After a dozen more greetings and introductions, he led me down a hallway lined with faded photos—sepia portraits, black-and-white wedding shots, kids in school uniforms with matching mischievous smiles. He was there too: younger, softer around the eyes, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. I caught myself staring, wondering when that boy had become the man who never grinned anymore.
He pushed open a door, stepping aside for me to enter first. Something gray launched itself at me, and I yelped—full-bodied, dignity-abandoning. “What thehellis that?”
“That’s my cat,” he said calmly. “She’ll stay at my cousin’s while you’re here. I know you’re allergic.”
The creature—thecat—had already flopped onto its back at his feet, exposing its belly like a trap. He crouched instantly, cooing under his breath, scratching its fur with loving devotion.
I watched, openly horrified, a little betrayed.
Four—he had a soft, gooey, cat-obsessed side.
“What’s its name?”
He glanced up. “It’s not anit. It’s a she. And her name isZibala.”
“I know my Arabic is pathetically limited,” I said slowly, “but doesn’t that mean...garbage?”
“Yes.”
I squinted at him. “Do you hate your cat?”
“No. I love her.”
I nodded once. “Okay. The way you express affection is deeply concerning.”
“I rescued her,” he murmured. “She was about to get crushed in a garbage compactor.”
My heart did a small, unwelcome swell. I stared at him, then at the cat, then back at him again, waiting for one of them to explain how a man could be equal parts emotionally unavailable menaceandsecret savior of doomed trash kittens.
Zibalachose that moment to hiss at me. I flinched on instinct. “Watch it, furball,” I warned. “I’m not afraid to bite back.”
He stroked her again and she immediately melted, tucking herself into his chest. Something irrational burned in my throat. Jealousy, maybe. Or indignation. Or the realization that I was competing with a cat named Garbage andlosing.
“You exude a very chaotic energy,” he said thoughtfully. “She can sense it. That’s why she’s on edge.”
“Rude,” I muttered.
He scooped her up, carried her into the hall, and set her down before closing the door. Then he turned back to me, suddenly businesslike again. “I’ll change the sheets and get everything cleaned so you don’t get sick.” He paused, rubbingthe back of his neck. “Sorry, the house is pretty full, so you’ll have to stay in here...with me. I’ll, uh, sleep on the floor.”
I looked around the room. It was smaller than I expected—just a narrow bed, a desk stacked with books, a half-open wardrobe. I sank on the mattress, my body grateful for the stillness after so much travel.
“Or,” I said, peering up at him, “we sleep in the bed together and make our eternal matrimonyofficial.” His eyes widened fast, his cheeks blooming a shade of bubble-gum pink. I burst out laughing and stood, slipping two fingers under his chin, tilting it up to close his gaping mouth before he could swallow a fly. “I’m kidding. God, relax.”
He didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of amusement. And despite everything—the chaos of the day, the ridiculousness of the moment—his stupid, adorable blush curled low in my stomach.
“When are we going to the hospital?” I asked quickly.
“I’m going now,” he said. “But you can stay and sleep off the long flight. It’s fine.”
I shook my head. “I’ll come with you. I slept on the plane.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “You can wash up first. The bathroom is the second door on your right.”
He turned toward the window while I hesitated, unsure what to say. The Beirut light filtered through the curtain, brushing his shoulders in gold. I thought about reaching out, saying something that might make it easier for him, but the words caught in my throat.
So I just gathered my things and decked out of the room.
As I walked down the hall, the floor cool beneath my feet, I tried not to think about his mother or the tightness in his voice when he spoke about her. But mostly, I tried not to think about the bed behind me—and how, for the first time since this marriage began, it didn’t feel so impossible to imagine sharing it.
