Chapter Nine #2
I let out a hollow laugh, scowling as I turned away. “Exactly the reasons you listed out when we first met. I’m rude, arrogant, and unfit to be anyone’s wife.”
The truth sat there, uninvited and unshakable, bubbling with the kind of burn that only came from being real.
“Those weren’t the words he used, though,” I continued, tucking my knees up to my chest in a useless attempt to make myself smaller.
“After not answering a single text or call, I finally saw him at school the next day, and he said, ‘You’re not the type of girl to settle down with, Lilly. You’re only good for a fun time.
’” The words tasted just as poisonous now as they had then, curdling on my tongue.
I hesitated, my fingers playing with the sequins on my skirt.
“He never wanted me to tell my dad. He wanted to...skip that step, and...do things. I said no, obviously. But instead of dumping his disgusting ass right then, I told my dad anyway, thinking, stupidly, that maybe it would make him change his mind.” A dry scoff escaped me.
“I’m clearly only intellectually gifted when it comes to medicine. ”
I could still remember that day with horrifying clarity, like it was yesterday instead of ten years ago.
I woke up at five in the morning, too anxious to sleep.
I showered, redid my makeup twice, ironed every microscopic wrinkle out of the wildly out-of-budget dress I’d bought just for the occasion, as if perfection could guarantee permanence.
He said he’d arrive at 11:30.
I was perched on the couch an hour before that, posture perfect, ankles crossed.
11:30 came and went.
So did 12. And 1. And 4.
I just kept waiting, smiling every time headlights passed the house, making an excuse every time the doorbell didn’t ring.
At 10 p.m., my mother finally snapped and told me to go to my room, that I was embarrassing myself.
I peeled my body off the couch like I’d been glued there and walked upstairs. I sobbed in the shower, then took the dress—the careful seams, the hopeful stitching, the version of me who thought she was about to begin her new life—and burned it to ashes.
But the worst part wasn’t even being stood up in front of my entire family.
It was watching my mother’s smug smile, creeping wider with every minute that passed where he didn’t show up, like she’d predicted this, like she’d been waiting for it, like my humiliation was proof of something she’d always believed about me.
That I wasn’t the kind of girl people wanted.
That I wasn’t the kind of girl people chose.
The silence stretched, so suffocating I almost wished he’d just laugh at me, call me pathetic, confirm every awful thing I already told myself.
“Six months,” he said finally. “That’s not a fling. That’s...commitment. Even if it was the wrong kind.”
I rolled my eyes. “Commitment to wasting my time, maybe.”
Khalifa’s brow furrowed slightly, his voice lower now. “Is he the reason you wanted a marriage arrangement without...feelings?”
“Among other things.” My stomach twisted. “Anyway,” I said, forcing a chuckle that didn’t quite sound like me, “it serves me right for dabbling in a semi-haram relationship.”
His stare sharpened. “Haram?”
“I talked to a guy for six months before telling my parents. I mean, I never crossed any lines, there were no ‘I love yous,’ and we only ever saw each other at school, but still.” My shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “I always felt a little guilty.”
“That’s on him, though,” he said. “He led you to believe he wanted to marry you. There was no way you could’ve known he had a corrupt secret agenda.”
I looked down. “I’m not naive, Khalifa. Some part of me knew.”
He inched closer, subtle tenderness flickering in his voice. “Still, God knows your intentions. You’re not a bad person for...developing feelings for someone.”
But I felt like one sometimes—a bad person, a bad Muslim for letting some whitewashed guy who shortened his name to Mal because Malik sounded too exotic make me dance along the lines of my morals.
For letting him twist affection into compromise, guilt into confusion.
For letting him make me question what I already knew was right and wrong.
“Do you still have feelings for him?”
I blinked, startled. “No. I don’t think I ever felt anything real for him.”
He regarded me with a slow tilt of his head. “What do you mean?”
“I was always too focused on school to have an actual social life. But in med school, your class becomes its own little universe—you see the same people so much, you start mistaking proximity for destiny. He was the first guy who ever...showed interest in me. And I guess I thought he might be the only one who ever would.”
Khalifa’s gaze swept over me. “Well, it sounds like he knew exactly what he was throwing away.”
I froze, searching his face for mockery, but he gave me nothing—just that maddeningly calm tone, like he was stating a fact about the forecast.
“Don’t romanticize it,” I muttered. “He didn’t throw me away. He never wanted me in the first place.”
“Then he’s an idiot. But I suppose idiots are everywhere. Next time, maybe don’t give them six months to prove it.”
“Next time?” I frowned. “Already planning on divorcing me?”
I thought he’d smirk or turn it into a joke like he always did. But instead, something flashed across his face, something too quick and too human for me to name, and then it was gone.
“Maybe you’ll end up divorcing me,” he murmured.
Before I could respond, he pushed up from the couch, his lean frame unfolding with an efficiency that suggested he was running from the conversation.
He crossed the room, paused by the wall, and lifted the clock down.
I gaped, baffled, as he twisted the dial, nudging the hands forward.
Ten-twenty-two p.m. became twelve a.m., neat and inevitable.
He hung it back up, gave it a short, satisfied nod, and then headed for the kitchen like this was the most logical chain of events in the world.
“Are you...changing time now?” I asked.
He didn’t look at me, just reached for the flour, then the sugar. “You didn’t eat at dinner.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s midnight—the perfect time for pancakes.”
My breath caught.
“Favorite meal: pancakes at midnight.”
It had been my favorite thing for as long as I could remember.
A tradition I clung to like a lifeline during school, a reward for surviving exams, the comfort food no one but me had ever taken seriously.
And yet here he was, brandishing a pan like he’d been rehearsing this heroic moment his whole life.
Surprise rippled through me, then something softer, warmer, creeping in so unfamiliar I almost mistook it for nausea.
I watched him, still stunned he’d remembered, still more stunned he’d cared enough to act on it. My voice came out defensive, because gentleness wasn’t something I knew how to wear around him. “I’m pretty sure pancakes contain more sugar than you’re used to. Your body might go into shock.”
That earned me the smallest whisper of a chuckle. “I can handle some sweetness for one night.”
I told myself it was nothing, that there was no deeper meaning other than the stack of pancakes slowly taking shape in the skillet, but my pulse quickened, betraying me.
He flipped the first pancake strategically, the golden circle sprinkled with chocolate chips landing perfectly in the pan, and I wondered if he was always this composed or if it was just another mask.
“Not that I care,” he said finally, flipping the next pancake, “but I never liked him anyway.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better. You don’t like anyone.”
He glanced over his shoulder, that infuriating half-smirk appearing again. “Good thing I wasn’t trying to make you feel better.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re such a menace.”
“And apparently a freak in the sheets.”
A laugh ripped free before I could stop myself. He peeked at me, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed between giggles. “Seriously—I have no idea why that came out of my mouth.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “You actually did me a favor. I’m fairly certain none of them will invite me to anything ever again.”
He placed two plates of pancakes on the island—a stack of chocolatey, syrup-soaked deliciousness for me, and one single, lonely slice topped with fruit and the tiniest drizzle of honey for himself.
He didn’t say anything about it, just slid mine toward me like a peace offering and took the seat across the island, cutting his pancake into precise triangles.
I plopped down cross-legged on the barstool and took a bite, nearly ascending on the spot. “Okay, wait. How did you learn to cook like this? My brothers have never cooked anything more complex than toast. Maybe an egg, once, and it ended in disaster. Not that I’m one to judge.”
He kept cutting. And cutting. The silence stretched awkwardly until I was sure I’d pushed somewhere I shouldn’t have. Disappointment pricked, small and stupid.
Then, quietly, he said, “I started cooking after my mom got sick. I didn’t want her using her strength.”
My fork paused midair. “What about Amina?”
He shrugged, eyes still on his plate. “I didn’t think the responsibility should fall on her. Besides, she’d just started university. I wanted her worrying about classes, not taking care of us.”
I forced a swallow. “How old were you when she got sick?”
“Twenty-three,” he said, like it was a weather report. A fact that had already happened and therefore didn’t need sympathy.
My chest pinched anyway. “You’re a good son, Khalifa.”
He looked at me for a second, eyes wide, like no one had ever said that to him without strings attached, without expectation, then pivoted so fast I almost whiplashed.
“One of the professors in the history department plagiarized Wikipedia,” he said, clearing his throat. “Bold choice, considering the student who caught him was supposedly born to be a Supreme Court justice.”
I speared another bite, syrup threatening structural collapse down my chin. “If you’re going to risk your entire career, at least aim higher than Wikipedia. Commit to the bit. Forge a primary source. Invent a lost diary.”
A tiny, flustered snicker bubbled out of him.
Somehow, the night turned into him spilling the most unhinged gossip about his coworkers—well, unhinged for a person whose blood type was sepia ink.
Apparently, someone had also nearly quit mid-lecture after a student corrected him on the date of the French Revolution, and another insisted on using “Kind Regards” in emails like it was a mic-drop.
I laughed until my stomach hurt, until the bitterness of the evening had thinned into something softer. And somewhere between his dry one-liners and the sound of forks clinking, I realized I’d stopped thinking about Malik completely.