Trust Me (An Islamic Love Story)

Chapter 7

"I just thought. Would you consider marrying the other son?" she asks me so easily, that I am deadpanned. My head spins as I let out a ragged breath. "Abeer...?"

"Mom, I-I..." I pause because if I don't, I might just lose it and start screaming. Marrying Azar? No way. No way. "No, Mom. I don't want this. I cannot. I don't know if I ever want to get married."

Mom comes inside and sits on the couch, pulling me down beside her. "I know what you are thinking, Abeer."

"I'm not ready to share myself with anyone," I manage to say. How do I begin to tell her about Azar? I push aside the anger that rises at her pity look, and I continue, "I'm always so caught up in trying to be normal that I never thought of marriage." Every day I feel as if I'm going to die at any moment; as if I'm going to bend to my fears and I'm going to lose it forever.

"Marriage is half-faith, dear," Mom reminds gently. "You have to marry someone someday."

That's the problem. I want to drag no one into my mess. I want to survive alone. "I am sixteen, Mom. I have time. Can we please let it be? I don't want to come in between Maliha's proposal."

"Okay, I'm going to prepare dinner," Mom agrees and changes the topic. I am shocked that she didn't argue further. "Abeer, can you make the pasta?"

I nod, and she exits the room. I put my head down for a few minutes on the desk, calming my heart. Even the possibility makes my head go insane. It's okay, I tell myself. It's okay. Azar can't harm you.

We both go to the kitchen, and the smell of curry makes my stomach growl. Maliha washes the dishes while I make pasta. Mom is talking to Pops on the phone while she is cutting onions. "Come on, Muhammad. He maybe goes to some other Masjid or maybe you didn't notice him. Anyways, have you left the office?"

"Giving you food is like throwing it away, wasting it, and isn't that "Haram", angel?" He air-quotes and laughs. "But you can smell it all you want. This is the warm-up for your defeat at hide-and-seek." He keeps the plate just in front of me. I let out a cry, my stomach painfully growling. I try my best to struggle out of the ropes but only end up grazing my wrists.

"Abeer!" Mom warns, giving me a pointed look.

"Sorry, I zoned out," I apologize and switch off the stove.

"Go change, I chose a very nice dress for you," she adds cheerfully.

"Abeer, I want you to tell me which locket looks better," Maliha calls me from the lounge.

"Let me change first," I tell her, and she nods, and I quickly go to my room to do so.

"Oh. My. God." My ears turn pink. "You look amazing, Ma Sha Allah." I'm wearing a dark royal blue churidar, embroidered on one side with golden thread.

"You look pretty too, Ma Sha Allah," I compliment. Maliha's dress is the same, except it is light pink.

She shows me four lockets, and it takes so much time to decide which one looks best because Maliha keeps changing her choice. Why can't I be normal like Maliha? She gets excited by wearing nice clothes while I'm not interested in anything at all. All I think goes back to him. All I feel is fear. There isn't any room for any other feeling. How weak is my faith in Allah?

When Mrs. Syeda Noor and her husband arrive, I pin my hijab and go downstairs with Maliha. They stand to greet us, and suddenly I feel very emotional. How much respect they are giving Maliha and me for no reason at all. "Assalamualikum," Maliha and I say in murmurs.

"Walaikumusalam," they both say in unison.

"Ma Sha Allah, beautiful daughters you have, Eshaal," Mrs. Noor says with a warm smile. She is a short lady with flushed cheeks and shining green eyes, similar to Azar's, but a little greyer. On the other hand, Mr. Hussain is a tall man with crinkly eyes and a wise face. How can they be the ones raising Azar? They seem so kind and polite. I fail to not be prejudiced.