. . .

. . .

~

"And We have created you in pairs." (Qur'an 78:8)

~

Back in Zoya's manor — which has been placed in both Zoya's and Haroun's names after endless convincing from Zoya — the couple is met with excited servants and extravagant decorations. Mumtaz has outdone herself; she's called the best designers and caterers on the East Coast for Zoya Zameer's first entry into her house with her new family by her side.

Immediately, the servants take a liking to Haroun, asking him for water, juice, anything he needs. He seems taken aback by the number of them, murmuring "No, thank you" to each one with a slight tremble in his hands. His eyes rove around the place, but instead of being wondrous as is the norm for most people, they are tentative. Afraid, almost.

Haroun's mother and sisters had been even harder to convince. Ammi, as Zoya's mother-in-law had requested her to say — kept saying it was very unconventional and borderline inappropriate for them to move in with their daughter-in-law. Zoya had huffed and said these things were only "unconventional" because society made them seem so and that as far as she knew, religion did not at all prohibit this. And indeed, this was something Ammi could not argue with.

Finally, they had only reluctantly agreed because they were to move in with Haroun's grandparents a short time later anyway.

At the manor, it takes a couple of hours for Haroun and his family to settle in. They politely refuse any help from the servants, insisting they are able to do so on their own.

At around eight in the evening, the doorbell rings. A guard comes in, informs Zoya of who it is, and she nods for him to be allowed entry with a confused expression on her face.

Haroun's father steps in, darting his eyes around quickly. He smiles at Zoya, greets her, and she leads him into the parlor room.

"Mumtaz?" she calls. The servant appears immediately. "Some tea and samosas for Haroun's father. Oh, and inform Haroun of his arrival."

Mumtaz nods and disappears.

Haroun's father — Suleiman — is still gazing around with wondrous eyes full of light. The way he looks at everything makes Zoya uncomfortable — as if he intends to gobble it all up with his eyes.

Haroun appears, a tight expression on his face, but he greets his father politely all the same. He settles next to Zoya, and she is so unused to it that she inhales sharply, all too aware of his presence.

"I came to bring you a housewarming gift." Suleiman picks up the gift bag and places it on the table between them.

"There was no need for this," Zoya recites one of her rehearsed lines. "Really, thank you."

"Yes, there really was no need for this." Haroun's voice is tight, like an elastic band stretched too far.

She and him are essentially saying the same thing. The only difference is that Zoya says it out of courtesy, while it seems that Haroun means it.

There is a tense moment of silence, during which Suleiman stares at Haroun unflinchingly. The latter, despite his tense posture and clenched fists, keeps his eyes lowered.

Haroun's sisters walk in, and the bubbly air seems to dissipate out of Aisha while Naima becomes more reserved than ever. They greet their father before sitting at a distance from him.

The room seems to thicken with the possibility of unsaid words. Of hurtful, pain-filled words. Zoya tries her best to carry out a relaxed conversation with her father-in-law, and every time she laughs or gestures for him to eat or drink, she can feel Haroun's eyes searing into the side of her head.

And then Suleiman asks his children, "How is your mother doing?"

There is a sharp intake of breath from Aisha. Haroun's jaw tightens. Naima remains quiet.

Zoya barrels forward. "Uh, she's — she's doing well, Alhamdulillah. She went to bed early."

Suleiman's eyes pierce his children, for a moment paying no heed to his daughter-in-law.

"Is she okay?"

And then, like breaking the surface after drowning for so long, it is Naima who speaks up. Not bubbly, talkative Aisha. Not strong-willed Haroun. But Naima who says, "Papa, you're our father. We cannot disrespect you, but please don't maintain these falseties." She takes a trembling breath, and Haroun's head shoots to her, a warning in his eyes. "You haven't looked after us for a long time now, haven't bothered to see how we're doing for eight years. Please don't ask us how we're doing now. We can maintain a respectful distance, but . . . please, Papa. Don't pretend to care."

Suleiman is clearly surprised by her being the one to say this to him. He gives her a wide-eyed glance which turns hurtful in a a manner of seconds. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. Without another word, he stands and exits the parlor despite Zoya's confused protests of "Wait!"

Zoya turns to Naima, taken aback by the fresh tears pooling down her face.

"Naima," Aisha cautions softly, reaching forward for her sister's arm.

Naima pulls back. "Don't, Aisha. Don't 'Naima' me. We've stayed quiet for too long. He hasn't lived up to his title of father for so many years, and now he walks back into our lives when he sees the potential in his wealthy daughter-in-law and wants to pretend that everything is okay?"

Zoya's eyebrows rise at these words.

Naima points to the gift bag. "He hasn't given us anything for years while he's showered his wife with endless gifts. He left us in such a state that we have struggled and struggled and are now living in our brother's wife's house." Her eyes bear a heavy shame, and Zoya is surprised by it. She is surprised by these words coming out of her mouth, surprised the young girl spoke so much in just a few moments. And in such a few short sentences, spoke so clearly the point she was trying to get across. With an eloquence Zoya never expected her to have.

Haroun throws his sister a pained glance. "Naima, I know how you feel. I'm so sorry — "

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?" Naima laughs mirthlessly. "Bhai, you're supposed to . . . you're supposed to explore at your age. You're supposed to go out with your friends, camp, travel, have fun. You have a responsibility, yes, but you gave up everything so that Aisha and I could live comfortable lives. You're so young." Her voice cracks into a sob.

"You don't deserve to have your happiness sacrificed because of us, don't deserve to be given such huge responsibilities at such a young age. You worked a job that pained you every second and gave you sleepless nights just so we could have a relaxed education. Bhai, you're twenty-eight, but you've been a father for much longer than that," she sobs. "You've done all that he was supposed to do, and you've done it better than him. So he doesn't deserve to walk in here and ask us how we are doing. He doesn't." She buries her head in her hands while Haroun watches her with shocked, watery eyes.

Zoya senses this to be a private moment between siblings, so she stands silently. But Haroun turns to her, eyes full of grief, and suddenly she is rooted to the ground.

"Naima." Haroun's voice comes out a whisper. "In what world do you think you're a burden to me? You are my responsibility." He tries to catch her eyes, but she stares at the floor, crying silently. Haroun reaches forward and grasps both of hers and Aisha's hands. "You guys have made everything worth it, do you know that?" In his voice there is an attempt at a smile. "I didn't do what I did to see you in this state. I did it so I could see you" — he gestures to Aisha — "laughing and making everyone around you laugh and so I could see you" — he nudges Naima — "finally realize how much potential you have." He reaches a thumb up and wipes Naima's tears. "Don't you dare feel guilty for me doing what I'm supposed to be doing."

"You're not supposed to be fathering us — you're supposed to a big brother that we lean our heads on to cry. Not someone who gives up everything for us."

"I'm supposed to take his place when he isn't here, so everything I do for you is my responsibility. And who says I'm unhappy?" Haroun says, smoothing his thumb across her cheek. "It only makes me unhappy when you say things like this and when you cry like this. I don't want to see these tears." He takes a deep breath. "And I know you're upset, but don't talk about him like that, okay? He's still our father. You should apologize to him."

Zoya expects his sister to lash out at him for this, to tell him she has a right to slander the one who is causing her pain. But Naima only nods shakily and leans forward to hug her brother. It perplexes Zoya — to see someone so readily accept a request they may not favor. Is this what it means to be open-minded? Or is it an acceptance of defeat?

Zoya simply stands there watching them, a strange warmth pooling in her chest.

The three siblings grasp each other, burying their faces in each other's shoulders. Naima weeps against her brother's chest silently while Aisha runs her fingers through his hair softly. But Haroun is not looking at her. Or at Naima.

Instead, his eyes are on Zoya.

. . .

Later that night, when Zoya is working in the living room, she dials Sameer's number and asks about recent developments.

"How's everything, by the way?" he asks towards the end of the call.

Zoya is startled by the question. She pulls back to stare at her phone. "What do you mean, Sameer?"

There is a short laugh on the other end. "Only you would be surprised by a 'how are you' question. So are you looking for an ulterior motive behind it? Maybe you think I'm just asking you out of courtesy. Maybe you think I'm asking because I'm trying to distract you in order to fulfill me real motive. Maybe — "

"Sameer," Zoya warns.

"Okay, okay. I was just joking. Forget I asked."

"Everything's fine," she answers anyway.

"Ooh, how much did it cost you to say that?"

She rolls her eyes, then becomes serious. "How's the media looking?"

"Bad. But it could be worse. I talked to Lucas and the rest of PR. We're trying to get everything under control. The press conference helped, but it raised a lotta new questions."

Zoya massages her temples. "We'll deal with them."

"As we always do."

"Goodnight, Sameer."

"Take care."

The call ends and Zoya sighs. As much as she pretends to be annoyed by Sameer's banter, she can't help but feel relieved. At least he doesn't hate her as she thought he did.

Because he doesn't know what you did.

Zoya shakes her head, angry at the voices in it. She rifles through papers on the table and gives up when she can't find the one she's looking for. Opening another file, she scans the pages of new designs on sherwanis and lenghas, frustrated by the lack of a proper lead designer.

But looking at the designs reminds her of Sumaiya — of what she did and what Zoya did to her in return. A stab pierces her chest as she shuts the file with more force than necessary.

Zoya rubs a hand over her face, trying to massage the sleepiness away. She knows that as soon as her head hits the pillow, she will again be haunted by what she has done.

"You alright?"

She jumps at his voice. It's so quiet that it's barely audible. Haroun emerges from near the pillar, two mugs in his hand.

"Sorry," he says as he sets a mug down on the table and sits next to her. "I didn't meant to scare you."

Zoya eyes the mug, then him. "How long were you standing there?"

He flushes a deep red but doesn't answer her question, taking a sip from his mug instead.

It is so eerie to be sitting with him here, in the middle of the night, when it is so silent. Usually they are around people when they talk, and the background noises help facilitate conversation. But here there is pin drop silence, making them hyper aware of each other's every movement, every expression, every whisper.

"What are you working on?" He gestures to the mess of papers.

"Just looking over some designs. And files of potential designers."

At the indirect association with Sumaiya, his knuckles tighten around the mug, and Zoya immediately regrets saying anything.

"And have you interviewed any yet?"

She shakes her head. "I'm finding it a little hard to go to the office nowadays." They share a quick look full of unsaid words before Haroun looks away. Zoya rushes to fill the silence. "Has Naima calmed down a bit?"

"She's still moody, but better. Mama's with her. Convinced her to call Papa and apologize."

Zoya nods.

"I hate it when they say things like that." He sighs, shoving a hand through his hair. "As if I'm some outsider doing them some big favor."

Zoya shrugs. "They feel guilty, you know? You do so much for them."

"They shouldn't feel guilty." He rubs his forehead. "It's a duty."

"If they didn't know what you were sacrificing, maybe they wouldn't."

He eyes her. "What am I sacrificing?"

She thinks of how he told her he had to stop working with Zameer. Of his eye bags and his constantly fatigued aura at work. Of the way he smiled when he told her he had finally grown his wings to leave.

"You were sacrificing your faith," she whispers. He continues to stare at her, an unfathomable expression on his face.

But again, he chooses not to address what she says. "Thank you for what you did today, by the way." His voice, too, is a whisper. She wonders why in her big, silent house, in the middle of a dark night, they are whispering.

Now it's her turn to question him. "What did I do today?"

"You welcomed my dad. Showed him hospitality, talked to him, kept him company. I want our relationship to work again, but . . ." There is a bitterness in his voice that she is unused to.

Zoya circles the mouth of the mug with her fingers. "What — if you don't mind my asking — what happened with him?"

Haroun turns away so she is unable to read his face. "He married a second time. In secret. We didn't know until three years later, when his wife already had a baby on the way. Unfortunately, she had a miscarriage, but . . . " He rubs his forehead. "My mom was devastated, and she demanded a divorce from him. Aisha was a bit young to fully understand, but Naima understood, and she's been so . . . quiet since then." He shrugs, not meeting her eyes.

Zoya's own eyes glisten with tears. How heartbreaking to live and love somebody only to find out later that they had been occupied with someone else? No wonder Haroun's mother looks as if someone extracted light from her eyes, why her smile never quite lights up her entire face.

"When my parents divorced, my mom didn't tell anyone the real reason why. They would eventually find out on their own, anyway. Instead, she allowed people to make their own assumptions. She allowed people to come and tell her that she should be more compromising, that she should try to make the marriage work. She took it all with a quiet mouth. She knew there was no point in defending her choices because our society would learn of his deed and then turn back around and blame her for it. 'It's probably because you weren't good enough', 'You should have compromised more.' My mom would rather take the false assumptions than the lack of support. She didn't want to risk a ruined reputation." He scoffs. "Yet our society manages to make everyone seem ruinable somehow, doesn't it? Even when she was not at fault, society found a way to blame her for it."

Zoya listens to him silently, glad that he is finally speaking to her. She senses he has been wanting to say this for a long, long time.

"Aisha, when she began to really understand what was going on, vowed to build a heart of steel and allow nothing to faze her. Naima took a hard hit — turned fragile and reserved. She has so much difficulty trusting anyone." He quiets for a moment. "But I know she wants to marry so she can prove to herself that all men aren't the same."

Again, Zoya is rendered speechless around him. She doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say that will make him feel comfortable or at least a tad bit at ease. She doesn't have the right words, the right tools to use. Instead, she counters with another question. "And you? What happened to you?"

He laughs mirthlessly. "I went through a faith crisis. A major one. I questioned Allah, questioned why He let this happen to us, to my mom. We had been robbed of the support from over our heads, my mom's heart had broken. Why?" He inhales and rubs his eyes. "Until I learned that everything happens for our own good."

Zoya gives Haroun an appalled look. Somehow, she can never imagine Haroun to be the kind of person who questions God. She has only ever seen one side of him. The believing, trusting one. The faithful one. It shocks her to know that he once was just as she is now. Faithless, questioning God.

Human.

"How did you learn that everything happens for our own good from what happened to you?"

He circles his hands around the mug. As Zoya watches his fingers, she feels the strange urge to capture his hand in hers and lace her fingers through his. To feel the same safety she felt the day of the press conference.

She has never wanted to touch anyone so freely after what happened with her ex-husband, but she finds herself wanting to lean her head in the crook of Haroun's arm, to have him run his fingers through her hair softly.

She blinks back to reality when Haroun says, "God tests us all differently." He laughs, low and pained. "My test was to trust Him during a time when that became especially hard for me to do. Isn't that the point, though? To manage to hold on when it's most difficult to do so? We never remember Him in comfort, only in pain and displeasure. But He's always there for us.

"I didn't learn my lessons overnight. But it was something small that really hit me." He blinks almost too quickly, and Zoya fears he may cry, and again she will not know how to comfort him. She will not be able to hold him to ease his sorrows even while wanting to so badly. "I used to hold . . . this book that my mom read all the time. It was about the names of Allah. She would leave it around everywhere, especially after her divorce, and when I became most frustrated with God I would open and close that book angrily." He shivers slightly, and Zoya reaches back for a blanket to drape over his shoulders.