Trust Me (An Islamic Love Story)

Chapter 40

"Is this about money?" he asks, leaning forward. "Is this about the mahr?"

I am speechless for a moment. When I regain my voice, I say, unable to shield the pain his words cause me, "I always knew you think I am a bad person, but I never knew you think so low of me. And here I thought you were sorry," I mutter the last bit under my breath, but even if Azar did hear it, he ignores completely what I said.

"Abeer, I won't judge you if do want the mahr," he insists, instead. "It is completely understandable because all the mess is mine. How much is the mahr? I will give the same am—"

"Stop it, Azar!" I raise my voice, standing up in fury. "I don't want money. I just don't," I hesitate barely, "want the divorce."

Azar gets up too. "What do want Abeer?" He steps closer, and I reflexively move back, but he holds my wrist gently instead, looking at the tip of my scars.

"Stay away," I say, but I don't tug my hand away.

He pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear as he says with a sickening, sweet smile, "I'll do what you want, Abeer, except that you would have to do the same." His smile vanishes, and he leans down to my eye level, never breaking the gaze as he does so. "Stay away."

I tilt my head, wondering how easy it is now to judge when he is being brutal purposefully. "You don't scare me, Azar," I say softly, and I can see I have surprised him. I can't help but notice the bags under his eyes. I have met a real monster, I want to say. How can I think you are one when you protect me when he's around? "Why do you wear a mask, Azar? Does anyone even know the real you? Why do you hide it?"

Something flickers in his eyes for a moment. He lets go of my hands and moves away from me. He lies down again; this time, he closes his eyes. It is clear that there is no room for more questions.

I am by the door when Azar says, "People only wear a mask to hide an ugly face behind."

I turn to look at him, and his face looks peaceful despite the words; his eyes are still closed.

I go back to the kitchen with muddling thoughts racing through my mind. After an hour or so, I call Azar for dinner, who I find yet again at his study table, scribbling something in his notebook. After a quiet dinner and praying Isha, I lie beside him with my back facing him, while he does something on his laptop. I switch off my side's lamp but don't shut my eyes.

After a few minutes, I hear Azar shut down his laptop and switch off his side's lamp. The entire night, I don't move or make a sound, and Azar doesn't either. The entire night I am without nightmares, my mind occupied with Azar instead. The entire night I stay awake, waiting for Azar's breathing to level so that I know he has slept, but it never does.

Azar's alarm for Fajr goes off with mine, and we both stop it instantly. We sit up, and the moment I meet his eyes, my suspicions are confirmed. He hasn't slept a wink, and I know by the look on his face that he knows I haven't slept either.

***

Nineteen days passed.

The unusual thing is that wasn't anything unusual those days. It was a normal routine. You see, abnormal has always been my normal. Azar left early for the office, skipping breakfast almost every day and coming home late mostly after dinner. I stopped asking questions. I stayed away, and so did he.

When I was with Mama, he was with Baba, and when I was with Baba, he was with Mama. We avoided each other, and maybe it was the best thing for us.

The only thing that didn't change was my decision about the divorce. My heart ached whenever I thought about it, and a new reason was added to the list of why I didn't ask for divorce: Azar's parents. Baba's gardening sessions and Mama's cooking experiments have brought me so close to them that it has come to a point I've grown extremely fond of them, and the more time I spend with them, the firmer my decision becomes. Azar didn't speak about divorce at all either. He didn't even attempt to convince me. On top of this, I learned from Baba that Azar's and my apartment are almost ready, and if we want, we can shift in a week. It seemed to me the deal was off, but I didn't dare ask him that. I also called Mom and Pops every day and face-timed Maliha too, and perhaps that's the only time Azar and I sat together.

We both didn't talk to each other apart from asking the usual questions: Have you seen my watch? Have you seen my book? Is Baba at home? Mama is calling you. How was the day? Good, how was yours? Good.

Azar was working harder on his project than ever. His files were everywhere, but I made sure he didn't lose any. Sometimes I even helped him in replying to his emails. Both of us didn't let each other argue. Both of us gave each other fake smiles and pretended to be okay. We pretended so well that sometimes even I forgot the harsh reality.

Everything has almost changed in our lives, but the biggest change, probably the one that caused other changes too, is that before Azar and I pretended to be happy and normal in front of the world, and now we pretend in front of each other too.

At night, we lay down and muttered to each other good nights. We tried to fool each other that we slept by pretending to be the fool, but deep down, we both knew that we weren't fooling each other at all.

Mama and Baba called me in their rooms on the nineteenth day and expressed concern about Azar's health. After all, it is hard to ignore his lack of appetite and his increasingly prominent dark circles.

Right now, I am lying on the bed, mustering up all the courage left in me to call his bluff.

"Go to sleep, Azar," I say without turning.

"After you," is all he says.

After a few seconds of contemplating, I sit up and switch on the side lamp. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" I ask him finally, searching his face for any kind of answer.

"I am not doing anything," he replies, meeting my eyes levelly as if challenging me to ask him.

"I will be okay," I say, patting his arm. "You don't have to admit anything. Just go to sleep."

"I will be okay too, Abeer," he says softly. He gives me a weak smile as he says, "At least you don't have nightmares while I am awake," he admits.

I am tempted to deny it, but I don't. "You don't have to stay awake for me. I told you. I will be okay. I survived nightmares before I met you."

"What if I want you to be more than okay?" He asks, sitting up. "What if I want you to never have nightmares?" The intensity in his eyes is unbearable.

I let out a small, nervous chuckle. "Why would you want that? And besides, do you think I have nightmares only at night?" He doesn't reply. "You barely sleep, Azar. You can't stay awake forever the same way you can't leave the office to be here all the time. You are not my bodyguard."

"But I am your mahram," he reminds me.

His answer paralyzes me for a moment. I manage to cover my shock, and I say, "I appreciate your efforts, Azar, but your parents are worried about your health." I am too, I silently add, but my ego stops me from saying it.

"You don't have to say it," he says, reading my mind.

"Is this the real you, you hide?" I ask him and his shoulders stiffen. "If it is, then it is anything but ugly." I smile even though I'm exploding inside. Did I just say that aloud?

Azar doesn't reply, and that's how our first real conversation in the last nineteen days dies.