Chapter 30
I’m in such a bad state that Layla insists on driving me home instead of letting me take an Uber with my sisters. She and Ezra bundle me into the car hostage-style and I spend the next quarter of an hour listening to them go on at me; I should/shouldn’t tell Hamza about the kiss; I should/shouldn’t go ahead with the marriage; I should/shouldn’t choose Adam; I should/shouldn’t choose either. If my head was spinning before I got into the car, now I feel like I’m on an emotional rollercoaster with so many spins, dips and loop-the-loops that I no longer know what day of the week it is. Their words and my own go round and around in circles in my head, and by the time we reach my house, I’m so dizzy that I might throw up.
I know I’ll never fall asleep in this state, so I take out an old box of sleeping pills left over from the Tariq days, ignore the expiry date and down two of them, before crawling into bed without even changing out of my clothes, let alone cleaning my face. Just before I succumb to the darkness, I take my phone out and send one final message to Adam. Once I’m married, any communication between us will be more wrong.
It’s not long before I fall into a restless sleep, but instead of finding respite, my demons continue to plague me and in my dream I get married to both Adam and Hamza in a joint wedding that no one attends.
The following morning I’m awakened by my phone vibrating over and over and over right next to my face, until it tugs me out of my slumber. I’m actually grateful to whoever it is calling me, because no matter how confusing my life is right now, it’s better than the horrors I was experiencing in my nightmares.
I force myself to squint at the screen to see who on God’s earth thinks it’s acceptable to call a bride at 6 a.m. on her wedding day. And when I see Hamza’s name right there in capital letters, my heart drops to my feet. There’s only one reason why he’d be calling me incessantly at this hour: he’s breaking up with me.
I stare at his name for ages, trying to gather the strength and courage to answer it as it rings again and again. I tell myself that maybe I’m being a paranoid drama queen as usual, and it could be something as simple as the Imam being unable to make it and we’ll have to find another. But then I remember that the Imam conducting the ceremony is my cousin, Kamal, so if there was an issue, he would be calling me himself, not getting Hamza to do it.
The phone rings for the fourteenth time and I know I can’t avoid it forever, so I sit up in bed, take a deep breath, murmur, ‘Bismillahir rahmanir raheem’, in the Name of God the Merciful, the Compassionate, and with a trembling finger, swipe to answer the call.
‘Hello?’ I croak, my throat still clogged up from last night’s events.
‘Hey. We need to talk.’ Hamza gets straight to the point and although his tone is moderate, there’s no warmth in those five words. My heart starts hammering so hard that I can hear it drumming in my ears.
‘Uh. OK. What’s going on?’ I manage to reply as evenly as possible.
‘Can you come down? I’m outside your house.’
What?I scramble out of bed and peep out from behind the drawn curtains and sure enough, there’s his car parked across the road.
‘Hamza, you’re really scaring me.’ My words catch in my throat. ‘What’s happening? Why are you here?’
‘I need to talk to you about something important.’
I take another deep breath. ‘OK. Give me five minutes.’
I don’t know how I manage to wash my face and brush my teeth and hair in this panicked state, but I do. If this is the last time I’m going to see him, I don’t want to look like a rat that’s been dragged through a hedge. After pulling my tangled tresses into a semi-decent ponytail, I change into joggers and a hoodie, grab my sliders and tiptoe downstairs.
No one from my household is awake yet, so I stuff my feet into my shoes and close the front door quietly behind me. It begins to rain and I can see Hamza’s form in the car through the steamed-up windows covered in glossy raindrops. With one final prayer, I walk over to it and knock on the window before reaching for the handle.
‘Hey, salaams,’ I say cautiously as I enter the car and climb into the passenger seat, my face wet from the rain. I move to wipe it with my sleeve and Hamza stops me, handing me a tissue. I notice that he hasn’t greeted me back and my shaky smile falters.
I sit back in the smooth leather seat and turn to face him while I wait for him to tell me what’s wrong. He continues to stare ahead, and for want of anything better to focus on, I study his profile. He has a really nice nose; straight, with no bumps, and I wonder why I haven’t noticed it before.
He clears his throat, the sudden noise startling me. When he finally turns to face me, I take in his peculiar expression, completely unsure of what he’s going to say to me. It could be anything: he doesn’t like me anymore; he needs more time; maybe we should get engaged and not married, it was silly of him to suggest it; he’s met someone else .?.?. Anything.
‘Here, look at this,’ he begins, his voice low and serious. ‘You’ll know what this is about then.’ He hands me his phone and I take it from him. Our fingers brush and he snatches his hand away. The snub hurts. A lot. But I push the pain aside and look down at his phone. It’s a text, from me. And when I read it, my blood turns cold.
I found out what askim means. I wish you told me how you felt earlier but you didn’t and now it’s too late. Forget about me, Adam. Forget about the kiss. Forget whatever it is that you think you/I feel. I’m getting married to Hamza tomorrow and I know it’s the right choice. There’s more to a marriage than love and attraction. Please respect my decision. x
I read it over and over again. It takes me a minute to understand what happened, because initially, I don’t remember writing it at all. Then I get a flashback of myself collapsing onto my bed and sending something to Adam seconds before I fell asleep. Only I sent it to Hamza instead.
Shame and fear wash over me. I’m still too scared to look at Hamza and he’s nice enough to give me a minute to compose myself before he holds his hand out for his phone and I reluctantly pass it back to him.
‘So. Do you want to tell me what that was all about then?’ he asks, his voice level and steady, betraying no emotions, which only makes me feel more nervous because I have no idea which direction this conversation is going to take. I look at the door handle and wonder if I should run, while I can. Now that I’m actually good at running, he’ll never be able to catch up with me.
‘Not really,’ I joke, attempting a feeble smile. Of course, I can’t run. I did this, I need to face it. I should have confessed ages ago instead of pretending it never happened. In fact, it’s pretending it didn’t happen that has landed me in this position now, teetering between marriage and a second broken engagement.
‘Seriously, Hamza,’ I continue in earnest, ‘it’s not important, it really isn’t. I want to be with you.’
‘Right. You want to be with me. But you don’t love me and you’re still not attracted to me?’ He looks at me flatly, but beneath the restrained exterior I can sense how hurt he is and I have no idea how to make it better.
‘I didn’t say that!’