13. Raees
13
Raees
I ’m lucky I haven’t taken off a finger by now.
The knife’s moving faster than rationality, and that’s saying something.
But nothing compares to the noise in my head. All I hear, over and over, is her—the gasping breaths, the thud of her body hitting the floor, her voice hoarse and broken, nails scraping at her own throat like she could claw her trachea right out.
I chop faster, knuckles pale around the handle.
It’s just spinach, but I’m tearing into it like it committed some heinous crime against my wife. My mind’s a loop of questions I can’t answer.
What the hell happened to her? Where’s the woman who looked at me with that wicked glint, the one who pulled me close just to mess with me, to make me forget everything but her? Where is she?
The blade slips from my hand, clattering onto the counter, and I’m gripping the edge, fingers digging into the wood so hard it creaks. It takes everything I have not to punch straight through it.
Who hurt my wife and how the fuck do I kill them?
At least now I know. It wasn’t some illness that stole her voice—it was someone . Someone hurt her, tore something out of her that I don’t know if I can ever get back for her. And I swear, when I find out who did this, they’re going to wish they’d never been born.
I hear her footsteps whisper on the wood. I could pick the sound out of a crowd blindfolded. It’s how she moves through the world, like she’s trying not to disturb anything, or anyone.
I paint on a smile that probably looks about as genuine as a plastic mask. But it’s the best I can manage, and maybe she’ll believe it. Like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound, but what else can I do?
Zinneerah steps into the kitchen, wrapped in an oversized sweater, with pajama pants dragging slightly, and her hair braided up in a crown that makes her look like some kind of divine entity who wandered into my life by mistake.
“Feeling better?” I ask.
She nods. Thank you.
“Nothing to thank me for,” I say, trying to keep it light as I pick up the knife again. “Pasta sauce is almost done. Just gotta throw everything together. Give me half an hour?”
Another nod, another quiet thanks. Always so polite. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her, she’ll never listen.
She points at the mixer on the counter. Bake?
“I wouldn’t want anything else.” I grab the mixer and set it up in front of her, close enough so I can keep an eye on her while I finish chopping. Not that I need to watch her every second. I like to know she’s there, in my orbit, where I can reach her.
Zinneerah slips her apron off the hook inside the pantry door, the faded gray one she always uses, and starts to tie it on. Her hands are shaking, though, and she keeps fumbling the strings, a little huff of frustration escaping her lips.
I put the knife down and walk over. “May I?”
She doesn’t look at me, just nods and turns, offering her back.
I take the strings and secure them in a bow. “Too tight?”
She shakes her head, and gives me a thumbs-up. I step back, letting her get to work in her own little corner of the kitchen.
Around nine, I’m plating dinner—pasta rolled just right, a bit of garnish, crispy garlic bread on the side. Zinneerah is across the room, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand as she slides a tray of cookies into the oven. She stands rooted, admiring them through the glass.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say.
She doesn’t look up. Her smile fades, her gaze goes distant, wandering somewhere else entirely. She does this sometimes—one minute she’s here, the next, miles away in her own head. It’s like watching a wave pull back from the shore, leaving her empty-eyed and far away.
I used to do the same thing, back when I was younger. Back when I broke off my engagement. Spending years retreating into my mind, searching for some kind of peace in there. I get it.
But I want Zinneerah to find peace with me.
I step up beside her, give a little wave in her line of sight.
Her dark eyes refocus, and she languidly blinks up at me.
“Dinner,” I say again. “Do you want to eat at the table or at the island?”
You pick.
Neither option feels quite right. At the table, we’d sit too far apart, just two people stranded on opposite ends of polished wood. But at the island, we’d be elbow-to-elbow, cramped in a way that feels too close for tonight.
“How about outside?” I suggest, nodding toward the back patio.
Zinneerah’s eyes glimmer. She could use some fresh air after everything that happened, and maybe I could, too. Clear our heads a bit.
We gather our plates, glasses of water, and head out. The patio’s quiet, the round table waiting under its big blue umbrella, two chairs across from each other.
I help her sit first, then take the seat across from her. Her gaze turns to the pool, where the last of the evening light shimmers in soft aquamarine hues.
I wait until she takes her first bite, watching her face, and hoping I didn’t overdo it on the seasoning. “Your verdict?”
She chews, a smile spreading slowly. God, I love that smile—eyes squinting into dark crescents, cheeks rounding up, even that tiny dimple that appears on her chin when she’s genuinely happy.
I love it , she signs, you cook great.
“Thank you, thank you.” I give a little bow, grinning as I finally dig in myself.
Yeah, I nailed it.
Every time I cook for her, it feels like a small victory. I started learning my way around a kitchen after I found out her older brother was an inspiring chef. I figured she was used to good food, and wouldn’t want anything less. So, I took lessons, begged Ammi-ji for her best recipes, and filled a whole binder with stuff I thought she’d like.
There was maybe a fifty-fifty chance she actually wanted to marry me. Meanwhile, I was in this at a hundred percent. Always will be.
“Excited for the concert this weekend?” I ask.
Zinneerah freezes, her fork hovering mid-bite.
Shit. What the hell did I do now?
She frowns, sets her fork down, and looks at me with that apologetic expression. Her fingers fidget, curling and uncurling.
No, no, no. What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Why isn’t she smiling anymore? Maybe she’s not going anymore?
Do you —She wrings out her hands then tries again. Go with me?
Oh.
I let out a sigh of relief. She’s fine. I didn’t say anything stupid. “Of course. I’d love to go. Is Dua coming with us?”
I don’t know. Busy.
“Got it.” I can feel myself grinning like an idiot, probably way too much, like a kid who just unwrapped exactly what he wanted. “Either way, I’m excited. I haven’t been to a concert since . . . well, it’s been sometime.”
Zinneerah smiles in response, and takes out her phone, typing out on her Notes app: Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to pull you away from work.
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t work weekends, and I already finished grading everything.” That’s a lie. I’ve got a mountain of work waiting for me tonight. I’ll be pulling an all-nighter just to clear my plate so we can have the next few days free. But it’s worth it.
Our first date together as a married couple. The thought sends a shiver of excitement through me, and I shove a big forkful of food in my mouth to keep it from showing too much.
Zinneerah taps the back of my hand, bringing me out of my thoughts. She’s holding her phone out, screen turned toward me. There’s a paragraph typed up.
What happened upstairs, I need you to know it wasn’t you. It wasn’t anything you did. It was the past clawing its way up again, grabbing me by the throat when I thought I’d buried it for good. Small things that shouldn’t have any power over me anymore. But they still do. I spent two years in doctors’ offices and therapists’ chairs, trying to strip that power away. Learning how to breathe through it, how to stand tall and stay present.
And I’m better, I am. I thought I was stronger than this. But sometimes, without warning, it’s like I’m right back there, drowning in things I can’t explain, not even to you. You deserve better than the silence I give you when it gets like that. You deserve more than me locking it all up inside, pretending I’m fine. I should’ve let you in. I wanted to let you in. But instead, I shut down, and I see the hurt in your eyes, and it’s like looking into a mirror.
I’m sorry, Raees. More than you’ll ever know.
I glance up at her when her phone screen goes dark. She flicks her eyes away, looking deeply apologetic. “Zinneerah, you don’t have to apologize to me when you’re not feeling well. I want us to communicate, always, one hundred percent. But if something’s really bothering you, so much that you can’t talk about it, I want you to just take a breath, get some rest, and tell me when you’re ready. Even if it’s an hour later, or a week.”
She presses her lips together, her gaze still down, hands folded tightly in her lap. All I want to do is lift her chin and kiss her forehead, where she keeps her storms locked away.
“Hey,” I say, picking up her fork and offering it to her. “Do you, by chance, have any strong opinions on candles?”
She takes the fork from me with shaky fingers, looking guarded, but a little amused. A good sign.
“So, imagine this,” I continue, settling into my chair like I’m about to give an important lecture. “Teenage me, my mom, and Ramishah in Bath and Body Works. They’re on a mission, right? Drowning in lotions, testing every perfume on those little paper sticks. Meanwhile, I’m off in my own little world, sniffing every candle on the shelves like some sort of fragrance connoisseur.” I see her lips twitch, so I press on. “And then, I find it. This candle —campfire something—that smells exactly like my dad. And I don’t mean, ‘Oh, a reminder,’ I mean, dead ringer. Like my dad had somehow been distilled into wax.”
Her eyes widen a bit.
I continue. “Suddenly, I’m hit with this tidal wave of, I don’t know emotions? Nostalgia? Teenage angst? Anyway, I completely lose it. Right there in the middle of the store.”
She raises an eyebrow. You?
“Oh, yeah,” I say, leaning back with a grin. “In front of everyone. Moms, grandmas, my entire high school girl population, breathing like I’m trying to pass a lung capacity test.”
Her brows arched to their limit, meeting her hairline. I’ve missed those reactions. There was a time when she was so expressive, all wide eyes and open laughter, stumbling over her own feet laughing, gasping for breath with that full-on, wide-eyed grin.
“It was a rough time,” I mutter. “My father was a relentless smoker, practically an ambassador for Marlboro. One pack a day, maybe more. He always carried that unmistakable scent of stale tobacco, like it came stitched into his clothes. We didn’t . . . well, let’s just say he and I were never close.” I wave a hand in the air, warding off an invisible cloud of smoke. “So, to this day, whenever I catch even a whiff of cigarette smoke, something inside me freezes up, as though I’m a kid again.”
Zinneerah bites her bottom lip, her gaze dropping down to my hand over my heart. Then she looks away, brushing a stray tear from the corner of her eye.
Oh, no.
Did I overshare? I definitely overshared. She was just coming down from a panic attack, and now she looks even more worried. I didn’t mean to upset her. I only want to let her know she isn’t alone.
She has me. She’ll always have me.
Zinneerah huffs out a wobbly little smile and wipes the leftover tears from her cheeks. I get sad fast , she signs.
I breathe out, relieved. Me, too , I think. “But Zinneerah?”
She lifts her head, eyes curious.
“You don’t have to be sad alone,” I say. “You’re my wife. If you’re going to be sad, then I’m coming with you. We’ll tackle it together, one baby step at a time. We’ve got, what, another fifty or hundred years to figure this out? No rush. We can afford to sit in our feelings a little.”
Zinneerah’s face softens. She reaches over, picks up an extra slice of garlic bread from her plate, and places it on mine.
“That’s yours—”
What is mine is yours , she signs.
I reel in a deep breath through my nose and pinch my lips into a discreet smile, biting the inside of my cheek. My wife has me acting like a lovesick school-boy around her.
Clearing my throat, I mentally scramble for a safe topic before I accidentally blurt out an “I love you” and throw off the whole mood. “So, any idea on what we’re supposed to wear to this concert?”
Zinneerah tilts her head, giving it that thoughtful side-to-side wobble. She starts reaching for her phone, and I jump in before she gets too distracted to eat.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, holding up my hands like I’m calming a skittish animal. “We can iron out the details after dinner—cookies, coffee, and tea. I don’t want your food to get cold on account of my rambling.”
Zinneerah smiles and places her phone face-down, lifting her fingers instead. You want to know my favourite candle?
My wife wants to talk to me about her favorite candle? This feels like some kind of reward. I’m basking in it.
I give her a grand, sweeping gesture. “The stage is all yours.”