“I mean—” I rushed in, words tangling as they tripped over each other. “Because he wears socks to bed. Crazy, right?”
No one spoke. Khalifa’s ears were actively turning red.
I lifted my drink in what I hoped read ascasual eleganceand what probably looked more likedefensive maneuver, whispering into the rim of my glass, “I’m sorry.”
As I waited for the weirdness to fade, that awful clarity of all our differences, of the room, ofmyselfbegan to set in. I was surrounded by exceptionally intelligent and accomplished professors—suits and blazers and pressed ties, people who said words likemethodologyandtenure trackwithout irony.
And then there was me, in my sequins and color, drowning a salad and making wildly inappropriate jokes like I’d stumbled out of a circus and completely forgotten how civilized humans behaved.
“She’s had a long day,” Khalifa said evenly.
The group collectively came back to life, awkwardness evaporating into cautious laughter and the safe refuge of small talk. His palm brushed my back, and I braced, certain it was tosilenceme, to rein me in. The shock of it rippled through me, and suddenly I was standing in front of my mother again, her voice ringing in my ears:too tall, too loud, too much. Words meant to shrink me, to fold me into corners until I was neat and unremarkable, until no part of me spilled over the edges.
I swallowed hard and moved his hand aside. The air cooled in the space where his skin had been.
“So, Lilly,” Layla leaned in, smirking like she knew exactly what she was doing, “what’s the most annoying thing about him?”
“How much time do you have?” I asked dryly.
He inched closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You talk about female bodily fluids at dinner and casually announce what I’m supposedly like in bed, butI’mthe annoying one?”
“I didn’tannounce,” I muttered. “I implied.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
I tipped my head. “Are you denying that you wear socks to bed?”
His mouth twitched, giving him away.
I snickered. “I knew it.”
“Lilly?”
The sound of my name, rolling offthoselips, jolted me. I turned, my bread bite suddenly lodged in my throat.
Malik.
The first and only person I’d ever allowed myself inch toward feeling for, the one who cracked my heart and helped convince me marriage was a doomed institution—stood there, impossibly real, hand in hand with someone else.
Chapter Nine
“AH, FINALLY,” KHALIFAsaid, standing up. “You made it.”
Right. Becauseof coursethey’d met before. In a professional setting. My husband and my...ex? Could I even call him an ex? Could you call a relationship that never actually blossomed into anything an ex-relationship? The universe really was one long-running prank show, and I was apparently the gullible contestant who kept falling for the same hidden camera bit.
Malik grinned, that same charming grin I’d once mistaken for sincerity. “Sorry we’re late,” he said, nodding at Khalifa before his gaze flicked back to me.
“No problem at all. We were just getting started.”
I should’ve looked away, should’ve focused on anything else—the cutlery, the menu, the slow death of my composure—but my eyes were locked on his hand, the one intertwined withhers, the subtle squeeze, the way their fingers fit perfectly. My mouth felt excessively dry, my thoughts tangled in a stubborn, painful knot.
“Itisyou,” Malik said as they sat down across from us. “Wow. I haven’t seen you since medical school. How have you been?”
Slowly, reluctantly, I let my eyes lift to her. Thegirl. The one holding him. She was...beautiful. Flawlessly five-four, definitely not heavier than a hundred and ten pounds, delicate, poised, the kind of soft elegance that made it impossible not to notice her. Everything she was, I wasn’t. She was calm where I was restless, graceful where I was raw.
And yet...why was I surprised?
Because that’s exactly what he’d said to me. That same smirk, that same infuriating certainty, the day after he’d stood me up in front of my parents:“You’re not the type of girl to settle down with, Lilly. You’re only good for a fun time.”
