She shakes her head. “I can’t… I can’t think about that now, Salama. If I do—” Her voice breaks. “I don’t think I can convince myself to be okay.” She takes hold of my hands. “Let’s talk about something else.”
There’s desperation in her face; she’s wildly looking for something to distract her before she succumbs to the grief.
“Tell me about Germany,” I breathe. “Tell me what we’ll do in Munich.”
She closes her eyes briefly and inhales deeply, and her grasp tightens. “I was thinking we should have our own restaurant there.”
The surprise freezes my tears. “What?”
She nods, gaining strength from that dream. “Our food is delicious, and I read once on Facebook about a Syrian restaurant in Germany that was successful with the locals. We can make money for your university, an apartment, and stuff the baby needs. It’s also a way to spread the word about what’s happening here.”
I’m astounded, taken aback by her endless optimism. “And finding happiness?” I smile weakly.
She doesn’t return the smile but kisses my knuckles. “Finding happiness.”
Her eyes are bloodshot but she stares right back at me and I don’t want this moment to end. “But you know I’ll be the one to make the knafeh, right?”
A short laugh escapes her lips. “Of course. You don’t have the approval of every Syrian grandmother because of your charm.”
The smiles come easier now. “You know I think that’s why Kenan—” I stop.
Layla’s brows furrow. “What?”
“I… remember Mama asking me repeatedly to make it when they were coming over,” I say slowly, snippets of my old life floating out of reach around me. “She was asking if I had all the ingredients. Being so insistent.” I let out a disbelieving laugh. “I didn’t even… Wow! Takes a war and one whole year for me to realize: I think Kenanreallylikes knafeh!”
She squeezes my hands. “He really missed out.”
The thought makes me sad.Yeah, he did.
Layla goes to sleep early, wanting to be alone, and I tuck the blanket around her firmly. She turns away from me and collapses in on herself; I watch her for a minute before going to my room.
Khawf stands in the middle of it. Since Kenan showed me the sunset, it’s become easier for me to deal with Khawf. The visions he shows me feel less all-encompassing now, and we spend most of the time talking, working through worst-case scenarios. The talks have helped with my guilt, giving my heart the motivation it needs to leave.
“Don’t worry,” I say tiredly, slumping down on my bed and shaking out my hair. “I’m still leaving.”
He taps his fingers over an elbow, looking almost sympathetic. “Good. You might not get your money back. Not to mention that if you’re—”
“Caught,” I interrupt, falling over the bedspread. “Waterboarded. Electrocuted. Raped. Layla’s baby ripped from her uterus and left to die. Yes, I know the horrors. We’ve been over them.”
He watches me silently. “A shame that could happen to the boy you love.”
My fingers curl around the paper-thin covers and I twist to the side, finally surrendering to the fear that has proliferated in my body. Will I be able to appreciate all the colors in Germany without him? Will I want to? With whatever is left of my heart, I love Kenan and the hope he’s given me, and I’m not ready to let go of him.
I hug my pillow to my chest, focusing my thoughts on his easy smile and kind eyes. On his words.
On him.
Because if I don’t, if I think about Hamza, I won’t be able to breathe. I won’t be able to live.
WHENISEEKENAN THE NEXT DAY, INEARLY DROPthe bag of haloperidol pills I’m carrying. He’s standing by a patient’s bed. A little boy about six who has one side of his head heavily bandaged, covering his right eye. Kenan crouches, talking animatedly, and the little boy’s face is entranced. As if he’s forgotten what’s happened to him. Kenan’s hands move like a maestro, weaving stories to life between his fingers.
I place the bag in a cupboard and step closer to Kenan, absentmindedly touching my ring finger. I scold myself. I may be in love with him, but is it real, or just my longing for an escape from this horror? If he were just a boy and I were just a girl, living ordinary lives, and we’d met anywhere else, would we still have fallen for each other?
Besides, even if this is real, none of it matters as long as he’s determined to become a sacrificial lamb. The pain is nothing compared to knowing what Hamza is going through.
This morning I decided I’m angry with Kenan. He has my heart and he’s breaking it. Along with Lama’s and Yusuf’s. If this past month has done nothing more than scratch his armor, how much more time is needed for it to disintegrate entirely? What will be his undoing?
“And then the boy and girl were rescued by pirates,” Kenan says. The little boy still can’t take his eyes off him. “They sailed all seven seas and battled monsters together.”
