Chapter 15
Fifteen
ZAHRA
The iron tightness in my chest hadn't loosened since we left the hotel. If anything, it had worsened as the night progressed.
The open-air expanse of Whiskey River Garden became increasingly suffocating with each passing hour.
A beer garden turned nightclub during weekends had started reasonably empty when our group arrived, but now it bulged with bodies—a wild night out in Norman in full swing, combined with our increasingly rowdy wedding party.
Colorful LED beams painted the packed dance floor, and the sound of dozens of heels clicking against the wooden floor in beat with music pulsing through speakers mounted on posts filled the night air with electric energy that should have swept me into ecstatic elation.
Instead, I hid in plain sight, sipping on my second daiquiri, the sweetness a blessed distraction. It wasn’t nearly enough to make me drunk, but just enough to soften the edges of my anxiety. Enough to make me feel like I could breathe despite Ryan's presence across the room.
His laughter cracked through the music like a whip—sharp, overcompensating, designed to be heard. I stiffened before I even registered it, a full-body reaction I’d spent years unlearning. My skin prickled, the bar’s humid air suddenly suffocating.
"You good?" Parisa appeared beside me, her cheeks flushed, hair mussed from dancing. She was tipsy but not sloppy, that perfect sweet spot of alcohol-induced joy.
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Just pacing myself. Someone has to make sure we all get home."
"Always the responsible one." She nudged my shoulder affectionately. "But that's why we love you." She gestured toward the dance floor, where Darryl was attempting some complicated move with his groomsmen. "He's ridiculous and perfect, isn't he?"
I followed her gaze, genuinely smiling now. "You two are good together."
"I know," she said simply, with no false modesty. Then her expression turned serious. "Hey, about Ryan..."
My stomach clenched. "What about him?"
"I don't like the way he keeps looking at you." She bit her lip, seeming more sober than I’d seen her since we got to Norman. "It gives me the creeps, Zazi. I told Darryl to keep an eye on him, but still…"
"It's fine." I waved her off dismissively, not wanting her to busy herself with my problems during her big event, though the fact that outsiders were starting to notice meant Ryan was spiraling, maybe deeper than I realized, and that made him even more dangerous. "Ancient history."
"Is it?" Her dark eyes searched my face. "Because it doesn't seem fine. And Oliver...” She let out a deep sigh. “Whenever Ryan gets too close to you, he becomes so intense."
“Oliver is kind of an intense guy, Pari. Always has been.”
“Yeah, no, I know.” Her eyes found mine, hand cupping my shoulder as if to say she needed me to listen carefully to whatever her next words were.
“But this is a different kind of intense, Zahra. A scary kind of intense. The kind that makes me wonder what a mild-natured guy like Oliver knows about Ryan that makes him that mad.”
My pulse raced. This was the last thing I needed, the truth about mine and Ryan’s twisted and toxic relationship to explode at my make-or-break event.
I glanced around the crowded bar, automatically locating Oliver near the dartboard.
He looked perfectly at ease except for how his gaze flicked to me every thirty seconds like clockwork.
Each time Ryan drifted closer to where I stood with Parisa and the bridesmaids, Oliver appeared as if conjured by some protective instinct.
He moved through the crowd like my shadow, making it look natural—getting fresh drinks, joining a conversation with Darryl's cousins, even dancing with one of the bridesmaids.
But I noticed the pattern. His position always, without fail, placed him between me and Ryan.
"Oliver and Ryan have bad blood that has nothing to do with me,” I said, hoping the partial truth would be enough to placate Parisa. “As for the rest, he's just looking out for me. He’s worried I work too hard, and that I’m not taking care of myself.”
"So, he does take care of you, huh?" Parisa's inuendo-filled smirk made me shift uncomfortably. "And the way he watches you..." She fanned herself dramatically. "God, Zazi, he's so in love with you it's almost embarrassing to watch."
Heat rose to my cheeks. "It’s too early in the relationship," I muttered into my drink, guilt twisting in my stomach at the deception.
"Oh, please." Parisa rolled her eyes. "He looks at you like you're the center of his universe."
Someone must have been listening to my desperate prayers, because at the exact moment Parisa opened her mouth to continue tormenting me, several bridesmaids swarmed us with shots.
"Did Parisa tell you about the time she got us locked in our elementary school overnight?" I asked loudly over the music.
“Me?!” Parisa guffawed, then launched into the familiar childhood tale. I felt myself relax slightly. This was normal. This was safe. Bonding, nostalgic stories, celebrating her upcoming nuptials.
Ryan's laughter cut through the moment again, closer this time.
I tensed, eyes automatically tracking the sound to find him at the bar, just fifteen feet away, surrounded by Darryl's fraternity brothers.
His jokes were getting cruder, his gestures more exaggerated—signs I recognized all too well.
He was getting drunk, which made him unpredictable.
As if sensing my unease, I felt a warm presence at my back. Oliver. Not touching me, but close enough that I could feel his body heat, and smell the subtle notes of his cologne over the bar's blend of beer and sweat.
"Ladies," he greeted the group, easy charm in place. "Mind if I steal my girlfriend for a dance?"
His hand extended toward me, an invitation rather than a demand. I took it without hesitation, grateful for the excuse to move away from Ryan's vicinity.
"Thank you," I murmured as he led me to the dance floor, where the DJ had switched to a slower song.
His palm found my waist, the weight of it grounding, steady—a quiet anchor in a sea of chaos. My breath hitched, but not in fear.
"I've got you," he murmured, his lips barely moving, like it was a truth, not just reassurance.
The song wasn't quite slow enough for a true slow dance, but not fast enough for anything energetic. Oliver moved with surprising grace, guiding me in small circles. His body was solid, reliable.
"You're good at this," I said, surprised.
A small smile played at his lips. "Basic physics. Rhythmic movement in a defined space."
"Did you just reduce dancing to a science problem?"
"Didn't I mention?" His smile widened, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "I was briefly part of the MIT ballroom dance team."
I missed a step, caught off guard. "Seriously?"
"For exactly one semester." His hand tightened slightly as he steadied me. "I was in a student exchange, and my lab partner insisted it would improve my spatial awareness and coordination."
"Did it?"
"No idea. But it did provide excellent data on social dynamics and non-verbal communication patterns."
I laughed despite myself. "Only you would turn dancing into a research project."
His smile softened, something wistful crossing his features. "Not my proudest moment. But the skills proved useful, evidently."
The teasing banter helped me to forget—just briefly—why we were here, the danger lurking at the edges of the night. I found myself relaxing into Oliver's lead, letting my hand slide from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing against the short hairs there.
A mistake. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me, his skin warm beneath mine. I saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, his eyes darkening behind his glasses, a barely suppressed shiver vibrating at my fingertips.
"Zahra." His voice pitched lower, a slight tremor in it that shot awareness through my body and settled into a warm hum at the pit of my stomach.
The music changed into something loud with a thumping bass that had the crowd cheering. The moment shattered as bodies pressed in around us, and the dance floor was suddenly packed with jumping, swaying people.
I took an abrupt step away from him. “I need a drink.”
Oliver nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’d put his mask back on, but I could see the curling of his fingers behind the dark denim, the tick in his jaw, and the way his pupils dilated.
As I navigated to the bar, a hand closed around my wrist. Not Oliver's.
"Dance with me, Zahra," Ryan's voice rumbled in my ear, too close, his fingers too tight.
I pulled away instinctively. "No, thanks."
His grip tightened, just enough to make me wince. "Come on, babe. For old times' sake."
My eyes darted around the shifting crowd, the bodies moving like a tide, making it impossible for me to spot Oliver. And even worse, making it impossible for him to spot me.
"Let go," I said firmly, fighting through the panic triggering my freeze response. “Or I’ll start screaming.”
Ryan's fingers flexed on my wrist. “You would? You’d cause a scene and ruin Parisa’s night?
Maybe even her whole wedding?” His smile was all teeth, all menace.
“All because I’m being friendly?” He tugged me toward him with enough force to almost make me stumble.
“No need to get hysterical, babe, it’s just a dance. ”
And there it was—the flip. He wasn’t overstepping. I was being hysterical. I was ruining the big event. Master level gaslighting.
“Or do I need to take you out for ice cream at the park first?”
I stopped breathing.