I am yours. Don’t give myself back to me.
—Rumi
elise
Engaged.
My back hits the cold, hard stone of the chimney, knocking what’s left of my breath away. If I was boneless before, I’m a puddle now.
I strain to listen as his parents have it out.
“He isnotto see the girl again.”
“Hala, it will run its course naturally.”
“Always with his head in the clouds. His fantasies will bring trouble—they will bring trouble to us all.”
And then Mati: “She isnotfantasy!”
But I am, and so is he. We aren’t real, and we never can be. Not in this town, not in this world. Not that I want to be—not anymore. Hala’s words echo in my ears:Promised! He is promised to another.I’m trying to summon a rational explanation, mentally arguing against what is becoming agonizingly clear. Not only is he leaving, but he’s returning to Afghanistan be with someone else. A Pashtun girl, probably, like Hala wants.
All his talk of his sister’s arranged marriage, how unhappy itmakes her, and him, and he’s going to do the same thing. All his talk of soul mates, of love… None of it matters.
Not anymore.
I push off the chimney. Now my spine is stiff with indignation, my features hardened by betrayal. I won’t cower—not while they’re talking about me like I’m a slab of meat a week past good. Throw me away, or hang on to me awhile longer, just for the adventure of it?
God. I am such anidiot.
I throw my shoulders back and march toward the front yard, but just as I make my way around the corner of the cottage, I slam into Mati. He steadies me, two hands that burn my arms like heated steel, then guides me, backward and stumbling, to the shadows of the side yard.
“Elise,” he says, rough with distress. “You have to let me explain.”
“Don’ttouchme,” I say, low, hostile. When he doesn’t pull away, I smack my palms against his shoulders and shove with all my strength. He winces—his ribs aren’t completely healed—but I don’t care if he’s hurting, or even if I’m damaging him permanently. I push him again, and again, my vision clouded with rage, until he lifts his hot hands from my skin and holds them in the air, surrendering.
His eyes are bloodshot, desperate. “You have to listen—”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I am not telling, I am asking—I ambeggingyou to let me speak.”
“There’s nothing you can say that’ll fix this.”
I expect a rebuttal, a dispute about how, after all these weeks, after everything that’s happened, I owe him a chance to defend himself. But he doesn’t argue. He lowers his gaze to the grass and quietly, suppliantly, says, “Please.”
I take a step back; his nearness is (always has been) my undoing. I cross my arms over my chest and say cruelly, “Fine. You’re engaged? Let’s hear about how lovely it all is.”
His chin lifts, his gaze drilling into me. “Elise, don’t romanticize it.”
“Mati, don’ttrivializeit. How could you not tell me?!”
“She means nothing. I don’t even know her.”
“That’s such bullshit. You’re going to marry this—thisperson. An engagement matters!”
“It is not an engagement in the way you think. We’ve talked about this—there’s nothing sentimental about it. There is no passion. No love.”
Love.The way he pronounces the word traps air in my lungs. I clench my hands into fists, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to punch him. I relish the bite of my fingernails digging into my palms. It’s pain, physical pain that’s easy to pinpoint. Physical pain that’s easy to alleviate. Nothing like what’s going on in my chest: the systematic shredding of my heart.
