Chapter One
Three Months Later
“I’M SORRY, SAY THAT AGAIN.”
Sarah’s voice was flat, the way it got when she thought I was either lying or losing my mind. Which, to be fair, wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
I hadn’t seen Khalifa since that first day, a whopping three months ago.
In that time, we’d somehow built an anti-relationship entirely out of emails.
Not sweet, flirty ones either. Just the driest, most soul-sucking correspondence imaginable.
“Received.” “Noted.” “Busy.” He had the bizarre habit of treating Outlook like a personality trait—formal sign-offs, full sentences, the occasional per my last message when he was feeling spicy.
The wedding had taken shape without me. My mother moved through vendors and venues like a general at war, her victory inevitable, my signature her final weapon.
She chose everything: flowers, colors, seating charts.
I existed only as an afterthought, a name on an invitation. It was easier that way. Safer.
But Sarah—Sarah was the one person I couldn’t keep completely in the dark. My best friend deserved more than this brittle silence. I couldn’t bring myself to hand her the whole truth, but I owed her at least a corner of it, something she could hold onto.
So now I sat across from her, stirring my coffee like it might offer me an escape route, rehearsing the words until they felt foreign in my mouth.
I sighed into my mug. “I’m getting married.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Getting married?”
“Yes.”
“To a man? Like a real, living, breathing man?”
I lifted my eyes, deadpan. “As opposed to what? A real, living, breathing fish?”
“Honestly? That would be more believable.”
Heat prickled at the back of my neck. I plucked my phone out of my bag and thrust it across the table. “Here. Photo evidence.”
Sarah leaned forward until her lashes nearly kissed the screen, squinting in concentration.
She stared for a long moment at the grainy picture I’d snapped when he wasn’t looking—Khalifa in an ill-fitting blazer with patches on the elbows, sitting rigidly across from me like he was posing for a mugshot.
“Okay,” she hummed, considering. “He’s objectively cute, so I’m obligated to ask—how tall are we talking?”
“Five eleven and a half.” My tone came out more defensive than I intended, which didn’t help my case.
Her nose wrinkled. “He actually added the half?”
“No. He didn’t know his height. I made him stand up so I could measure him.”
“You whipped out a tape measure at dinner and Home-Depot’d a grown ass man?”
I shrugged. “Seemed efficient.”
Sarah chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re so weird.” She shifted her gaze back to the screen, studying the picture again. “Half an inch shorter and you’re still marrying him? Does he...have something on you?”
The question lingered between us, playful on the surface but weighted underneath.
I opened my mouth, ready to spill everything—the absurd bargain, the unwanted ache in my chest when Khalifa explained his reason—but the words snagged in my throat, dense and immovable.
Marriage was sacred to Sarah. It was her great pilgrimage.
She wanted the sweeping love story, the poofy white dress she’d been sketching since middle school, the husband who called her “habibti” in line at the grocery store, the kids with matching dimples tumbling across a lawn.
To her, marriage wasn’t just paperwork; it was devotion carved into stone.
And me? I was bartering mine away like a coupon I didn’t care about redeeming. A husband I didn’t like, a vow I didn’t mean. Convenience, not love. A neat little box checked off in exchange for freedom, for my mother’s ghost of approval.
Sarah would never understand that, because how could I explain that I wasn’t mocking what she dreamed of, I was just incapable of wanting it the way she did? It would sound like ridicule. Like I was spitting on the altar she prayed at.
So I swallowed it back. My best friend’s face glowed with suspicion across from me, while I sat there with a secret burning holes in my chest, knowing she wanted the very thing I was about to turn into theater.
“What?” I asked with a laugh that was way too shrill to be genuine. “No. Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re you, Lilly. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve sworn off marriage like it was a contagious disease.
You don’t do relationships, you don’t do love.
You can’t even commit to an eight-episode TV series without abandoning ship halfway through, and now—out of nowhere—you’re announcing an engagement to Mr. Five-Eleven-and-a-Half?
Either he’s blackmailing you, or you’re secretly in witness protection, and this is your cover story. ”
I dropped my head into my hands. “God, I knew you’d turn this into a full-blown melodrama.”
Sarah reached across the table and caught my sleeve, tugging until I lifted my gaze. “You just told me you’re getting married. I’ve earned a little melodrama.” Her eyes softened, the sarcasm slipping just enough to let the worry show through. “Tell me what’s really happening.”
Guilt gathered beneath my ribs in a warm, unruly tide.
I wanted to uncork everything, to let the truth pour out and scatter its jagged little pieces across the table so she could help me sort them back into something that made sense.
Instead, I raised my cup and hid behind a gulp of caffeine far too ambitious for my own good, instantly scorching my tongue for my cowardice.
“Nothing is happening. I’m just ready to settle down.”
Sarah sat back, clearly unconvinced. “Hm. Well, if you start blinking Morse code for help, I’ll know what’s up.”
“Don’t worry. No secret kidnapping plots here. Just your garden-variety personal growth.”
She raised a brow. “Personal growth that involves matrimony? Bold choice.”
“People do it every day,” I said, folding my napkin into smaller and smaller triangles until my fingers trembled from the effort. “I’m thirty-two. It’s not exactly shocking that I’d want some stability.”
“You don’t even stick to the same shampoo brand. Last month, you were swearing allegiance to tea tree oil, and yesterday I saw a bottle of lavender-vanilla in your shower. Now you’re telling me you’re committing to an actual man?”
I offered a smirk. “Maybe he’s lavender-vanilla.”
Sarah snorted. “If that’s the case, I’d like to meet the guy who convinced you to abandon your trademark cynicism. He must be something.”
As if on cue, his name lit up my phone—because the universe never missed an opportunity to taunt me while I was faking a love story.
“That him?” Sarah asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
I shoved my phone into my bag before she could catch a glimpse of my face. “Yeah. He’s just...checking in.”
“You’re already texting? Who even are you?” she teased, shaking her head.
I hesitated. “Well...I met him three months ago.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed with dawning realization. “Wait. No. Is this—” she leaned forward, whispering like it was classified information, “binoculars guy?”
I nodded.
Her jaw dropped. “You’re telling me you’ve been secretly seeing this man for three months and I’m just finding out now? Lilly, what the actual hell?”
“It wasn’t like that. Not really. We weren’t...official.”
Disbelief etched across her face. “Not official, but official enough that you’re about to marry him?”
“Something like that. I mean, look at our parents. The first time they met was on their wedding day, and everything turned out fine.”
“Your parents aren’t fine. They’re the worst.”
I waved off the minor technicality. “They immigrated to the Western world, managed to stay middle class in this economy, and one out of their five children turned out perfect.” I pointed to myself helpfully. “That’s a statistical triumph. They’ve got fine written all over them.”
Sarah stared at me like she was watching a train derail in slow motion.
“And honestly,” I continued, clearly deciding panic should be expressed through aggressive social commentary, “if you think about it, divorce only became a huge thing once people started dating for, like, two to five years before getting married. That’s suspicious. The numbers don’t lie.”
Sarah opened her mouth. Closed it again.
“This whole new-age romance thing is clearly the problem,” I went on.
“People are out here falling in love and getting to know each other. It’s chaos.
Historically speaking, the correct approach is to meet someone, exchange two polite sentences in front of your parents, and then commit to them for life. ”
Her lips parted, but whatever lecture was brewing in her throat never came out. Instead, she sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I don’t get it. You tell me everything. Every dumb detail, every tiny disaster—and you kept this from me?”
She was right. I did tell her everything—every ridiculous hiccup, every minor catastrophe. But this wasn’t just another mess. This was the biggest dumb disaster I’d ever walked into, and if I told her, her first instinct would be to find a way to drag me out.
And I needed to stay in it.
I stood before the guilt could force the truth out, slinging my bag over my shoulder. The smile I managed felt flimsy at best. “I know. I’m sorry. I just...needed a minute to wrap my own head around it first. Please don’t be mad at me.”
She scrutinized me for a long moment. “I’m happy for you, Lilly. Really. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I skipped the reply and went straight for a quick hug. By the time I left the café, the secret I hadn’t told her was clinging to me, adamant as static, just waiting for the perfect moment to shock me.