. . .

. . .

~

"Is not Allah the most Just of Judges?" (Qur'an 95:8)

~

Aisha Suleiman stands excitedly in front of the door to the auditorium, her family trailing behind her. She takes a deep breath before walking inside.

Zoya gazes around at the paintings being showcased in the high school's art gala. Never in a million years did she imagine being in a situation like this, but Haroun and his family are so attached to one another that it seemed only fitting for all of them to attend Aisha's special day. And luckily, the gala is occurring after Zoya and Haroun get off work.

Zoya stops in front of one particularly captivating painting. It is of the back of a girl's head, the long tresses of her beautiful black hair abruptly cutting off at the end of the canvas. Zoya cocks her head to the side. "Haroun?" she murmurs. He turns at the sound of her voice. "Doesn't this feel so . . . incomplete?"

He studies it for a moment. "I think it leaves a lot up to interpretation."

"Yeah, but . . . " Zoya makes a sound of frustration. "The hair just . . . stops." She doesn't know how to voice what the painting makes her feel.

"If you like that, check this one out." Haroun nudges her towards another one, and for a moment Zoya is startled by the casualness of his touch. Then her gaze turns to the painting he is showing her, and her eyes spark. It is such a a sadly magnificent masterpiece — sporting a small canary yellow bird clipped of its wings in a black and white cage. The bird is the only burst of color in its otherwise dull environment. There is something so hopeful about the painting despite its melancholy atmosphere.

"Wow," Zoya manages to say.

Haroun chuckles softly besides her. "Wow indeed," he says. "Know who the artist is?"

Zoya's eyes trail to the name at the bottom right corner and she lets out a gasp. "Aisha?"

At that moment, the girl being mentioned pops up behind them, grinning excitedly. "You like?" she asks with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Zoya grins. "I love!"

A friend of Aisha's walks by then, and she turns around to greet her. The other girl — Amal — compliments Aisha's artwork. They converse for a couple of minutes, talking about shopping and clothes or whatever it is that teenage girls talk about.

Then Amal says, "I love your dress! Although I wouldn't wear it because it's a bit short for me, but it looks awesome on you."

Zoya's eyes widen, darting between the two girls. Aisha laughs nervously and smoothly continues the conversation, but Zoya senses her discomfort. When Amal leaves, Zoya turns to Haroun and says, "Did you hear that?"

He turns away from the painting he's looking at. "Hear what?"

Zoya turns to Aisha, appalled. "She basically called you out for your dressing style. Very directly, at that."

Aisha chuckles nervously. "It's okay, aapi. I'm sure she had good intentions."

"Good intentions? Is that how somebody with good intentions approaches someone else?"

Haroun places a hand at Zoya's elbow but she shrugs out of his grasp. "Does this not make you angry? Aisha's decisions are between her and God, are they not?"

"Zoya, relax," he says, trying a placatory tone. "I'm sure there was a better way she could have said it, but like Aisha said, I don't think she had the wrong intentions."

"Oh, really?" Zoya folds her arms. "And what good will you take out this situation, Haroun Suleiman?"

He holds her gaze for a moment, a wariness in his eyes. "Maybe we can talk about this later?"

Zoya wants more than anything to disagree, but she takes a look at the crowded auditorium and inhales deeply through her nose. He is probably right. Enough attention has been brought to her already. She doesn't need to add fuel to the fire.

She turns away from him and focuses on Aisha's painting again. She runs a finger over the desolate yellow bird, feeling strangely connected to it. Zoya begins to circle around the auditorium and a good ten minutes later, when she has observed a lot of marvelous artwork and calmed down somewhat, she turns back to Haroun. He is watching her with such intensity that she does a double take. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That look is not nothing, Haroun Suleiman. What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

He blushes slightly, dimple creasing. "I was just thinking of something."

"What were you thinking of?"

"How to approach a fiery dragon without pissing it off."

Zoya throws her head back and laughs, immediately flustered by the way his eyes spark at her glee. "Not very subtle, are you?"

"Subtlety is not my strong suit."

Zoya's eyes rove over him in all his startling beauty and she nods. "So I've noticed." They're quiet for a moment, and she can tell he is trying to dissect her words. It makes her grin.

It's his turn to ask, "What?"

"Nothing."

He smirks. "That look is not nothing, Zoya Zameer."

Zoya holds a hand over her heart. "Plagiarism, Haroun Suleiman?"

"I wouldn't even dare."

She holds his gaze for a moment before turning away, unable to contain the wide grin that slides onto her face. She schools her expression into her best attempt at a serious one and says, "So tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What are your thoughts on what just happened back there?" She tilts her head, referring to Amal's comment.

The playful expression slides off his face and he takes a deep breath. "I think there are two sides to the coin. We need to . . . be careful with the way we deliver our advice, but we also need to be willing to accept advice. I think there's a difference between people giving you genuine advice and people telling you something just to attack you." He gestures to Aisha across the auditorium. "I don't think her friend meant any harm, and maybe that was her way of advising Aisha as politely as possible." When Zoya opens her mouth to argue, he continues quickly, "I understand there may have been a better way for her friend to say it, but we can't live our entire lives getting angry every time someone tries to advise us, can we?" His voice is gentle.

Zoya tries to find reason within his words, but Aisha's friend has reminded her of all the people in her past who have ruthlessly called Zoya out for her sins.

Haroun continues, "This doesn't just go for Aisha's case but advising people in general." He pauses when Zoya cocks her head to the side and eyes him intently, but continues after a moment. "I feel like . . . if you are close to somebody, sometimes it's better to point out something before it snowballs into an avalanche. Before it becomes something you lose the control to fix."

Zoya ponders over that for a moment, never taking her eyes off him. Finally, she murmurs, "I guess that makes sense." He gives her a surprised look and she laughs. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You thought I'd fight you about it?" Zoya turns to the painting of a gray lantern beside her. "A year ago, I probably would have. I would have fought you so much that this whole auditorium would be cleared of people scared of me. But you have a way of speaking that makes people listen, Haroun." He's quiet in response to that, and Zoya knows even without looking that the compliment is making him redden.

"I think" — he pauses, sighs deeply — "you've been taught about a lot of black and white areas, been told about strict rulings, seen everything as either this or that. But sometimes there's no black. Or white." He gestures to the lantern painting. "Sometimes there's only gray. And we try to look for black and white in an entirely gray area, or gray in an entirely black and white area." He pauses to look at her and sees that she's still willing to listen. "It's all very circumstantial, and we need to take a step back and observe the entire chessboard."

Haroun has once again managed to render Zoya speechless. She takes a deep breath, trying to gain her bearings before turning to him. "There's no gray on a chessboard, though," she says playfully, trying to cover the tremors in her voice.

He rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"I know." Impulsively, she reaches forward and squishes his cheek, shocking them both. "You're just so cute when you're explaining things."

When Zoya lets him go, a sly smile spreads on his face. "Does that mean you understood what I was trying to say?"

"More than understood, sweetheart. You are one of those people who is able to give the right advice in the right way at the right time. God bless your words."

They both freeze in shock at that last statement, Zoya's eyes widening. God bless? She never uses that phrase, doesn't believe in it or the hope it brings people.

But from somewhere deep in her, the words have yearned to be voiced.

When she turns back to Haroun, there is a soft, proud smile on his face.

. . .

At home days later, when Haroun's family is visiting, Zoya shuffles around excitedly before approaching Haroun. Naima and Aisha follow suit, smiles on their faces. Zoya has placed everything in her board of directors' care for a couple of hours so that she can do this today, when Haroun is off from work.

He looks up from the book he's reading, eyeing Zoya and his sisters quizzically. "Can I help you?" he asks, dragging out the "can."

"Yes, in fact, you can help me." Zoya says, tucking her curls behind her ear. "Go out with me."

His eyebrows rise. "What?"

Zoya shrugs, nonchalantly playing off the rapid thumping of her heart. "Go out with me. A date."

He looks at her quizzically before his eyes drift to his sisters. "Sure. Of course. But, uh, why are they here?"

Aisha places her hands on her hips. "We were here for moral support." Naima cuts in. "But clearly, bhabhi doesn't need it."

Oh, dear Naima, Zoya thinks. My poor heart is about to fly out of my chest. If only you knew.

"Ah," Haroun says, smiling. "I should have known when you took off of work. Where are we going, Zoya?"

She is still not used to hearing her name so casually spoken from his mouth. "It's a surprise."

"Okay," he says with a shrug, closing his book and standing. "What should I wear?'

"You look amazing," she reassures him, grabbing his hand to lead him out the door. She turns around and gives the sisters a thumbs-up and a mouthed thank you. They grin and excitedly gesture for her to text how it goes.

Outside, Haroun is about to step into the driver's seat when he registers Zoya's outfit. "I'm guessing something recreational?" he says, pointing to her comfortable sweatshirt dress and sweatpants.

"Yes," she replies. "And I'm driving. It needs to be a surprise until we get there."

He holds his hands up. "Okay, ma'am."

Zoya holds back a grin at his playful attitude. Recently, especially after Zoya has started going to therapy, her and Haroun have been joking and playfully bantering with one another so much that it scares Zoya. She is not used to this carefree happiness, and every time she grins, a heavy feeling settles into the pit of her stomach. As if her very body is rejecting this happiness it is unused to.

She shoves the thought out of her mind and shifts gears, driving out of the gates. Haroun continues glancing at her, a questioning smile on his face. "Can I guess?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you might get it right. And I'll have to pretend you're wrong. And I'm not a good actress."

He laughs, loud and void of any tension. She bites back a smile at the sound of it. "Are you sure about that?"

"About what?"

"Being a bad actress."

She throws him a side glance. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He settles back into his seat and tries very hard not to smile, but the pop of his dimple gives him away. "Nothing at all." After a few moments, the smile fades from his face. He seems to be lost in thought.

"Everything okay?" Zoya asks a couple minutes of silence later.

Haroun lifts his pinky finger and absentmindedly rubs the window. "Yeah . . . I just don't like being like this." The sorrow in his voice causes Zoya to peel her eyes from the road for a moment.

"Like what?"

"I want to be able to enjoy things without thinking of the consequences." He turns to her. "Seems like that's all my heart wants to do, though. It looks for the loopholes, the tricks up the sleeves, the misstep that can pull me under." Zoya stays absolutely silent, knowing how difficult it is for him to voice this out loud. "My heart wants to look out for me in every possible way, but I want to be able to jump without making sure if I'll be safe or not. I want to . . . fly."

The words startle her. Because they hit a place somewhere deep inside her.

"You're in luck," Zoya replies, handing Haroun a blindfold. He takes it without questioning her, and Zoya has to appreciate the attempt at normalcy because he must be going crazy with curiosity. Zoya parks and exits the vehicle.

"What do you mean?" Haroun says, shutting the door behind him and staring quizzically at their surroundings.

She bounces over to his side, giddy with excitement, and secures the blindfold around his head. Part of the reason Zoya wants to blindfold him is so that it will remain a surprise until the end and the other part is so that she can hold his hand and steer him in the right direction like a normal, happy couple. Even when she can't shove the nagging discomfort at what she's done to him away. "You're in luck because I'm taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"Somewhere you can fly." She steers him along, and he trudges after her in confusion.

When Zoya meets the organizers — opting to text them instead of speaking so that Haroun will not hear — and all the arrangements have been made, she whispers "ready?" in Haroun's ear. He nods and she pulls his blindfold off in a sweeping motion.

For a moment, he is absolutely silent as he registers his surroundings before his eyes light up and he barks out a surprised, exhilarated laugh. "Parasailing?"

. . .

Days go by. Time seems to flit by in a blissful happiness. Zoya spends every day at work thinking about going home and spending time with Haroun, and when she goes home she thinks of how much she doesn't want to be anywhere else. Especially since their quality time has decreased because in his free time Haroun frequents the orphanage as well as the mosques nearby, meeting with their youth directors. Oftentimes Zoya joins him as well, her old wariness ebbing away when she meets other Muslims and scholars in the mosques, a strange peace settling in her heart at attending the house of God.

Pretty soon, the day of the reception arrives and Zoya and Haroun have basically been kicked out of the manor by the scheming sisters and Ammi. When the two of them are off of work, they meet at a restaurant to eat together before Naima picks Zoya up to go the salon and Farhan whisks Haroun away, promising he'll return him.

Contrary to her usual style, Zoya has opted for a very simple look for the reception. She does not want to admit it, but in large part this simplicity is due to a conversation she overheard Haroun having with Aisha. In which he said in an uncharacteristically adoring voice, "Can you imagine being married to somebody so beautiful?" He hesitated. "I wish . . . I could be the only one privileged enough to experience that beauty. Everybody does not deserve it."

Now Zoya observes herself in the salon mirror, satisfied by the simplicity of her look. No extravagance today, no dramatic display of her beauty. Today everybody will see the real Zoya Zameer, and Haroun will be the only one privileged enough to see Zoya Zameer in all her exquisite beauty.

Once Naima takes Zoya home, she covers her eyes and leads her upstairs, cautioning her to watch her step. Naima tells her to wait in her room until Haroun arrives. Then her phone rings and she rushes out saying, "Yes, please. No, no fireworks. Just sparklers."

Zoya widens her eyes in bewilderment. Fireworks? Sparklers?

Five minutes later, Zoya is more antsy than ever. Patience and allowing others control are both not her strong suits, and she keeps wondering what is happening all around the house. She needs to be prepared, doesn't she?

So I don't "faint" of shock or something, she thinks bitterly.

Zoya steps out of her room and darts her head this way and that, feeling as if she is trespassing on a crime scene. I'll just take a quick look, she thinks. Just one look and I'll come back upstairs.

So as not to catch anyone's eye — especially Naima or Aisha who might kill her if they see her out of the room before it's time — Zoya rushes down the spiraling stairs. Her heels make clop clop sounds against the marble and she thanks God that everyone is in too much of a frenzy in the main hall to pay her any heed.

The stairs are decorated so exquisitely, with candles adorning each step and flowers woven around the railings. Zoya is so entranced by them that she doesn't watch where she's going and crashes into somebody at the bottom of the stairs.

It's Haroun. He uprights her quickly before stepping back, and Zoya is hit with a strong sense of déjà vu from the night he caught her just like this. Far back when she had been Ms. Zoya to him.

Haroun does a double take, eyes widening as they take in Zoya's appearance. To her surprise, Zoya's cheeks warm. This is exactly the kind of reaction she has elicited from so many men, reveling in the pleasure of the taken aback, shell shocked looks on their faces. And she remembers how she had always wanted to elicit the same reaction out of Haroun but had been grossly disappointed when he looked away or kept his gaze lowered.