Even if it fucking meant losing my damn mind to get there.
NINETEEN
ADELAIDE
“This might be a tad bitexcessive.”
Three days after the engagement, Umaima and I stood in front of Osama’s unbelievably large mansion he called home with a nicely wrapped gift box in her hands.
I’d spent the past three days moping in bed. Mindless, occasional tears slipped down my cheeks. One by one. When I wiped them away, they returned the next night. Why did his words have to hurt?
Maybe because—and I’m just spitting random thoughts here—despite being broken up for years, you still might have feelings for him?
Absolutely not.
Is that why you keep thinking about him sleeping with that girl?
It’s not like I cared. We communicated that it was fine for him to sleep around—if you call being short with one another communicating then okay. My image was tarnished. If the media caught him with someone else…
I’d see it.
Other than that, Umaima barged into my apartment this morning to tell me the gang was meeting here.
We were not agang.
We were something but definitely not a group of friends who hung out together for fun—it sounded incredible—but I wasn’t a group gal.
When I was with one person, I could talk just fine. But add two more people and suddenly I became mute.
Large groups are uncomfortable.
It was hard. Not just because they were all listening carefully, but what if they weren’t? Then I’d just look stupid.
Somehow, Christian, Osama, and Hasan became bros—Umaima started working with Osama, so they were sort of friends now? I was still putting the pieces of everyone’s newfound relationship together.
In the end, I was always the one left behind. I’d always been slow, there was doubt in that. Yet, it was ultimately worse being the person no one waited for. Not saying that my friends didn’t, but they’ve made waiting for me seem more like a chore than a want.
Umaima seemed pleased that our trio was expanding, but I was pretty sure it’s because there was a certain man who caught her attention.
She looked at him when he wasn’t looking, fixing her hijab like something was wrong when nothing was. This morning, instead of wearing her usual long dresses, she wore a kurta shalwar—a gold-studded organza dupatta draped over her shoulder and moved in elegant designs across theshirt. Umaima dressed for herself, but this wasn’t her dressingjustfor herself.
“Hey, myAmmi Jitaught me to never go to someone’s house empty-handed.”
Should I have brought something?I was so busy putting myself together, that I didn’t stop to think about being at Osama’s house for the first time.What would he think of me?
The windwhooshedpast us, reflecting the turmoil of feelings in my head.
Umaima squeezed my shoulder, tucking the box under her left arm. “Babe don’t overthink it. This is from both of us.”
Too late, I was overthinking it.
The door suddenly swung open and unlike the wind, my body settled down calmly—almost peacefully at the sight of him. Until I remembered our engagement party.
“Hey Umaima,” he greeted her first with a kind smile. Then he turned to me, and my heart gawked at him like he was a newly awaited smutty book on my bookshelf, “Adelaide.”
Christian stood with his hair a mess like he’d been frustrated and ran his hands through it multiple times. He definitely had a vendetta against me because those pants were making me forget why I was pissed.
Men in sweatpants were attractive, sure.
