8.
So maybe I started my questions too soon.
That’s why I didn’t bother her for the rest of the week.
I stayed in my office and gave her all the space she needed.
For some reason beyond my comprehension, she chose to continue working at the job she told me she doesn’t like.
And all week, she came and went without any interference from me.
It’s just been work for her, and house shopping with her mother.
Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting here racking my brain trying to determine how this reunion isn’t as happy as I imagined it would be after all these years.
I want answers.
I feel like I deserve them, but she wants to ignore who we once were.
Today, Saturday, I was hoping to gain some clarity and get her to talk about what happened between us, but she got up early and left.
She didn’t return home until around four.
I know because my house is so quiet, I can hear everything.
That’s how it is when you’re accustomed to silence.
I don’t want silence. I want noise. I want a home filled with love. Filled with children. And I want her to be their mother. I want her to be the woman, the light, the glue that holds it all together.
That’s what she was to me so many years ago. My light. I need to get us back to that place.
Hearing noises in the kitchen, I go there to find out what she’s doing. I see a few bags on the counter. She’s unpacking them and putting items away while leaving some on the counter.
“Good afternoon,” I say to alert her to my presence.
“Oh. Hi. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I was resting when I heard you come in.”
“Not working today, huh?”
“Nah. Not today.”
“That’s good. You’re always working.”
“I don’t have much else to do.”
“You have the world at your disposal, Kasim. You can do anything you want,” she says, searching in the cabinets.
My world ended the moment you walked out of it.
“What are you looking for?” I ask her.
“A cutting board.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to cut something.”
I grin. “I know that, but why are you in here trying to cook? You’re a millionaire now. You can pop in at any restaurant and—”
“I cook better than most restaurants. Besides, they say when you cook your own food, you know exactly what’s in it. You know the sanitary measures you took to make sure it’s not contaminated in any way. Plus, I like cooking. It makes you slow down and think.”
I open the cabinet where I know the cutting board is and hand it to her.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She tears open a bag of onions and removes two. I ask, “What are you preparing?”
“Fajitas. I’ve been craving them. I’ll make enough for you.”
I stand back and watch her work – watch how effortlessly she moves around in the kitchen like she belongs here. She does belong here. I’ve always known that. The problem I’m having is, she doesn’t know it – at least not yet.
After the food is cooked and she’s stirred and seasoned bell peppers, onions, strips of steak, chicken, and jumbo shrimp, we sit and eat.
I say, “This is delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it.” She takes a sip of water and says, “Last weekend, you brought up some things and I didn’t want to talk about them because I felt like it would lead to an argument.”
“Why would you feel that way?”
“Because I can look at you and see what you’re feeling, Kasim. I’ve always been able to do that.”
Then you should know that I’m in love with you. That I need you. That I’m over here in this big, lonely house dying without you by my side.
I say, “I didn’t mean to get in my feelings about it, and I normally don’t. With you, though, it’s different.”
She shakes her head.
“What?” I ask. “Why are you shaking your head?”
“Because you’re talking to me as if the separation we’ve had for the last fourteen years never happened.”
“Oh, I know it happened. My heart will never let me forget it. It still hurts.”
I thought I was saying those words in my mind. It’s not until I see her face that I realize I said them aloud.
She clears her throat, lowers the meat-filled tortilla to her plate, and asks, “Why do you blame me for that?”
“Who else is there to blame? I didn’t do anything—”
She frowns. “Yeah. Sure.”
“What did I do to you, Giada?”
She sips water and says, “You know what you did—what you said , and now you want to sit here and play the victim. Is that the kind of man you are, Kasim? The kind who can’t take responsibility for his actions and blame everybody else for everything that went wrong?”
She gets up.
I get up, step in front of her, and say, “How will we ever have this conversation if you keep running away from it?”
“ Keep ?”
“You did it fourteen years ago, you did it again last weekend. You’re not doing it today.”
She looks up at me with those big, beautiful eyes I remember staring into that day she left me.
I say, “You were my world, G. Did you know that? You were my happiness. You’re the reason I’m still here.
My lifeline. You were the reason I wasn’t lonely and crying myself to sleep at eight years old because I didn’t have anyone to love me. ”
I see tears come to her eyes. Her voice cracks when she says, “You had your parents.”
“No. I didn’t have anyone until you. When your mother first brought you here, I felt like I came alive. I finally had a purpose. I had someone. I had you. For years, we were everything to each other, were we not?”
“We were,” she says, and a tear escapes.
“All I want to know from you is what happened to ruin that.”
“Why does it matter now, Kasim?”
“Stop calling me that,” I say, wiping tears from her face with my thumbs. “My name is Kase. That’s the name you gave me. Kase. And it matters because it hurts, even still, and it obviously hurts you, too.”
Taking a breath and softening my tone, I say, “I loved you, G. Even when I was too young to know what love was, I loved you. It wasn’t until the night we kissed that solidified it in my heart, and I never saw you again after that. So, was it the kiss? Is that what drove you away from me?”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
“It was you—the things you said. You don’t think I felt something for you, too?
You were my world, Kase. For years, it was only me and my mother.
When I met you, I—I knew you would be special to me and you were until you told your mother not to worry about us getting too close because there were prettier girls at your school and you know better not to fall for a poor girl like me. ”
A frown tears across my forehead. Her words cause me physical pain because I’m not sure of their source. I ask, “What are you talking about, Giada?”
“You heard what I said. Don’t try to deny it now. Your mother came to you because she thought we were getting too close, and told you to be careful with me. You told her not to worry because there were prettier girls at your school, and then you said something about my clothes and laughed—”
“That’s an outright lie! That never happened!”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, prompting more tears to slide down her pretty skin.
“It did happen,” she says. “My mother told me all about it.”
“Giada, look at me.” After she angles her head up to me, I say, “Those words never left my mouth!”
“You’re a liar!” she tosses at me, her voice sharp and unforgiving. I’m internally bruised and bleeding, aching in places I didn’t know could hurt – all over something I didn’t do.
I say, “No, your mother is a liar!”
WHAM.
She lands a slap right across my face. I deserved that. In my hurt and anger, I insulted her mother, but if the woman really said those things, then that’s what she is – a liar – because I’ve never, nor would I ever say anything like that about Giada.
With the sting of her slap lingering on my face, I grab her by the forearms and walk forward until she’s pressed against the island. Now that I have her undivided attention, I say, “I never said those words.”
“Why would my mother make that up? Hmm?” she asks, her face a teary mess.
The sight of her tears hurts. That’s how I know I’m still very much in love with her.
I say, “I don’t know, but let me ask you this? Did she ever give you any of my messages? I told her to tell you to call me. Text me. I even wrote notes and a letter for you. Did she give it to you?”
She sniffles. “A letter? My mother didn’t give me no letter.”
“Then let me ask you this—did you tell your mother that the reason you stopped wanting to come see me was because you outgrew me?”
“No,” she whispers and snivels.
“I overheard her say that to my mother when my mom asked where you were.”
I take a moment to absorb the conclusion I’ve come to. All these years we missed were because her mother wanted us apart.
“Giada—”
She gently pulls her arms out of my grasp and says, “I have to go.” She wipes her eyes and says, “I’ll be back.”