‘Why are you getting upset?’ he demands, forcing me to look at him. I do, and I’m taken aback by how hard his features are. I stare at him silently, unnerved by his anger. ‘You’re getting married tomorrow and you have the audacity to get upset that I’m trying to move on with my life?’
‘What do you mean, “move on”?’ I retort. ‘Since when was there anything to move on from, Adam? You think I don’t know that you slept with Francesca right after you kissed me? You moved on before we even got started.’
He laughs a hollow laugh. ‘You’re talking about me going off with Fran? What about you and Hamza? I kiss you on Friday and on Saturday you’re posting shit about him on your stories? You were at his house!’
I’d forgotten that I’d done that. So that’s why he was ice-cold when I saw him at work.
‘Didn’t it ever cross your mind that when I kissed you that day, I had to force myself to stop?’ he continues, his voice breaking. ‘That it took all my self-control not to kill the bastard that hurt you? That having you within arm’s reach for the past few months has been driving me crazy? Do you know what it’s like to go into work every day and be so close to the woman you want, but can’t have?’
It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut. The hardness that alarmed me a moment before has softened into sadness and the raw anguish in his eyes scares me more than his anger. All this time, wondering if he liked me, wondering if I liked him, wondering if it was all hormones .?.?. now here it is, right in front of me, and I’m so terrified I can’t breathe.
‘You never said anything. I had no idea,’ I whisper, wiping away the tear that’s finally snaked out from the corner of my eye.
‘You honestly had no idea?’ He steps forward until he’s so close that I can smell him. It feels familiar, intoxicating, and I have to force myself not to fall on him like a magnet. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Zara.’
‘I didn’t! I suspected you might have been attracted to me, but you fancy everyone! How do I know that what you feel is real?’
‘Wow, say it how it is, why don’t you?’ He turns his back to me and paces up and down the strip of pavement outside the restaurant before taking out another fag. The guy who gave me the cigarette observes us from a safe distance with increasing interest, but I’m too far gone to care what he, or anyone else, thinks right now.
‘Come on, Adam, take a look through your social media and see how many women you’re with,’ I continue, my voice getting louder. ‘I didn’t want to end up as a notch on your bedpost. How do I know that you want me for me? Maybe you only want what you can’t have. You’ve had over three years to make a move, but you choose to do it the day before I get married?’
‘It’s not like that! Three years ago you were just my manager. A bloody sexy manager, but that was it. It’s only since we started hanging out that I felt more for you, but what could I say? You were on this mad quest to find a husband and I’m not ready for all that shit. I’ve been watching you hunt men and trying to be supportive and it’s killing me.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Every word is a revelation that has come too late. Why did he wait all this time? Why is he even telling me? What’s the point? What am I supposed to do? My head throbs with pain, guilt, anger, regret and confusion.
‘I’m sorry I’ve put you in a shit position today, but how could I let you get married without saying anything?’ he continues. ‘If I hadn’t, I would have regretted it for the rest of my life. Tell me you feel nothing for me, Zara. Tell me, and I swear to God I’ll walk away right now and I’ll never mention it again.’
I open my mouth to deny feeling anything, but the lie won’t come out. I close it again and his eyes widen. He takes my hands into his and the warmth of his skin on mine radiates through me. I know he can feel what’s happening to my body, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. How can I, when I’m engaged to someone else? I’ve already betrayed Hamza once, I won’t do it again.
‘See? I knew it. Don’t do it, Zara. Don’t marry someone you don’t feel anything for.’
I pull my hands out of his, annoyed at the presumption.
‘What, you’re ready to get married now, is that what you’re saying?’ I scoff. ‘You can offer me stability, a family? You love me? You’ll stop drinking?’
He looks down and his hesitation says it all. ‘I’m not ready for all that. I need time. There’s so much I need to do before I settle down and get married. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be together. Does it have to be marriage or nothing?’ His voice is a mere whisper, but I hear the words as though they’re being screamed in my ears. I squeeze my eyes closed.
‘How do I know that after one, or two, or five years, you’ll be ready? What if you keep me hanging for ten years and then tell me you’re still not ready? And then it’s too late for me to have kids? And no one else will want me either. How can you ask me to wait? You say you want me, but you don’t really. Not enough, anyway. Sorry, Adam, but I can’t give you time. It’s the one thing I don’t have.’
My heart in my throat, I turn around, walk back into the restaurant, lock myself in a cubicle in the horrible black restroom with its horrible dark lighting, and cry like a baby. The girls have been texting me but my fingers are shaking so much I can’t type out a reply. When they start calling me over and over, I know I have to answer or else they’ll think I’ve been murdered and I’m lying in a ditch somewhere.
When I finally pick up the phone and croak where I am, all nine of them flood into the toilets, taking up every inch of the already tight space. Although I hadn’t seen my school and uni friends for a while before today, in that moment, when I see how concerned they all are, I feel that I can confess what’s going on. I let it all out; my doubts about Hamza, the attraction towards Adam, the kiss, hiding it from Hamza, Adam’s revelation and even Tariq, with the extra sordid details. Fran watches me with her jaw partially open. I catch her eye and there’s sadness in them, but no anger or spite. I hope this doesn’t ruin our relationship.
Amina and Samia are the most dumbfounded when the truth about Tariq comes out, while I’m sitting on the toilet seat, tears gushing down my face. Layla is the first to rush to me, pushing past the others and throwing her arms around me, her sobs matching my own. I clutch on to her, from the sheer relief of finally being free of this secret. Amina, whose eyes are always dry, is crying, and the three of us hold each other for ages.
Ezra, Shaniqua and all my other friends are completely floored. I see Ezra wiping her eyes and Janine, one of my oldest friends from primary school, lets out a string of colourful profanities and takes out her phone, demanding Tariq’s address so her brothers can break his legs. Samia looks as if she’s going to be sick, and I can see the regret and sorrow in her eyes, even if she doesn’t verbally apologise for what she said about me overreacting when we broke up.
As for my dilemma with Hamza and Adam, everyone has a different opinion and it’s confusing me further. They begin arguing amongst themselves; some thinking I should stop the wedding and choose Adam, others thinking I’d be stupid to choose a player who can’t offer me anything tangible, over a man who really loves me. Samia and Amina think Hamza has a right to know about the kiss before tomorrow’s ceremony, whereas Layla, Ezra and Priyanka think it’s something that needs to be buried far away in a lockbox with the key thrown into the English Channel. Fran is quiet, but that’s understandable.
‘How was I supposed to know?’ I sob to Ezra. ‘I mean, his nickname for me is “loser” in Turkish! What if Adam is the one I’m meant to be with? What if I’m supposed to wait for him? But I don’t even know if he loves me!’
‘Loser?’ Ezra muses, surprised. ‘How did he say it? There isn’t a proper direct translation of “loser” in Turkish.’
‘He says, “askim”. What does it mean? Is it worse than loser?’
Ezra falls silent, a pained expression on her face.
‘What is it?’ I ask with urgency as the overwhelming need to know what it means takes hold of me. She doesn’t answer. ‘Ezra? What does it mean?’
‘Askim doesn’t mean loser,’ she says, catching my eye and then looking away. ‘It means “my love”.’