“That kiss was for being honest. Not for lying.” He kissed the tip of my nose before pulling away. “I need to get you home before your parents start wondering where you are.”
“Since we’re being honest and all, I do have a question for you.”
“Shoot,” he said, pulling onto the road in the direction of my house.
“What about Lizzie?”
I felt him stiffen. In the dark, he was mostly a shadowed outline. “What about her?”
“Does she know?”
“Yes. I told her.” He’d been easy, gracious, and smiling all afternoon. Now his voice was distant. Hardened.
“How did she take it?”
“Not well.” He blew out a breath. “But it’s over.”
I didn’t want to ruin the joyous mood. Especially after that extraordinary kiss. But I needed to put the Lizzie issue completely to rest. I needed reassurance that I wasn’t second best. I couldn’t stand the thought of being the Arabic-girl compromise he made to please his parents. “Baba says some boys keep seeing their American girlfriends even after they get married.”
“Is that what you think of me?”
“No.” Then, because I felt bad for asking, I added, “Of course not.”
He stopped at a traffic light and looked at me. His face shone from the glow of the nearby gas station.
“Listen to me. Lizzie is my past. I chose to put her there.” He looked me straight in the eye. “You are my future. I would never ask you to marry me if I wanted it any other way. OK?”
I nodded, my throat tight, and hoped that was true.
“And another thing,” he added. “I don’t ever want to talk about Lizzie again. She has nothing to do with us.”
“OK,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
I reached for his hand, which he immediately wrapped firmly around mine.
Chapter Eleven
Now
I was exhausted by the time I arrived home after seeing Nasser, even though it was barely dinnertime.
Everything tired me out these days. Grief was like a computer program that was always running in the background, constantly draining my battery. I drove into the garage, pulling up next to Ali’s old Honda.
I’d cried when I picked up the dark-green sedan from the shop after Ali died. The thought that he’d never drive his car again tore my heart. It had been parked in the garage since. Next year, when Adam was allowed to have a car on campus, I’d let him take his father’s car.
Dragging myself into the house, I toed off my shoes and put on house slippers. I padded around in the darkness, closing the curtains and switching all the lights on. I’d always liked bright spaces, and that was even more true now that I lived alone.
The house crackled, the upstairs floor groaning slightly. Uneasiness slithered through me. When would I get used to being alone at night? Surely I’d lived on my own long enough now to be slightly more accustomed to the symphony of unidentifiable noises.
The floor above me groaned again, followed by the unmistakable sound of muffled footsteps on the upstairs carpet. I stilled. Maybe it was the kids. Had one of them come home in the middle of the week?
“Hello?” I stood at the bottom of the stairs, calling up the dark staircase. “Ayla? Adam?”
Silence met me. Even the house seemed to be holding its breath. I paused for a few moments and, hearing nothing else, shook my head. My imagination was getting the better of me. I scurried up the stairs, turning on all the lights as I went, eager to reach the safety of my bedroom, where I could lock the door behind me.
Entering the primary bedroom, I slammed the door shut and pushed a comfortable stuffed chair up against it, which made me feel a little more protected. I stilled, listening, but the house was quiet.
With a slight breath of relief, I crossed over to the walk-in closet and pulled off my top. That’s when I heard it again. Footsteps creaking along the floorboards. Coming from down the hall. This time, I couldn’t pooh-pooh my fears. The sounds were undeniable.
