He leans across the table and I hold my breath, because it feels as though he’s going to kiss me, and I want that, so, so badly. “I am starting to know you, azeezi.”
“And?” I whisper, leaning closer myself, wanting to close the distance between us completely.
His smile is laced with cynicism. “And you are nothing like I expected.”
5
Zahir
I KNOW ONE THING FOR CERTAIN.
I can’t stay in this tent with her another night. It’s a miracle I made it through a second night in this too-narrow bed. Owing to the heat, Amy wore even less– a pair of briefs and a singlet top, and I suspect she knows exactly what her choice of sleepwear did to my heartrate.
Somehow though, I made it through, and all I could think was that I need to get back to the palace where I can put some goddamned space between her and me. A lot of space. American Football fields of it.
At first light, I get out of the bed and begin quietly packing down the tent, replacing items we’ve used, neatening it while she sleeps. Anything to keep my attention away from the fact she’s thrown the sheet off and is lying with her limbs sprawled, hair like a skein of gold.
This is ridiculous.
The honeymoon was a terrible idea. I don’t want to know my wife like this. I don’t want to think about her like this, yet she’s under my skin and I know that has to be because of our proximity. The palace will bring relief.
“Good morning.” Her voice is husky.
I grunt in response.
“You’re packing?” I hear the frown in her words and turn to face her, determined to keep my eyes on her face.
“I have to get back to the palace.”
She pouts, lifting a hand to push back her hair from her brow. Her shirt lifts to reveal her midriff. I return to my task, more focussed than ever.
“Right away?”
“Yes.”
“You’re cross?”
I sigh, standing. “No.”
“Then what…”
“I have a country to run.” The words are unintentionally sharp. I soften them with effort. “I can’t hide out here in the desert indefinitely, Amy.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s been two nights. You said we’d come for three.”
“Do you want to stay here another night?” I prompt, knowing pride will stop her from answering in the affirmative.
Sure enough, her eyes drop to the bed, her teeth gnawing at her lower lip. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
Amy
The desert has been a reprieve. An oasis in every sense of the word, a break from the hatred I swore I’d always feel for Zahir. A hatred that’s a part of my soul, because of what he did to my dad. I wish I didn’t feel it. I realise, as he drives us away from the tent in the middle of nowhere, that I want to like my husband. On some level, I do like him, but when I think of dad, it all disappears. I can’t forgive him, and I need to remember that. My hands clasp tight in my lap once more.
He’s tense too. The further we get from the tent in the desert, the more I feel his mood changing, his hands tightening on the wheel until his knuckles are white. When the palace is in sight, still a geometric shape on the distant horizon, my phone begins to buzz.
I open my bag, lifting it out to see a slew of phone notifications – several voicemails. I click into one, and gasp when I hear my dad’s voice.
“Amy, what in God’s name have you done? Tell me the news has somehow got it wrong? You said you were in Europe, not Qabid. And to have thrown yourself into the orbit of someone like him? Call me back, immediately. I need to know you’re all right.”