Liar, Liar

12 | breakfast at tiffany's

The moment Inaya pressed a neatly folded envelope into Sahar's palm with her lips pursed in wariness and an uneasy shift of her kohl-lined eyes as they flitted away, she knew something was very wrong.

And the moment she let her gaze trace over the Arabic handwritten letter, inscripted in that familiar flowery style; dry ink blotted on ivory paper, spilling beautifully across the lines. Nostalgic terms of endearment resonating in her ears, her heart thumping as she felt a kaleidoscope of emotion crash over her.

For two years now, Sahar had incessantly detested her father for jeopardizing his family then marrying the very same woman who helped him do so, right after the divorce, all the while, carefully hiding any trace that might lead to her mother. He proclaimed that she needed space, and he'd supposedly sworn not to give her covert whereabouts away.

He held on to his deranged sense of morality and kept the promise, his last chance at redemption. It was an unspoken apology in the form of a hopeful compromise that his daughter was only a mere casualty of.

Instead of being ecstatic at the prospect of seeing her mother soon, she felt overwhelmed. Why did people think it was okay to walk out of someone's life, then return when they pleased?

Inaya had quickly pulled her into a hug, running her fingertips through her inky hair soothingly before pulling out an expensive bottle of hard liquor from under her bed. She quickly brought a few ice cubes from the fridge, pushing away the discarded paint brushes, pieces of cloth splattered in contrasting colors and acrylic tubes from the tabletop before placing a couple of tumblers instead. However, they soon realized they weren't very compatible drinking partners considering by the time Inaya had refilled multiple times, Sahar still held on to the three fingers poured into her crystal tumbler, the first time.

When Inaya noticed the same, she sniffled and sighed, wrapping her slim fingers around the bottle itself, and took a swing as she slurred, "You know, when I feel upset I take a shot and I feel better, so I take another shot, and then I take another, and you know what? Maybe I'm not the right person for professional opinions."

Sahar's lips had perked into a soft, amused smile as she laid her head in the hollow between her shoulder and ear, thankful for her anyway when her phone buzzed, Reeve's caller ID lighting up the phone. Her heart dropped, and she felt a chill gloss the length of her spine. Reeve did not believe in second chances. There was no pushing his limits, if she failed to show up he'd simply act on his threat.

It may not seem so, but he held more power than Ezekiel. If Ezekiel was the king, Reeve was the playing hand.

Somewhat tipsy and a whole lot emotional, Sahar knew stumbling into The Decaf Blunt was nothing short of a very bad idea, but she did it anyway. Sprawling her arms over the porcelain countertop, a steady pounding behind her fiery eyes as she ordered a coffee, reluctantly slipping an extra generous tip for a shot of tequila.

She was procrastinating, feeling Reeve's stormy glare drilling a hole into the back of her head as she took her time, picking her order and making her way to them. Because Reeve wasn't alone after all.

The next series of events seemed blurred together, like watercolors blending to form a beautiful shade, merging seamlessly. Around him, she found a distorted sense of peace while anxiety gnawed at her insides, her feelings were a paradox. His presence felt much too comfortable as she slid into his car, touching and making out in the back seat but now tangled in his sheets, all she wanted to do was cry.