding table she had turned into a workspace. Her laptop shared space with a Qur'an translation, three notebooks, two functioning pens, six dead ones and a thick book she had started carrying from room to room even when she was not actively reading it.
The Ideal Muslimah.
She had bought it because the title made her curious, then uncomfortable, then curious again. What was a Muslim woman actually supposed to be? Not according to comments sections. Not according to somebody's auntie. What did Islam ask of her?
Safiya had questions. Questions became tabs. Tabs became notes. Notes became more questions.
Her phone buzzed.
You at home?
Yes.
Stay there.
Her heart jumped.
No heart emoji. No romantic paragraph. Just stay there.
Forty-three minutes later, Safiya had changed clothes three times.
The first outfit looked like she had tried too hard. The second looked like she had not tried at all. The third looked effortless, which was convenient because it had taken the most effort.
Her phone rang.
"Come outside," Solomon said.
"You here?"
"No, Safiya. I'm calling from overseas telling you to come outside."
"There you go."
The call ended.
Safiya pointed at her reflection. "Normal. Act normal."
Then she walked outside and forgot every instruction.
Solomon was leaning against the car.
For a second neither moved.
Video calls had flattened him. Reduced him to face and shoulders. This was different. Solomon occupying actual space again. Taller than a screen allowed. Broader. Real.
Home.
He wore dark sweats and a plain shirt. Nothing particularly special.
Safiya thought he looked beautiful and hated the word for him.
She tried to walk normally.
Made it four steps.
Then ran.
She hit him hard enough that he stepped backward.
His arms closed around her.
"Damn," he laughed softly. "You missed me?"
"Shut up."
"You attacking people now?"
"Shut up."
His arms tightened.
Safiya closed her eyes.
She knew physical boundaries mattered. She knew the conversations they had already had. For several seconds, knowledge lost.
She just held him.
Solomon stopped joking. His hand moved slowly over her back.
"I missed you too."
That nearly did her in.
Safiya pulled away before she embarrassed herself.
"You look tired."
"Hello to you too."
"And your beard-"
"Don't start."
She smiled. God, she had missed his face.
He did not tell her where they were going. Safiya asked four times. By the fifth, Solomon turned the music louder.
"You're childish."
He nodded to the beat.
"I'm hungry."
That got his attention. "You ate?"
"Yes."
"When?"
She looked out the window.
"Safiya."
"Like eleven."
He looked at the dashboard clock. After six.
"That ain't eating."
The restaurant was small, warm and crowded. Not a place where Safiya felt obligated to photograph her plate. They sat across from each other and Safiya stared.
"What?" Solomon asked.
"Nothing."
"Why you staring at me?"
"I haven't seen you."
"You seeing me right now."
Something in his expression softened.
Safiya looked down at the menu. She hated when tenderness made her shy. She could argue with this man for an hour, but let Solomon look at her too softly and suddenly laminated menus became fascinating.
"You look pretty," he said.
"Thank you."
After they ordered, Safiya started telling him about an idea she had been researching. Solomon listened. Actually listened. Asked questions. Disagreed twice. Asked her to explain one part again.
By the time the food came, they were debating whether the idea could scale.
"You're thinking too small," Solomon said.
"We haven't made dollar one and you're talking scale?"
"Exactly."
"That makes no sense."
"It does. You know what your problem is?"
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"You know how to build. But you build like you're scared somebody might take it from you."
Her expression changed.
"What does that mean?"
"You make plans around surviving."
"I make realistic plans."
"Same thing sometimes."
This was what she had missed. Not just his body. Not just being held. She had missed being challenged. Solomon could take something she had thought about for two weeks, ask one irritating question and force her to rebuild the whole thing.
Their food arrived. Safiya looked at his plate.
Then hers.
Then his again.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
Solomon pulled his plate slightly closer.
Safiya gasped. "I wasn't even doing anything."
"I know you."
She waited until he looked away and stole a fry.
Solomon turned slowly.
"You just said-"
"I changed my mind."
"You got fries."
"Yours looked better."
"They are the same fries."
"That sounds like an assumption."
The couple at the next table glanced over when Safiya laughed.
Solomon watched her.
When she noticed, she quieted.
"What?"
He shook his head. "It's good seeing you happy."
The laughter left slowly.
"I am happy."
"I know."
But the way he said it told her he knew happiness had not always been her default state.
After dinner, he drove her to a bookstore.
Safiya stared at the sign. "No."
"Yes. You like books."
"I love books."
"I know."
That sentence caught her again. There were parts of herself she was accustomed to people tolerating rather than appreciating. Her endless research. Her need to understand things completely. Solomon teased her about it, but he had brought her somewhere built for that part of her.
Inside, he gave her twenty dollars and told her to choose a book for him. He would choose one for her.
At checkout, they refused to show each other their selections.
In the parking lot, Safiya handed him his first. Solomon read the title and looked at her.
"You funny."
"You need it."
He handed hers over. A book about discipline, identity and building habits that survived emotion.