25. Zinneerah
25
Zinneerah
R aees is a kid in Toys R Us.
A six-foot-five, grown-man-shaped child.
We drove half an hour to find the perfect birthday gift for his niece, but I can already feel it in my bones: we’re not leaving with a stuffed animal or teething rings. Nope. On a scale of LEGO Death Star to Pokémon, we’re leaving with whatever shiny, nostalgia-laden treasure catches his eye.
“Whoa! No way they have this!” His voice ricochets off the shelves like a pinball as he disappears into another aisle.
I sigh, but it’s not the exasperated kind of sigh. It’s the kind that sneaks out when you’re trying really hard not to laugh. With a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, I follow him. Sure enough, he’s cradling a plastic box like it’s some sort of ancient artifact.
I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms, which is basically shorthand for: What is it?
He takes that as his cue to go full infomercial mode. “A ten-inch Optimus Prime figurine that transforms into his truck mode. And—this is the best part—it comes with a remote so you can drive him around. If you press this red button, he automatically shifts back into the figurine.” He stops to inhale, finally, and I swear he’s a second away from ripping the package open. “Isn’t that the coolest thing you’ve ever seen?”
He is. For being a handsome geek.
I thought you read books , I sign, narrowing my eyes in mock suspicion. Not play with toys.
“No, you’re right,” he murmurs, unspooling a memory he doesn’t revisit often. “Ramishah had Barbies and Polly Pockets. I had one Dragon Ball Z figurine. Ammi-ji snuck it into the house for my tenth birthday. She hid it under my pillow like it was some kind of contraband.” He chuckles, but it’s brittle. His hand hovers over the Optimus Prime box again before he puts it back, reluctant. “My father . . . he didn’t believe in these sorts of things. He said they were distractions, and just a waste of time. He wanted me to focus on school—no ‘make-believe.’ No playing around. Just work, work, work.” He sighs, stepping back and staring at the figurine like it’s a piece of his childhood that’s still out of reach. “That’s just how it was for me.”
What a pathetic excuse for a father.
It’s clear from the way Raees’ shoulders hunch that he’s already hearing it in his head, whether I say it or not.
Speaking of my father-in-law, I don’t actually know much about where he is now. “In rehabilitation” was the phrase Rosy Aunty had vaguely used.
Why is he there? How long is he staying? No one’s ever volunteered that information, and I’ve never asked. Not because I don’t care—well, okay, maybe a little because I don’t care—but mostly because Raees doesn’t seem interested in visiting him.
And honestly? I’m not about to push the idea. There’s a fine line between healing and reopening wounds, and I think Raees understands that line better than most.
“We should get Amina’s birthday present before I get carried away and spend all our savings,” he says suddenly, snapping out of nostalgia. He gives me a sheepish smile as he steps out of the aisle. Our savings, he said. Like we’re a little team with a shared piggy bank. It’s adorable. “Are you coming?”
I take my phone out of my pocket and hold it up to my ear, my fingers flicking through the air. D-U-A.
He reads the name I spell and nods, his grin returning to his eyes. “Okay. I’ll be in the toddler section.”
Once he’s gone, I turn back to the shelf. The glossy plastic packaging shines under the lights. The price tag catches my eye, too. A hundred dollars before tax.
Damn.
It’s fine. I’ve got enough in my account, thanks to Baba. When he passed, he left behind large sums to me and my siblings. It’s strange having access to it. Sometimes I feel guilty spending it considering how hard he worked to save up for our family.
Right now, though, I don’t feel anything except certainty. Raees deserves this. Not because he needs it, but because he doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t even let himself want it fully. And that’s exactly why he should have it. I know Baba would approve.
I grab the figurine off the shelf and tuck it under my arm, glancing around the aisle to make sure he isn’t gonna pop out of another aisle.
All clear.
I head for the checkout line, quickening my steps. “Gift wrap?” I ask the worker behind the counter, tapping my card on the payment pad. “I’ll come back. To pick it up. Later.”
“Sure thing!” she chirps, taking the box over to the wrapping section. I nod and step away, relief unfurling in my chest.
One secret purchase secured.
I make my way to the toddler section, weaving through bright colored aisles until I find Raees.
He’s standing in front of a wall of toys, holding up two options like he’s solving a life-or-death puzzle. In one hand, he’s got a bag of bath toys shaped like cartoon animals. In the other, a LeapFrog notebook with buttons and flashing lights.
“One of these will last her a lifetime,” he says, shaking the toys for emphasis, “and the other will definitely break in the next few weeks.”
I tilt my head and signs, I agree. Bath toys are common. Lots of people will probably get her those. I point again at the notebook, signing, Add some clothes? If you want.
He nods, immediately sold on the idea. “You’re a genius.” He sets the bath toys back on the shelf, the package looking comically small in his hand.
It’s only now, as he reaches for the notebook, that I really notice his hands. They’re large, and so soft, with long, yet thick fingers, the nails smooth and almond-shaped. Not bitten to the quick, but clean and well-kept. They’re the kind of hands that belong to a piano player, or an artist. Hands that create, that craft, that hold mine protectively.
“What’s wrong?” Raees asks, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
I blink, startled, and quickly shake my head. But the motion is a little too vigorous, and I send myself spinning into a momentary dizzy spell.
Raees chuckles softly. “Let’s go pick out some clothes.”
I follow him deeper into the maze of racks, with explosions of pastel pinks and purples that is the baby girl clothing section. It’s surprisingly busy for a weekday. Couples flip through tiny hangers side by side, some women cradling baby bumps, others with babies tucked snug in strollers. A few toddlers dart between the racks, squealing with laughter while their fathers stumble after them, reminding them to ‘be careful.’
My heart softens as I spot a pair of baby shoes on display, their soles no bigger than my thumb. When Dua was born, I used to tag along with Baba for shopping trips just like this. He never cared that I picked the loudest, brightest, cheesiest clothes for her—he’d always let me choose whatever I thought looked best. I guess you could say I have some experience in this department. An expert, really.
Meticulously, I pick out a pair of sundresses in Amina’s size, a pink onesie patterned with tiny white daisies, a trio of T-shirts with cute sayings (“Daddy’s Princess,” “Future Scientist,” and my personal favorite, “Queen’s Don’t Cry, They Rise and Shine”), and the tiniest pair of jeans imaginable.
Raees holds the growing stack of clothes in his hands, watching me with crinkled eyes.
What is it? I sign, tilting my head at him.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, shaking his head.
Are the clothes okay? I ask, anxiously. Would you like to pick something out?
“Well . . .” he drawls, leaning back and pretending to think deeply. “Maybe I can pick out the shoes?”
I nod. We’ve got enough clothes , I sign, motioning toward the stack in his hands.
Raees’ faint dimples make a dangerous appearance, and he strolls his jolly self off toward the shoe section.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. The mothers nearby, pushing strollers or chasing toddlers, are sneaking glances at him. Quick, darting looks that turn into full-on double-takes.
One of them hovers a moment too long, her eyes sliding up and down his six-foot-five frame like she’s reading the fine print on a very attractive contract. She notices me watching her, and her cheeks flush. Quickly, she looks away, straightening her posture like she suddenly remembered her husband exists.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
This happens all the time. Every time we’re out in public, someone is ogling Raees. Women. Men. Couples. I don’t blame them. He’s . . . well, Raees. Broad-shouldered with the kind of swimmer’s build that he’s perfected in our home gym. His hair falls perfectly into place, even when he runs his fingers through it. And that lopsided smile of his never goes away. And then there’s the glasses. The glasses .
God took His sweet, sweet time putting Raees together, like He paused production on the rest of humanity just to perfect my husband. And He succeeded, obviously.
It’s funny, in hindsight, that one of the reasons I hesitated to marry him was because of those good looks. Not because I thought he’d be arrogant—he’s the least arrogant person alive—but because I didn’t think I’d suit him.
I figured people would look at us and assume I was his personal assistant or, at best, his overworked PR manager. Meanwhile, he’d be the CEO of some sleek cybersecurity company, shaking hands and closing deals while I stood in the background holding his coffee.
But here we are. Married. Quite happily.
Still, I can’t help but step into his bubble when I notice a woman standing way too close to pop it. She’s shopping with a toddler perched in the cart compartment, but her body language is noticeable. She’s leaned slightly toward Raees, like gravity just couldn’t resist the pull, and I can already feel my lips tightening into a firm line.
Before I can do anything, my gaze locks with the toddler, who’s staring at me with blue, curious eyes. His chubby cheeks are smushed against the cart’s handle, and I raise a single eyebrow at him, exaggerating it for effect. He blinks at me, confused, so I widen both my eyes and start blinking rapidly while pulling a ridiculous face.
It works. The kid giggles, his little shoulders bouncing with laughter, and I suppress a smile.
Raees turns around, frowning slightly at the cart wedged between us. Without a word, he shifts it aside with one hand, balancing the three shoeboxes he’s picked out in the other. “Excuse me,” he says politely, glancing at the woman who owns it.
She startles slightly, then offers a smile. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Her gaze drops to the shoeboxes in his hand. “Those are great choices.”
“Thank you.” Raees nods. “They’re for my niece. My wife and I are going to her second birthday party this weekend.”
He gestures toward me when he says the word wife, and her eyes finally flick over to me, like I’ve suddenly appeared into existence. Her smile is the kind of polite, obligatory expression I’ve seen more times in my past relationship than I can count. Seriously, should I tone down the eyeliner? The dark lipstick?
“How sweet,” she says, her voice overly bright. “Do you two have kids? Or are you expecting?”
“No,” he replies. “Not yet.”
I raise a brow, slightly caught off guard by his phrasing. Not yet. The way he says it is like the question of children was already answered somewhere in the future, and we’re just waiting to catch up to it.
Of course I’ll have kids with him. Well, a kid. One. I’ve always pictured just one, because raising a child is enough of a lifelong commitment without also inviting an entire soccer team into your house. I’ve read about husbands who stop seeing their wives the same way after they’ve had children—men who start looking at them as mothers instead of women. Sahara once declared that she’d rather die than have kids, mostly because she refuses to torture her body.
The woman’s voice interrupts. “Would you like a boy or a girl?” She tilts her head at Raees. I’m sorry, but is she, like, conducting a personal interview or something?
Raees shrugs lightly, still smiling. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, I always wished for a boy, and ta-dah! Mason blessed me two years ago.”
She turns toward her cart and pinches the toddler’s cheek. He gurgles in response, clutching his stuffed animal and looking entirely uninterested in the conversation. Me, too, Mason.
Raees gives a polite chuckle. “He’s adorable. Do you have any tips for us?”
Tips? Are we really doing this?
Apparently, we are, because she lights up like he just handed her a golden ticket to keep talking. “Prepare to lose all your sleep,” she says with a nervous laugh, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her emerald eyes glittering up at Raees a little too obviously, and I can feel the corners of my mouth tightening on reflex.
I get it. He’s smiling. It has one hell of a gravitational pull.
“The qualities depend on the baby,” she continues, trying to keep the conversation going. I’m trying to check out Amina’s presents, and surprise my husband with Optimus Prime—not make small talk with a stranger who’s clearly more interested in Raees than she should be. “Mason didn’t like sleeping as much as I did, but now he’s learning to respect his mommy’s needs.” She gives his cheek another pinch, cooing at him. “Honestly, though? As long as you both have each other, it’ll all be smooth sailing.”
Raees shifts closer to me, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. My body leans into it instinctively. I’ve grown so used to these little gestures—his hand on my back, his arm around my shoulders—that they’ve started to feel like second nature.
“Thank you for the advice,” he says with finality. Thank you for wrapping this up, dear husband. “We’ll definitely do some research before we take that step.”
The woman blinks at him, fumbling to come up with something else to say, but when her gaze drifts to me, I’m already staring at her.
My expression is blank, but I don’t look away. I don’t even blink.
“Well, um, nice talking to you both,” she mutters, her hands tightening on the cart’s handle. She gets the message, finally, and wheels away down the aisle, her cheeks pink.
Raees watches her leave, then turns to me with an easy shrug. “That was nice of her.”
I shouldn’t roll my eyes, but I want to. I really want to.
Once we’ve checked out Amina’s presents and had them gift-wrapped, I wait for the right moment.
Raees steps over to a donation box by the exit, pulling out a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. The second his back is turned, I slip the Optimus Prime figurine into my bag.
He has no idea.
As we head to the car, Raees opens the passenger door for me. Since I can’t wait until we’re home to give his present, I take it out of the bag and hug it close to my chest, quickly climbing into my seat before he can ask questions.
He sets the shopping bag in the back and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding in. “What’s that?” he asks, his eyes flicking toward me as he buckles his seatbelt.
I pull the box from where I’d been cradling it and hold it out to him.
His brows knit together as he takes the package, staring at it as though it might combust in his hands. “Zinneerah,” he says cautiously. “What is this?”
A present , I sign, smiling. For you.
His hands hover over the gift. “But . . .” He glances at me, then back at the neatly wrapped box sitting in his lap. “Why would you get me a present?”
Why not?
He gulps, and I watch as he runs his hand over the paper, his fingers flicking the little white bow I’d insisted the gift-wrapping worker add. “Can I open it?”
I stifle a chuckle, and nod.
He doesn’t rip into it like most people would. No, Raees takes his time, carefully pulling at the edges of the wrapping paper as if it’s some priceless artifact he’s afraid to damage. There’s something almost childlike in the way he does it. When’s the last time he was on the receiving end of something so thoughtful?
When the paper falls away and the box is revealed, he freezes.
His eyes widen as he stares at the gift, blinking rapidly like the toy might be a mirage his brain conjured up just to mess with him.
“Zin . . .” My name catches in his throat. He flips the box over carefully, memorizing every detail, every word printed on the glossy surface, as if he needs proof that this is real. That this is his. “You bought this for me?”
It occurs to me, not for the first time, how much joy I find in giving.
I love gift giving. Always. A quality —I pause, the thought snagging on my ASL vocabulary. How do you sign “inherited”? I fumble over the memory of it, unsure. Maybe I should simplify: A quality I share with my father.
Raees settles the toy down, a mellow, dewy look on his face. “Zinneerah, I . . . I don’t know what to say aside from thank you. Thank you so much.”
He takes off his glasses and runs an arm over his eyes.
Huh?
Are you crying?
He can’t see me signing because his head is bowed, so I tilt my head slightly and reach out, lowering his arm.
Oh, my god.
He is crying.
Not a downpour. Just a light drizzle.
He chuckles in disbelief. “Nothing of any concern. I’ve always been sensitive growing up.”
Me, too.
Though the way our sensitivity manifests couldn’t be more different.
Taking out my phone, I use the type and voice dictation to communicate: I used to cry over the smallest things—like when the yolk in my fried egg spilled out onto my plate. It was a betrayal of breakfast, and I couldn’t handle it. I only liked egg whites back then, and I remember being absolutely annoying every time my mother made a mistake. Sometimes, I think the only reason my brother became a cook was so our mother could stop shouting at me for being so picky. He used to make me separate dinners when she cooked something I didn’t like—lentils, vegetables, anything remotely healthy. He never made a fuss about it. Just quietly handed me a plate of whatever I wanted, even if it was something as ridiculous as buttered bread with ketchup.
In retrospect, none of that really makes me sensitive, does it? No, that wasn’t sensitivity at all. That was just me being a brat.
There was a time when I thought my pickiness was something I could hold onto forever. In my last relationship, I started off the same way, insisting on eating only what I liked, throwing little tantrums over meals that didn’t suit me. But that didn’t last long. Eventually, I stopped being picky.
Not because I’d grown out of it, but because it became safer to just eat whatever I was given. Safer to stay quiet. Safer to smile through a plate of something I hated, just to avoid the sting of a broken nose.
I shove the memory aside as quickly as it appears. That’s not my life anymore. That’s not who I am. Not with Raees.
“Lentils suck,” Raees mutters.
Agreed , I sign emphatically, adding a dramatic nod for emphasis. Rice and chicken for the win.
“And lamb.”
I grimace. Lamb?
“Yes, lamb,” he says, shooting me a look. “Don’t hate until you’ve tried lamb shawarma.”
Oh, that’s questionable , I sign, wrinkling my nose. No offense.
His brow arches. “You were about to say ‘disgusting,’ weren’t you?”
I shrug, feigning innocence. You said it, not me.
Raees chuckles and I pitch in with a smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
Thank you , I sign, sitting up a little straighter and giving him a smile. I try.
My eyes flick to the cup holder, where his glasses are folded neatly.
I pick them up, weighing them in my hands. The temples are a little warped, probably from him shoving them into his pocket on the way out the door or tossing them haphazardly onto the nightstand. How these glasses have survived this long is a mystery.
I stare at them, debating with myself, my heart already speeding up.
Am I really about to do this?
Then I glance over at him, at the curve of his full-lips, and the way he’s still staring at me with stars in his eyes, and suddenly my hands are moving.
It’s just glasses , I mentally try to talk myself down. You’ve known each other for a year and a half. This isn’t a big deal. You’re married, for crying out loud. Married.
My brain is fighting me, screaming something about boundaries and propriety and God knows what else, but my hands are already moving. Be gone, narrow-minded mentality , as if that’s enough to banish the voice in my head.
I lean over, holding my breath, and slip the glasses over his nose. My fingertips brush against the bridge as I adjust the flimsy temples behind his ears.
My fingers graze the curve of his left ear, a fleeting, accidental touch that sets off a chain reaction I wasn’t prepared for. I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does. It catches me so off guard that I yank my hand back like I’ve touched something forbidden, shoving it under my leg in one swift, clumsy motion.
I don’t look at him immediately, but I feel him glance at me.
He doesn’t say anything for a second. The silence feels . . . comforting, truth be told.
But I do chance a look at him. His cheeks are a little pink, too, though he’s pretending like they’re not.
He clears his throat, breaking the moment. “So,” he says, holding up the toy box and shaking it slightly, “since we’re already sitting in a parking lot, we might as well take Optimus Prime for a spin.”