Osama, on the other hand, walked on eggshells. Whatever the fuck had happened between them—I couldn’t tell you.
“Believe it or not,” she put kimchi on her spoonful of rice. “I want to help you win her back.”
“Why?” Shocked was a fucking understatement.
“She might hate you right now, but I’ve never seen her love someone as much as she loves you.” She took another bite. “When she’s with you, she’s happy. That’s all I want for her.”
“You’ve forgiven me?”
“Fuck no,” she scowled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t get why you did what you did.”
My lips quirked. “There’s a chance you’ll forgive me—in the future, that is?”
She hummed in response.
That was good enough.
“I planned on telling her the same day you found.” Umaima listened quietly. “She was bursting with extreme fucking happiness. I didn’t want to take that away.”
“She’s hurt, Christian.”
I knew that.
“She’s acting strange—not the good kind where she’s a girl boss, but the kind where she’s bound for spontaneity.”
“What makes you say that?”
Without looking at Osama, she answered. “I have a feeling.”
The doorbell rang.
“I got it,” Hasan stood with Yunus softly snoring.
Umaima ate in silence, Osama stole glances at her, and I was fucking lost.
“Son,” his voice boomed in my ears.
A man’s first best friend is his dad. I’d lost my dad and best friend the same day I lost my mom. From all-night conversations to barely speaking, our relationship tattered into an author’s unfinished manuscript. Our story never put itself together and I chose not to touch it.
My throat constricted.
I hated the man but hate initially came from a soft place.
He’d grown more than a couple of white hairs on his head. His clean-shaven face now full of a silver beard. There were lines on his forehead and bags under his eyes. He looked… distressed.
Why the fuck do I care?
“Mr. Hayes,” Osama stood before me—standing awkwardly like he didn’t know whether to hug or be repulsed.
All of it came rushing back.
Eomma.
Him and Eda.
Adelaide.
Low and deadly, “Get out of my house.”
