𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

29 || Boys Club

My eyes flicker across her face moving up to meet her wise green eyes. Eyes that have seen terrible days, eyes that have lived through wars, crumbling empires and death, so much death. Yet through all that, I see a blissful ignorance. One that tells me she doesn't know.

She doesn't know.

Know that the man she's deemed my father was anything but.

How could she not know?

I want to rip my hair out in frustration, make her understand my pain, my anger, but know that it'll do more harm to her and her weak heart than good.

So, I look to my lap and lie, "He doesn't approve of my marriage."

She sighs, "Your grandfather was the same. He never approved of Silvio."

That much was clear growing up. So clear I resented the one man who I now know always had my best interest at heart. "Why?" I fein ignorant, wanting every bit of information I can get discretely.

She looks up at me as though the answer is obvious. My heart stills for a moment as I anticipate her answer. It'll be the deciding factor in whether she knows or not.

"He's a white boy." That's the only answer she provides, as though that in itself is enough. "And if he knew you were marrying another white boy, he'd be rolling in his grave."

Despite the turmoil inside, my lips twitch at that.

"You were always destined for an Egyptian." She continues.

"That's a bit dramatic."

She pauses to look at me. "Your grandfather was a dramatic." She deadpans, "You of all people should know."

She ties off my hair and slowly makes her way towards the bed, as though the activity of braiding my hair has exhausted her. "Why do you say that?" I murmur, forcing my eyes away from her and to the mirror where I examine her work.

It's terrible.

I loved the woman but she had the eyesight of a bat.

"You got all his journals." Her words distract me from the mess that is my hair.

His journals.

A stack of thirteen small leather booklets all stored in a dusty box beneath my bed at what I once considered home.

Ones I'd lugged with me all the way to America only because it was my Jido's dying wish that I kept them safe and read them.

I never read them.

I tried, but could never get through them.

Not only did I have a particular distaste for reading in general but he wrote in an ancient Arabic dialect that was so old even sitto couldn't translate it.

I only knew how to because the old man had been drilling it into my mind since I could talk but even now, it was just so much work to translate.