When she came back out, I was waiting by the door.
“Beach house?” she asked.
“Beach house.”
The drive to North Beach was quieter. More intimate. Just the two of us and the dark highway stretching out ahead.
“Can I ask you something?” Zainab said after a while.
“Anything.”
“After all this is done—Rashid, Meech, Yusef—what happens next?”
I’d been thinking about that more than I wanted to admit.
“Sweet Zin.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your business. After this is cleaned up, I want to see it thrive. Really thrive.” I glanced at her. “You need a storefront. A real location. Somewhere people can walk in off the street and buy your rolls.”
“Prime, that’s?—”
“I’ve been looking at spaces. There’s a spot in Georgetown that just came available. Corner location. High foot traffic. Big windows so people can see you working.” I allowed myself a small smile. “I can already picture it. Sweet Zin in gold letters above the door. Line around the block every Saturday morning.”
She was staring at me like I’d grown a second head.
“You’ve been looking at spaces?”
“I want you to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. That’s not gonna stop just because we’re in the middle of a war.”
“You’re deflecting.”
I almost laughed. “Yeah. I am.”
“You don’t want to think about how much it’s going to hurt. Killing him.”
“No. I don’t.”
She reached over and took my hand. Laced her fingers through mine.
“That’s okay,” she said softly. “We can talk about cinnamon rolls. We can talk about storefronts and gold letters and lines around the block. Whatever you need.”
“What I need is you.”
“You have me.”
I brought her hand to my lips. Kissed her knuckles.
“Then that’s enough.”
The beach housewas dark when we arrived.
I punched in the code and led her inside, the sound of the waves crashing outside the only thing breaking the silence. The place still smelled like the breakfast she’d made for Mehar this morning. Felt like a lifetime ago.
“Shower,” Zainab said, kicking off her shoes. “I need to wash this day off me.”
“I’ll join you.”
