Annabelle kissed her mom’s forehead, and then she and Imaad exited the room quietly. They made their way to the small waiting room around the corner, furnished with a dozen chairs and a tiny beverage stand. If only there were beds in the waiting room, too. Her sleepless flight to New York had left her exhausted and dying for a pillow.
“Well,” she said, plunking down in a chair, looking up at Imaad. “Now we wait.”
17
Imaad eased into the chair next to her, his heart racing. He had so many questions after those five minutes inside the hospital room.
“The surgery should last about six hours,” Annabelle said, yawning and avoiding his gaze. He smoothed his hand over her back, trying to preemptively calm her. The surgery hadn’t even begun yet, but she’d need all the calm she could get.
“Why did you tell your mom we’re engaged?” The question popped out of his lips without even thinking about it. Annabelle turned to him guiltily.
“I just…wanted her to be happy. If something happens during surgery…if she doesn’t make it, or…” Annabelle paused, swallowing. “She always told me growing up
that a good man who loves me and respects me was the most important part of a partnership. If I was going to bother with anyone, he had to be good, she always said. I feel like she regretted getting involved with my dad, to be honest.”
“So you wanted her to think that you’d found that?” He fought to make the words come out even. He rubbed his fingers over her neck, admiring the way this made her eyes flutter shut.
“Yes.” She paused, enjoying the neck massage. “And it’s true. You’re a good man. Having me detained was the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me.” She turned to him, grinning.
Imaad laughed. “They’ve always called me a romantic.”
“And, I dunno, if she doesn’t make it…I want her to know that I’m happy. That I’m going to be okay.”
Imaad smoothed his fingers over her shoulders, wishing he could replace his fingers with his lips. “You’re an amazing daughter, Annabelle.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose, and finally her lips. “And I want you to know that whatever happens, I’m here for you. I swear it.”
Annabelle looked up at him and burst into tears. Imaad hugged her until her crying subsided, the front of his shirt drenched. And then a while later, he realized she’d fallen asleep. He moved carefully, trying not to rouse her, and adjusted their positions so she was leaning against him more naturally. He settled into place as best he could and tried to shut his eyes.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Not even after their mostly-awake flight from Parsabad. Too many thoughts roiled around in his skull—too many hopes and excitements keeping him alert.
Imaad kept vigil in the waiting room for hours while Annabelle snored in his arms. After about five hours—his ass long gone totally numb—a disheveled-looking business man wandered in, a pot belly hanging over the edge of his belt. His worried, icy blue eyes looked suspiciously familiar.
“Annabelle?” The stranger asked it quietly, as though afraid he might be dreaming. Annabelle stirred in Imaad’s arms and blinked against the light.
She groaned immediately. “What are you doing here?”
Imaad knew—this had to be her father. The resemblance was too strong for it to be anyone else. Her father approached slowly, his weary face earnest and drooping.
“I came to check on your mother,” he said. “I want to make sure she makes it through okay.”
“These surgeries happen every day, every hour,” she snapped back at him, her voice caustic. “Don’t you remember? She’ll be fine. You shouldn’t have bothered.” She crossed her arms, turning away from him.
Her father deflated, sinking into a nearby chair. “I was wrong.”
Annabelle’s gaze flicked over to him. He could tell that her father didn’t normally say those words. “What?”
“Annabelle, I’m sorry.” Her father rubbed at his forehead. “I was wrong about that, and about the deal. Everything. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since you called. I just want to be here for your mom and for you.”
Annabelle’s lip trembled as she watched her father. Imaad tightened his grip on her, hoping it might help steady her.
“Well, be here then,” Annabelle finally said, her voice shaky. A few moments of silence passed before Imaad thought to introduce himself.
“Sir.” He leaned forward, offering a hand. “I’m Imaad Almasi.”
Her father shook his hand slowly, his eyes wide. “Sheikh Almasi’s boy?”
He nodded, clearing his throat. “Yes. I thought it best to accompany your daughter back to the States.”
“My God.” Her father shook his head, looking between the two of them.