Jameel did not merely drape fashionable clothes on bodies. He used fashion to express the souls that the bodies contained.
Rita’s accessories were gold and glittering—her hands and wrists and ears and neck draped with copious amounts of diamonds and black pearl–accented rings, bracelets, necklaces and earrings. Each piece caught the light in much the same way as her skin tone did, catching and refracting it back out into the world more joyously.
Jag swallowed, unsuccessfully attempting to recalibrate himself in the material world.
“Fortunately,” Jameel said, midway through explaining Rita’s attire, which Jag only now realized, “your stepmother had not yet seen my concepts or pieces so she will never know what she missed out on.”
“It was meant for Rita,” Jag said.
“Without a doubt,” Jameel added, his eyes aglow with his creation.
Jag looked to Rita, catching her gaze, unable to pass up an opportunity to feel the strange bolt of connection that came every time their eyes met.
Her pupils dilated, distracting him from her clothing as they pulled him deeper, lulling him into following her lead.
The smile that blossomed on her face was wide and unguarded and sweet as anything that Jag had ever seen, and he was transfixed. Until he shook himself free with a frown.
As much as it might appear from the outset that they were here spoiling his new bride, that was not the case and he, above all apparently, needed to remember that.
“I’m never taking it off!” Rita exclaimed, proud of how she looked despite the war going on within him.
Her delight was fresh and nourishing like a dip in the nectar she’d so aptly named herself for, making him realize how starved for simple, honest sweetness he had been all this time.
But not from her. He could find that sweetness from any other source but her.
To remind them both of the distance they’d agreed to, Jag nodded to break their connection and cleared his throat, offering a stiff smile and a clipped, “Excellent.”
Glancing between the two of them, Jameel laughed. “It was an honor to dress you, Rita. You have my number. Don’t hesitate to call if you ever need anything.”
Not liking the sound of that, Jag lifted his arm to his wife. She crossed to him to take it without thought, brushing off Jameel’s very serious offer as if he just gave his direct number out to all of his clients.
Leading her back to the artificial street and their driver, Jag was glad to return to the vehicle elevator and once again capture her attention. She had the confounding habit of finding anything and everyone outside of him infinitely more fascinating than she seemed to find him, and he didn’t like it.
“What did you think of Jameel?” he asked as soon as they were comfortably situated within the car.
“He cares about clothing the way I care about cars and was full of advice about Hayat.”
“Well said. And what advice did he give?”
“There is always someone watching.”
“Again, he’s correct. Fortunately, now you are dressed for the audience.”
She snorted, and he smiled, glad she had heard the joke in what he had said and proud of her.
As far as dry runs went, their stop by the tailor’s had been perfect.
Rita had charmed Jameel exactly as Jag predicted she would charm all of Hayat.
Now Jag just had to figure out how he felt about it.
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
“The stadium,” he replied, and was rewarded by another megawatt smile. She was like a living Edison bulb—almost too bright to look at directly.
At the stadium, the driver had barely opened the door before Rita launched herself out of the car, virtually running toward the construction site. Only waving an American flag as she ran could have better displayed to the world where she came from.
But her enthusiasm was rather pleasing. And he was proud of the stadium.