Her expression sours, so I curl my forefinger over my lips, simply to hide my amusement.
“I’d rather prick my entire body with rusted needles, thank you very much,” she spits out.
“Touché.”
She smiles, then studies my face for a bit before looking ahead. “Mind if I dump some heavy shit on you?”
I nudge her shoulder with mine. “I’m all ears.”
“Thanks.” She’s quiet for a minute, and then she clears her throat. “When I was younger, my parents would always talk about being disappointed over the fact that I’m a girl and not a boy. You know, typical orthodox bullshit. They even tried for a third child, but nothing worked for them, so naturally, they decided to give up. And then Naila suddenly became their golden child, whereas I became the afterthought. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are amazing, but they lack a sense of empathy sometimes, especially towards me.” She sniffs and clears her throat again. “As I got older and Naila started getting involved into the business side of things for the family, I realized that I’m just the spare now – existing only to kill those who wrong my family. A butcher, basically. I didn’t…Idon’thave any true value; I’m here only because I was born into the Gaddafi family, and that name itself is enough to make people see me differently. To judge me, name me things, and talk shit about me in my absence.” She runs her left hand over her right forearm, and fora second, I think that it’s just a mindless gesture. But then Ireallylook at it. I fuckinglook, and my throat tightens when I see several inch-long scars spread across it – some healed, and some recent, hiding underneath the beautiful henna on her skin.
“Safiya…”
She brings her gaze to me, then glances down at her forearm with a doleful expression on her face. “It helps,” she says in a scratchy voice. “When things get too rough in my head, this is the only thing that helps.”
I reach out and grab her hand, then give it a squeeze to let her know that I’m here, because words seem too small for something like this.
Reassuring someone who trusts you enough to be open with you of your presence is one of the best things you can do for them. Monologues of motivation and encouragement are far and plenty in this world, but to actuallybe therefor someone – that’s what matters the most.
Safiya swallows as she stares at our hands. “Ever since my parents started whining about wanting a son,I’vewanted a brother,” she says, then laughs ruefully. “I guess it’s just an idea that has been stuck with me for all these years, probably because somewhere in my silly little brain as a kid, I kept hoping that if I got a brother, my parents wouldn’t consider me a disappointment anymore. And now, as an adult, I keep wondering what it’d be like if I reallydidhave a brother.”
“Well, you don’t have to wonder anymore, do you?” I tell her, squeezing her hand again. “Because now you have one; you’ve got a brother, Safiya.”
Her eyes mist over as she stares at me in evident shock. But then she blinks, and her expression clears as she gives me a cocky smile. “You sure? Because once you vow to be my brother, there’s no going back. Us Gaddafis may be crazy, but for us, family always comes first.”
“I didn’t think there’d be an oath.”
She purses her lips. “Oh yeah, there is. And it involvesblood.”
“Uff, you drive a hard bargain,” I muse. “If I wasn’t sure before, I most certainly am now.”
She laughs, and it’s more carefree now than reserved, which makes me grin.
“Fine, then.” She gets to her feet suddenly, pulling me up with her. “So, as our first act as brother and sister, do you wanna get a birds-eye view of this teeming foyer by heading up to the first floor, just to make sure we didn’t miss Timothy by any chance?”
“But I thought you said heclearlywasn’t here,” I counter.
She narrows her gaze at me. “Now you’re just testing my generosity, Dorran. I’m trying to help you here, okay.”
“Are you? Gosh, I couldn’t tell.”
She raises and drops her arms by her sides. “Ahmak,” she mumbles, then turns around and starts marching over to the stairway.
“Safiya, wait! Your clutch!” I run after her, evading the upper classes, their outstretched arms, swirling dresses, and twirling bodies.
Man, this night just keeps getting longer, doesn’t it?
20.
Ibreathe in the crisp, chilly air as I walk further into the never-ending back garden. Correction: theestategarden. Because that’s what it is. A long, wide field of green grass and tall, dewy shrubs – some shaped as figurines of mythical creatures – along with beautiful Common Rues adorning the expanse. Its herbal and slightly bittersweet smell wafts around the garden, calming my nerves.
I’ve been strolling this place for a while now, but the more I walk, the deeper these gardens go. It’s kind of like a maze, but instead of being complicated, it’s designed in a way that makes it easy to navigate.
My heels press against the manicured ground as I explore the quiet space, with only the occasional sound of the leaves rustling against the wind keeping me company. There’s no music here; no chatty upper classes bragging about their new home in the Hamptons. This is perfect, almost magical.
I reach an opening, and see a long, rectangular concrete bench ahead of me. It’s curved on the outside, and has a set of concrete-sculpted antlers as its legs.
I make my way to it and all but slump onto it, then click open my clutch before grabbing my hair clip from inside it. Finger-combing my hair, I pull them up, twist them around, and clip them behind my head. A wave of ice-cold air whooshes by me, and when it brushes my now-exposed neck, I exhale throughmy lips, relishing it, and my shoulders slump as a sense of calm takes over me.
