CHAPTER 3 #3
And another answering I'm coming.
Safiya met Zahra at a coffee shop across town. Layla sat beside her coloring on a paper placemat.
Zahra's mother had threatened to stop helping with childcare unless Zahra reconciled with a relative who had repeatedly disrespected her boundaries. The details were messy, family history stacked on top of fear.
Safiya listened.
"I know what you're gonna say," Zahra said.
"Then save me the speech."
"You're gonna say I can't keep letting my mom decide what emergencies I have."
"Correct."
"And that I'm allowed to say no."
"Look at you. Therapy by osmosis."
Zahra smiled weakly.
Then Safiya's phone buzzed.
Solomon.
She turned it facedown.
Zahra noticed. "You can answer him."
"I will."
"You ain't seen that man in forever."
"He's home now."
"Exactly. Go enjoy your man."
Safiya looked at her friend. "You're not okay."
"I'm not dying either."
That sentence stayed with Safiya.
For weeks, she had treated every sign of distress like a fire alarm. Zahra did the same with her. Maybe that was why their friendship felt so safe and so exhausting at the same time.
Safiya called Solomon from the parking lot.
"You good?" he asked.
"Yeah. Zahra needed me."
"Everything okay?"
"Family stuff."
"You going home?"
"In a little bit."
There was a pause.
"Eat something."
Safiya smiled. "I ate."
"When?"
"Don't start."
"Safiya."
"I had coffee."
"Coffee is not food."
"It has calories."
He sighed the way he always did when he wanted to correct her and loved her enough to know pushing too hard would turn nutrition into a constitutional debate.
"Call me when you get home."
"Okay."
"And Safiya?"
"Yeah?"
"You don't gotta fix everything tonight."
She looked through the windshield at Zahra and Layla inside the cafe.
"I know."
But knowing and practicing were still different skills.
? ? ?
For the first month Solomon was home, he and Safiya made a sport out of cheap dates.
Not because either believed romance had to be cheap. Because money had purposes, and both of them had too many plans to pretend otherwise.
They called one date The Twenty-Dollar Challenge.
Each person had twenty dollars and thirty minutes inside a discount store to create an evening for the other.
Safiya bought a ridiculous card game, Solomon's favorite candy, two disposable cups and a tiny notebook titled Big Ideas that made her laugh because the pages were barely large enough for grocery lists.
Solomon returned with a blanket, hot chocolate packets, a cheap phone stand and a bag of popcorn.
"You bought practical things," Safiya accused.
"You bought candy and chaos."
"I bought personality."
They ended up parked near the water watching a documentary on Solomon's phone while the blanket kept sliding off both of them.
Halfway through, Safiya paused the video.
"Wait."
"What?"
"They're wrong."
Solomon looked at her. "About?"
She launched into an explanation.
Ten minutes later the documentary remained paused and both were arguing about economic mobility.
"You don't even agree with yourself anymore," Solomon said.
"I do. My argument evolved."
"That's what people say when they losing."
Safiya gasped. "I am not losing."
"You definitely losing."
She reached for the popcorn. Solomon moved the bag.
"Don't punish the popcorn because your facts weak."
"Your whole attitude is haram."
He laughed. "Now everything haram because you losing?"
She hated how easily he made her laugh.
This was the part of love Safiya rarely knew how to describe. The ordinary pleasure of having one particular person understand the shape of your mind. Solomon did not merely listen to her ideas. He pushed them, tested them, remembered them.
He also knew when she was bluffing.
During another date, they went to an Islamic bookstore after a masjid lecture. Safiya wanted a tajweed workbook and spent twenty minutes comparing three editions.
Solomon leaned against a shelf watching her.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Why are you smiling?"
"Because you making buying one workbook look like a federal procurement contract."
"They have different layouts."
"Pick one."
"That's how people make bad decisions."
He shook his head.
She eventually chose the most expensive one.
"Of course," Solomon said.
"Quality costs."
"So does indecision."
In the car, Safiya opened it immediately. Pages on makharij, pronunciation, elongation. It fascinated and intimidated her.
"You know this?" she asked.
"Some."
"Some means what?"
"Some means don't turn me into your tajweed teacher."
"You always escaping responsibility."
"I am encouraging you to learn from somebody qualified. That's responsibility."
She smiled. "Fine."
A week later, he drove her to a women's Qur'an class and waited nearby because she was nervous about going alone.
Safiya sat in the car for five minutes after they arrived.
"You going in?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Soon."
"You scared?"
"No."
Solomon raised an eyebrow.
Safiya sighed. "A little."
"Why?"
"Because everybody's gonna know more than me."
"Probably."
Her head snapped toward him. "That was not supportive."
"You a new convert. Why would you know more than everybody? That's what the class for."
"You could've said it nicer."
"Would nicer make it less true?"
She hated when he made sense in an irritating tone.
Before she got out, Solomon touched her hand.
"You belong in there too."
Safiya looked at him.
"You don't gotta know everything to belong."
That sentence followed her inside.
The class was not magical. She mispronounced words. A woman corrected her gently. She lost her place twice. She realized the woman next to her had memorized more Qur'an than Safiya could imagine.
And nobody laughed.
Afterward, Solomon was parked exactly where she left him.
"How was it?"
Safiya climbed in. "Humbling."
"Good."
"Again, you could soften the delivery."
He grinned. "You going back?"
"Yes."
"I see you trying."
Safiya looked out the window so he would not see how much the words still affected her.
Their dates were not always educational. Sometimes they went for tacos. Once Solomon surprised her with tickets to a small comedy show because he said she needed to laugh without analyzing why. They took his sons to a science museum and Safiya spent more time reading exhibits than the children did.
"Auntie Safiya," one of the boys complained, "we done with this part."
Solomon folded his arms. "See? Even the children know you take too long."
Safiya ignored him.
Afterward, the boys fell asleep in the back seat. Solomon drove one-handed, the other resting near the center console. Safiya looked at his profile and felt the quiet ache of imagining this as normal.