Chapter Six
THE CAFETERIA VIbrATED with the periodic background noise of clattering trays, half-finished conversations, and the faint, metallic smell of coffee that had burnt hours ago.
My hands still carried the faint tremor of adrenaline and the echo of the emergency C-section I’d just finished, as I scanned the crowd for Sarah.
Sarah had always been easy to spot in a room—her posture perfect, her hair pulled into an immaculate, slicked back ponytail that said I’m capable, I’m in charge, and yes, I do own a steamer.
She worked at the hospital now as one of the directors, which meant that she’d accomplished the art of walking into chaos and making it look like a carefully orchestrated production.
I wove through the tables until I saw her already seated, already halfway through her salad, and a second tray waiting in front of the empty seat across from her. Of course.
Our friendship had been like that from the beginning—wordless, instinctive, built on strange foundations that somehow made perfect sense.
We’d met when we were six at Saturday school, two bored kids trapped in stiff clothes with even stiffer teachers.
Every week, without ever talking about it, we’d sneak into one of the empty classrooms after class and wrestle with the giant pillows they stored in there.
It was weird, and random, and not something we ever discussed outside those four walls. But for some reason, it worked.
Sliding into the seat, I smiled gratefully. “Hey, sorry I’m late. Thank you so much for the food, I’m starving.”
Sarah’s mouth curved into a knowing look. “Forget about the food. Give me all the details. How’s married life?”
I took a giant bite of my sandwich to buy time, chewing slowly.
My brain scrambled for the right words because the truth was that married life was less “life” and more “proof of existence.” I hadn’t seen Khalifa since that night more than a month ago.
He was there, somewhere in the loft, but the only evidence that he was real lived in the aftermath he tidied away.
My dirty dishes disappeared from the sink.
My clothes vanished from the floor and reappeared folded neatly on my bed.
Even my laundry—the heap I’d abandoned in the corner of the laundry closet—came back clean and warm.
He was like a ghost who not only haunted the apartment but cleaned it, too.
I swallowed, smiled, and lied. “It’s great. Amazing, actually. I’ve never felt more...whole.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes. “And?”
“And what?”
“Don’t be such a prude,” she said, her grin spiked with mischief. “How was your wedding night?”
The bite I’d just taken lodged in my throat, and I choked, grabbing my water and gulping it down as heat climbed my cheeks.
My mind raced back through everything I’d learned in medical school—every awkward diagram, every lecture on the mechanics of reproduction that had once felt safely academic.
And then, before all that, to the whispered girl talk during undergrad study sessions—half giggled, half scandalized conversations about losing your v-card, confessed under the hum of the library lights that never once seemed relevant—until now, when I was about to weaponize them into a story.
It was ridiculous, really. I could deliver a baby blindfolded, I’d spent years explaining the female body to women twice my age—but sitting there, faced with that question, I felt like the world’s most overqualified virgin at a slumber party.
“Oh, it was...” I coughed. “He totally rocked my world.”
Sarah snickered, her eyes sparkling. “Did it hurt?”
The question hit harder than it should’ve. I thought of that night, of his scoff, of his rejection harsh against my skin: Not in the slightest.
“Yeah,” I said. “It did.”
Sarah sighed dreamily. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
I nipped the inside of my cheek.
“So,” she continued, twirling her fork, “how often do you guys...you know?”
“Every day. I seriously can’t get enough of...my man.”
Her eyes widened. “Every day? Damn.”
I backtracked fast. “No, not every day, every day. It just—uh—feels like that. Because, you know...you...feel it for a few days after it...happens?”
Sarah nodded, satisfied. “Well, you seem happy, Lilly, so I’m happy for you. I know I was kind of suspicious at first, but I’m glad you found your person.”
Her words slipped past my defenses and split something open inside me. Because if this was what it meant to ‘find your person,’ then I had never felt more lost.
I smiled for her anyway, stretched thin and failing to touch my eyes, but beneath it, I could feel the hollow ache of it all—the irony of running so far from one kind of loneliness only to stumble headfirst into another.
A loneliness quieter, trickier, because this time it was dressed up in vows and paperwork, in the illusion of companionship.
When I finally staggered home that night, the hospital smell had finally surrendered to the much more glamorous odor of exhaustion. I was used to walking into absence. What I wasn’t used to was light spilling from the kitchen and the faint, rich scent of butter browning.
I froze in the doorway. Khalifa stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moving with casual precision. There was a cutting board with a perfectly seasoned steak waiting, a pan already hissing softly on the burner.
“Um...hey,” I said, my voice strange in the domestic air.
He barely glanced over his shoulder, flicking a knob to lower the heat. “Hi, Lillian.”
I stepped further inside. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
He shrugged without looking up, sliding the steak into the pan where it sizzled loudly. “You leave before I get up. You come back after I’m already asleep.”
“Yeah, my schedule’s been hectic.”
He didn’t answer, just pressed the back of a spatula against the steak, the smell blooming around us.
“What are you doing?” I asked finally.
“Cooking dinner, obviously.”
“Why?”
He turned then, arching an eyebrow like he couldn’t believe he had to explain the concept. “People need to eat. And I’m going to assume you can’t cook.”
I glared. “You assume correctly. I was too busy being a child prodigy to spend time in the kitchen.”
He shook his head and plated the steak, mashed potatoes, a handful of greens, and slid it across the island toward me. “Sit.”
“You didn’t need to cook for me,” I said immediately.
“Sit down and eat, Lillian.” His voice cut cleanly through the clatter of the pan—no anger, just command.
I hesitated, then tossed my bag on the couch and sat. The plate was warm against my hands, the steak glistening like something out of a restaurant.
“Thanks.”
“No need to thank me,” he replied dryly, settling into the chair opposite me with his own plate of tofu and vegetables. “I’m not interested in dealing with your unavoidable death from starvation or heart failure because you either don’t eat or eat junk.”
“Only you could turn a kind gesture into something rude,” I muttered, stabbing my fork into the salad.
He didn’t look up, didn’t even slow down, just kept cutting his tofu into neat squares.
I took my first bite, repressing the moan that threatened to leave my throat. God, it was good. Juicy, garlicky, the kind of steak you dreamt about when you were working a double shift and eating cold granola bars between deliveries.
The quiet dragged its feet awkwardly. I hated how much I needed to fill it. Finally, I said, “How was your day?”
His head lifted. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to have a conversation,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Well, don’t.”
My fork clattered against the plate. “So you can cook me dinner and clean up my messes, but I can’t ask you a simple question?”
He didn’t answer, just went back to his tofu.
I shoved my chair back. “Forget it.”
“Sit down, Lillian.”
“Screw you.”
“Sit down and finish your food, Lillian.”
I dropped back into the chair so hard it wobbled. “Stop saying my name. And stop bossing me around. I’m not a dog. And I’m clearly not a person either.”
He let out a long sigh. “What is your problem?”
“You are my problem,” I snapped, heat rising up my neck. “We’re married, and we haven’t seen each other in over a month.”
“We both knew what we were signing up for.”
“Fine. But aren’t you...lonely? I’m not weird for craving conversation, for craving—companionship—”
“Companionship,” he repeated with an incredulous laugh. “I knew this would happen.”
“Knew what would happen?”
He set his knife down, meeting my eyes. “This. I knew you would want something more.”
“Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not interested in being your lover, Khalifa.” The word burned my mouth. “But why can’t we just be...?”
“Be what?”
“Friends. Am I that intolerable that you can’t even exchange a few words with me?”
I regretted it instantly—hated that I had no filter, hated even more that I cared whether he spoke to me or not. My tongue had always belonged to my emotions; once they surged, they took over, spilling everything raw and unedited across the table.
He held my gaze, steady and unreadable, until the void stretched hot across my skin, exposing all my layers with a single look.
I broke eye contact first, shoving another bite into my mouth, chewing fast so I could escape the moment.
He grabbed his knife again, went in for another slice and hissed.
I looked up in time to see him yank his hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Red welled between his knuckles, slipping free despite his best effort to contain it.
I was on my feet before my brain caught up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said immediately, closing his hand tighter like that might magically solve things. Blood continued to make a run for it, tracing a line down his wrist.
“For the love of God, just let me see,” I demanded, already crossing the kitchen. “The only way I’ll allow you to bleed to death is if I’m the one responsible.”
“Aren’t you?”