The Sheikh's Priceless Bride

I reminded myself that it couldn’t have mattered less. After all, Angie was playing along with my game. She didn’t need to fall in love with me for me to get the best of Alim. But the fact that she wasn’t even open to it, couldn’t see the benefits… It was annoying, at best. And a bit too much to bear.

Tommy’s was a place I’d discovered as a younger man, around 22, when I’d had an enormous appetite and an even bigger desire to hide from the cameras. It was around this time that I’d become known as something of a Casanova, yet wanted to ensure that the girls I was dating weren’t frightened by the flashing cameras. Plus, I loved the feeling of watching shoddy sports television and digging into an enormous American-style burger. It felt like heaven to me.

Now, I went there at least twice a month, and knew Tommy well. He was a good guy, an American from New York City, who grilled burgers and smoked cigarettes out the side window. Somehow, the smell of the cigarettes didn’t get into the food, and it added to the general “greasy” quality of the place.

When I entered, I realized that Angie was already there, seated at the bar. Her head of thick black hair was tilted slightly as she watched a television near the top corner of the room. On it, basketball players raced down the court, popping the ball into the net to rapturous applause.

Angie seemed unmoved, and a bit out of it. As I approached from the side, her eyes looked glazed, almost lost. Tommy himself was working behind the bar and placed a pitcher of beer in front of her, along with two pint glasses.

“Here you are,” he said, glancing over at me. “Oh, hey there, Rami! I didn’t expect you today.”

I shot my finger toward the pint glasses, giving him a grin. “Actually, I think one of those glasses is for me.”

Tommy’s eyes turned from me to Angie and back. I could almost see the lightbulb above his head, a realization that Angie was just another woman on my “list.” But Angie tossed her hair to the side, lifting the pitcher of beer and filling her own glass. The motion was so uncharacteristic of the many girls I’d brought into the restaurant, and it made Tommy chuckle.

“I always wondered when you’d bring an American in here, Rami,” he said. “I’m not sure you can handle the American girls. They’re tough.”

“People keep saying that, don’t they?” Angie said, giving me a side smile.

The smile felt powerful, like a wave crashing over my heart. But in just seconds, I regrouped, giving them both a nod.

“Good to see you.” I leaned forward, giving Angie a brief kiss on the cheek. She didn’t flinch, but didn’t react warmly, either. Her skin was smooth beneath my lips, and she smelled vaguely of hazelnuts and cream.

“We’ll take the usual, then, Tommy,” I told him, sitting beside Angie and watching as she poured my drink too. Behind us, the bar was completely empty. The speakers blared with ’80s music, which rang in my ears, taking me back to another time.

Tommy disappeared to make our burgers and smoke out the side window. I shifted in my chair, trying to make eye contact with Angie, but she’d turned her face back toward the television, excluding me. Outside, I wondered if Alim was watching. I wondered if he could sense the distance between Angie and me, a distance I desperately wished didn’t exist.

Chapter 9

Angie

Tommy’s reminded me of a place I’d gone as a child, a diner in our small town where my mom and I had swapped stories—some fiction, some real—and eaten onion rings.

One time, snow had fallen in massive clumps while we were seated inside, and we’d had to rush back home before the storm caught up with us. I still remembered being filled with greasy food and love, racing back toward the car and clinging to my mother’s hand. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

Now, the smells, the sight of the television, and even Tommy himself were pulling me back to the memory. I compared my carefree past with my current predicament: the date with Rami and our impending marriage, my mother’s illness, the money. As he began to banter beside me, speaking in that confident manner, I tried my best to act interested. This—this entire charade—it was for the woman in my memory at that diner. It was for my mother. And I would fight to keep her alive.