His liquid caramel gaze darkened—just barely—but enough that my breath snagged. And for a split second, I could’ve sworn he was reading every single vulgar thought ricocheting through my head, all of them wildly unsuitable for seven in the morning.
Out loud, I managed, “I told you—I feel sick. But...thanks for breakfast.”
Before my hormones could commit another felony, I bolted—practicallysprintingout of the kitchen, fleeing down the hall like I’d just robbed a bakery, and slammed my bedroom door behind me so I could drown in the terrifying realization that Khalifa Nasser had officially awakened whatever part of my brain had been asleep since birth.
Thankfully, a quick, ice-cold shower was enough to shove my frisky fantasies out of my head and the daunting realities of my actual life back in. Ten minutes later, I stood in front of my closet, towel clutched like a life vest, staring at the riot of sunshine-yellow, pastel-pink, baby-blue optimism hanging there.
I suddenly despised all of it.
I dropped to my knees and started yanking things out—skirts, dresses, cardigans, a sweater that looked like it had beendesigned by a cupcake. Fabric piled around me in squeaky little heaps until my fingers brushed the small box I’d shoved into the farthest corner when I moved in. I popped the lid and a blob of gray, black and beige glowered back at me. Everything was too big, too shapeless, too mind-numbingly dull. Clothes meant to smother me. Clothes meant to erase me on purpose.
I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought them here. This place was supposed to be fresh and uncontaminated by my mother’s poison, and yet here they were, like a bad habit I couldn’t seem to quit. I held up an army-green, slouchy sweatshirt—the one that used to belong to Adam, once upon a time, before she flung it at me on my ninth-grade picture day—and, because my brain hated me, I imagined calling her.
“A man ripped my hijab off, Mama.”
“And what didyoudo, Lillian? Were you being too loud? Too rude? Too much? You never think. Honestly, I’m not even surprised. The way you dress, the way you carry yourself—he probably couldn’t tell you were the doctor. You insist on looking childish and acting unprofessional, and then you cry when people don’t take you seriously. What did you expect?”
There was always a cause, areason. The world couldn’t possibly be the problem—only I could.
My jaw tightened. I stuffed the clothes back into the box, chucked it into the closet, and shut the door with more force than necessary. I crossed to my dresser and dragged out a pair of purple overalls, a striped yellow turtleneck, a fuzzy jacket because it was chilly. Then my hand landed on a hijab and I just...stopped. Held it there for a beat while the hesitation crept in. Not because of God or me, but because some stupid, entitled man thought he had the right to touch what didn’t belong to him.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to put it on.
I hated that. I hated that he got even that much.
So I wrapped it on anyway—loose, easy, one end tossed over my shoulder. Then I jammed a bucket hat over the whole thing because I was embracing chaotic preschool art teacher energy today, and definitelynotbecause I wanted to hide what was on my head.
Khalifa looked up from his phone when I walked out, sweeping his gaze over me—overalls, stripes, fuzz, hijab, hat—and stalled, brows knitting in puzzled concentration, like he was trying to figure out whether I’d lost a bet or joined an experimental theater troupe.
“What?” I snapped, crossing my arms.
His lips quirked. “Nothing.”
“Thought so.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE DRIVE WAS QUIETexcept for the whir of tires and the occasional sound of Khalifa’s fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel. I sat with my hands in my lap, watching the world blur by outside, wishing I could blur with it. The closer we got, the heavier the air felt. My badge hung from my neck, a reminder of everything that might be stripped from me soon.
I’d always wondered, in the deepest corners of my mind, if being a doctor was something I truly wanted. Ifmedicinewas truly mine—or if it was just something I’d gotten too good at pretending to want. Something I’d borrowed from someone else’santi-expectations. Maybe, in another life, there was a version of me who’d chased something entirely different. Something softer, freer, something that didn’t leave blood on your hands. Maybe if my mother had loved me differently—or at all—if she hadn’t declared war from the moment I took my first breath, I might’ve had the freedom to figure that out.
But as the practice came into view, the truth landed in my chest with the force of something undeniable. I did want this. Not because it made sense, or because it was what I was supposed to do—but because when I was doing it, I felt likeme. Like the mold of myself that existed before projections and guilt and impossible standards had taken turns hollowing me out. It gave me meaning when my mother spent my entire life making sure I knew I wasn’t wanted. And although I wrestled with the constant, nagging question of whether I deserved to be here, itwas the one place where the noise of her voice went a little weak, and I could justbe.
I needed to help people, to hold a life in my hands and make it better. It was the closest thing to whole I’d ever felt. And it sucked that it took the threat of losing it to realize how much I loved it. Like, only when it was about to be stolen did I finally see how it had kept me going all along.
When we stepped into the building, Kevin and Robert were waiting by the front desk. Kevin looked like he hadn’t slept. Robert looked like he was about to start pacing.
“Dr. T,” Kevin said carefully. His gaze flicked between Khalifa and me, confusion flashing across his face. “And you must be—”
“Dr. Nasser,” Khalifa said, extending his hand.
Robert’s brows drew together. “Doctor?”
I rubbed my forehead. “Okay, I totally respect your career, but that word actuallymeanssomething here. Can you just sayKhalifa?”
He shot me a glare.
Kevin coughed to cover his laugh. “Right. Well, we should talk inside.”
