The door shut behind her, and I sat in the excruciating silence she left in her wake, staring at the clothes she’d picked—muted, restrained, the kind of outfit that would never take up too much space in a room. The kind of outfit that would make me small enough, soft enough, easy enough to love.
But I wasn’t small. I’d never been small. Growing up with four older brothers, I’d had to shout to be heard, had to demandmy place at the table. Tootall, tooloud, toomuch—that’s what they’d all said, what she had confirmed a thousand different ways without ever spelling it out.
I’d told Khalifa that I wanted freedom, but it wasn’t so I could stay out late and choose where I went without asking permission.
I wanted freedom fromthisfeeling. I wanted freedom fromher.
I glowered at the place where she’d stood, the ghost of her hands still tangled in my hair. Then, with the kind of defiance I’d raised myself on, I slipped into the outfit I’d chosen, wrapped a modal hijab around my head, and reached for my favorite pair of kitten heels.
If she wanted me subdued, she’d have to settle for me shining brighter.
I DROPPED MY NOTEBOOKonto the table with a thud. “Memorize this.”
Khalifa’s head jerked up, startled. “Hello to you too.”
I slid into the seat across from him, flinging my purse into the chair beside me. “I don’t have time for small talk. We’re getting married in a week.”
His liquid caramel glare was quick. “Did they run out of glitter for the rest of your outfit, or is anger your default mode?”
I couldn’t help doing a quick scan. He hadn’t changed much over the last three months—same thick brown curls that refused to obey gravity, same glasses that made him look perpetually unimpressed, same boring button-down that did a shockingly poor job of hiding the fact that he was...ripped.Why does a history professor need to be buff?And, of course, the same annoyingly smug expression that sparked the impulse to test whether smugness was a removable trait. Preferably by force.
My mother’s voice rang in my ears—don’t eat—and I reached for the menu, trying to drown her out in laminated entrees. “Interesting that you’re insulting my wardrobe when you look like you’re going to a funeral. Didn’t your parents teach you to put in effort for a lady?”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t see a lady at this table.”
Too loud, too tall, too much.
I released a tight breath, snapping the menu shut. “Whatever.”
He started flipping through my notebook like he was searching for evidence of a crime. His brows furrowed, lips pressing together as he took in the rainbow of tabs and highlighter marks that bled across the pages. “What is this?”
“It’s everything you need to know about me. Pink is for personality traits, green is for childhood traumas, blue is for things that make me irrationally angry, and yellow is for fun facts.”
“You realize this isn’t normal, right?”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You fail students who use colored pens—too lively for your dead historians to handle?”
His jaw tightened just enough to betray the irritation. “Getting to know each other wasn’t part of our agreement.”
I leaned across the table, chin propped on my fist, every nerve ending bristling. “You’re eventually going to have to meet my best friend, and if you get a single question wrong when she grills you, she’ll know something’s up.”
“Why don’t you just tell her the truth?”
Even though I’d been bracing for it, I hated how fast the shame rushed in. “Do you think marrying you for the sake of moving out is something I’m proud of? You think it’s something I want anyone but you and me to know? It’s humiliating.” My voice snagged, but I forced the words out anyway. “So please, just memorize the facts, and we can get this over with.”
“Well. Since you saidplease.” He flipped to the first page and cleared his throat. “Favorite color: pink. Shocking.”
“Are you going to memorize or editorialize?”
He ignored me, skimming further. “Pet peeve: people who chew loudly. Fair enough. Allergic to cats—tragic. Would’ve pegged you for a feline enthusiast.”
“I don’t like things that pretend to love you and then claw your face off when you least expect it,” I muttered, too quickly, and regretted it almost immediately when his gaze flicked up, curious.
He turned the page without comment. “Height: one hundred and eighty-two centimeters.” He peered at me over the top of the notebook, slow grin unfurling. “Ah. Taller than me. That explains the heels.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Why should I make myself smaller just to soothe the fragile egos of men like you?”
“I’m not insecure about my height. But I’d bet anything that you’re insecure aboutyours.”
