“No.” The knife wobbles in her hand. “Guns are not common here.”
Dropping to one knee, I yank up the leg of my jeans, slide my back-up piece from my ankle holster, and chamber a round. “Take this. Safety’s off. I’ll be ten minutes at most.”
“You really think someone will come after me.” All the color drains from her cheeks. She backs up until she hits the sink, her gaze fixed on the gun I set on the counter.
Fuck. Think before you speak.
I skirt the counter and mold my hands to her hips. “I don’t know. But that’s the problem. No one does. So for the next few weeks at least, you and Mateen are going to have protection twenty-four-seven.”
“And after?” She peers up at me, and her sultry tone sends all the blood in my body rushing south. “You will disappear again?”
“No.” The answer escapes before I can stop it. Some of the light returns to her eyes, and I kick myself for what I’m about to do. “I can’t be who you need, Lisette. I can’t…stay. But I won’t disappear. You’ll be able to reach me. No matter what.”
Her shoulders heave, and she twists out of my grasp. “You do not know what I need, Nomar. Once, perhaps. But not now. Go get your things. I want to be done with dinner before Mateen calls in an hour.”
Thethunkof the lock is like a hammer to my battered heart. Ford’s wrong. Some broken things simply can’t be fixed.
* * *
Lisette
When he returns, Nomar looks…beaten. That is the only word for what I see in his eyes. But he forces a smile as we sit across from one another at my small table.
“When did you move here?” he asks, spreading a bit of brie over a slice of bread.
“Last July. After we left Boston, we lived with my parents for a few months. Being alone…I was not ready yet. Then, we had an apartment in Marseille for six months. It was a nice place. Close to my parents. But I always wanted to live in Toulouse. When I was young, I loved it here. I still do. My parents did not understand why I had to move so far away. But at least they no longer ask when we are coming back.”
Regret, bitter and thick, clogs my throat, and I chase it away with a slice of sweet nectarine. I hated hurting Maman and Papa, but if we had stayed, they would have smothered us.
“And Mateen? Is he happy here?” Nomar asks.
“Oui. Very. He has many friends at school, and he loved the tutor he had last year.”
“Was he that far behind in school?”
“Oui.Boys in Afghanistan do not start school until age seven—and only then if they live in a city. Faruk—” The wine glass wobbles in my hand. It has been so long since I said his name. “He forbade me from speaking French. Mateen knew some Pashto and Dari letters, but no English or French. No science. No math. No history. Nothing of the rest of the world. He hated his tutor in Marseille. She was so strict, and he had so much to learn.”
I take a sip of the chilled Chardonnay, but it threatens to turn my stomach. Pushing back from the table, I stumble into the kitchen and pour the wine down the drain.
“Lisette?” Nomar comes up behind me. I would give anything to lean into his warmth. To take comfort in his arms. “What’s wrong?”
I sidestep him, go to the refrigerator, and pull out a bottle of Perrier. “I dreamed of being free for ten years. But the reality of it was terrifying. Every day, there was something new. Mateen’s first sore throat after his transplant. The first time I shopped for groceries by myself. The first time my son told me he wished his papa were still alive…”
Nomar says nothing. But the anguish in his eyes speaks volumes.
“I did not tell him until after his transplant,” I whisper. “He cried only a little then. More when he realized we were never going back to Afghanistan. He knew his father hurt me. But he was the only son. Faruk treated him like a prince.”
“What—” Nomar clears his throat. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. “What about now? Does Mateen still talk about him?”
I force a deep breath, lifting my gaze to his. “No. When I told him we were moving here, he asked me why we could not go back home, and I told him some of the things Faruk had done. That he had taken me from France without my permission. That he would not let me talk to my family. That he hurt many people all over the world. Children understand so much more than we give them credit for, I think. He has not spoken of his father since.”
My appetite is gone, so I pick up my plate and take it to the sink. “Mateen will call soon. Eat as much as you like. I will clean up when I come back down.”
Before Nomar can say a word, I grab my phone from the counter and hurry up the stairs to my bedroom. So many nights I dreamed of him. Of being able to see him again. Talk to him. Tell him about my life. But now that he is here, I can think about only one thing.
How will I survive when he leaves?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
