“Well,” he said finally. “I’m glad you’re doing good, Lilly.”
The air had started to crystallize into something tight and brittle when the waiter appeared—mercifully—with our food. Malik turned to the others, seamlessly sliding back into conversation as if the last five minutes hadn’t been a slow-motion car crash. I watched him laugh, perfectly composed, and briefly entertained the idea of introducing my fork to his eyeballs.
Meanwhile, Khalifa slipped out from under my arm, straightening in his seat like nothing had happened, and my chest plunged.
Oh.
The realization dunked over me like a bucket of ice water. I had hugged him. And—ohGod—kissed his cheek. In public.
I sank lower in my chair, face burning, fingers gripping the table. My first cheek kiss...and I’d wasted it onhim.
Khalifa’s eyes found mine, a flicker of curiosity mixed with amusement, and I begged the floor, the ceiling, literallyanystructural element to do the humane thing and take me out.
“Nice,” I muttered under my breath, scowling at no one in particular. “Real nice, Lilly.”
Dinner dragged after that. My appetite had completely vanished; I spent most of the evening pushing food around my plate while Khalifa occasionally glanced my way. Across the table, Malik fedHabibaa bite from his plate, wiping away a smear of sauce that clung to her cheek, and I pretended my steak was the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.
The drive back was quiet, the city lights streaming past in blurry lines through the windshield. When we finally stepped inside the apartment, he ditched his keys on the counter and broke the silence.
“Are you going to tell me what that performance was?”
“Our whole marriage is a performance,” I said with an eye roll, kicking off my shoes as I crossed to the fridge, dropping my purse and scarf onto the floor along the way. My hands were already reaching back to tug the scrunchie from my bun, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders as I grabbed a diet soda. I gave the long waves a quick fluff and drifted into the living room, slumping onto the couch and sliding my fingers into my roots to work out the tight ache the bun-plus-hijab combo had left behind.
Somewhere in the wake of my destruction, he let out an exasperated sigh and bent to tidy up—sliding my shoes neatly into the closet, hanging my hijab just so, setting my purse on the island.
“So,” I said when he sat down across from me, “are you guys like besties or something?”
His brow furrowed. “Are we what?”
“Besties,” I repeated.
The confusion on his face only deepened.
I huffed. “Best. Friends.”
“Oh. No, I don’t have best friends.”
I snorted. “Right. Just colleagues who conveniently show up to dinner with their wives to ruin my night.”
“He’s just another professor at the university,” Khalifa said. “I barely see him.”
“Huh. Funny. You seemed pretty friendly—an emotion I’ve personally never witnessed directed at me, so that was new.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on me. “Friendly is not how I’d describe whatever that was back there.”
My chest went tight. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said carefully, “that wasn’t just awkward. That was personal.”
I picked at a thread on the couch cushion instead of answering.
“Were you...married before?” he asked after a pause.
My head snapped up. “No! Of course not.”
“Then what was that?”
I exhaled, crossing my arms. “Fine. You want the truth? I met him in medical school. I caught semi-feelings. He made me think that he wanted to marry me. And when I finally told my dad, when my parents invited him over to meet them, he...” My throat tensed. “He never showed up.” I met Khalifa’s stare, chin tilted in defense. “Happy? Now you know.”
