The Scars They Hide

Chapter Twenty-One - Answers

Chapter Twenty-One - Answers

Lutfiyah ran her hand over the suede armrest and admired the couch she sat on. It was an expensive lounge suite, one glance confirmed that, and it was a beautiful dove grey, something she wouldn't have expected Jaafar to have picked out.

"Lutfiyah? Why did you come?" he asked again.

"I don't know. I just, I guess I wanted to see if you were okay after, you know, what happened earlier."

He nodded then looked at her curiously. "Why do you care so much?"

"I don't," she said automatically. Then she winced. "That's a lie. I do. But why am I the one who always has to say these things?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you always ask me these questions and demand things-

"Demand things?" he asked, incredulously.

She felt herself start to rile up. "Yes, demand things. You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. Explain."

She shook her head in disbelief. "That. That right there. What you just did! You make me explain myself to you and tell you my stories and you're so, you're like an extractor."

His eyebrows drew up, his gaze on her speculative and a little concerned. "An extractor?"

"Yes," she nodded decisively. "An extractor. You just draw out information and emotions and, and, and all these things from me."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Yes! Because you never tell me anything. I find out you have a sister when she comes knocking on my door. And you only tell me that your parents live in South Africa because I cook for you and you need to tell me you're not going to be here. That's all I know about you."

He scowled and looked away, tapping his foot on the floor before looking up and crossing his arms. He looked like he was steeling himself for something.

"Okay fine. Ask me one thing, anything and I'll tell you. Just, please go easy on me," he requested, wearily.

She gaped at him, shocked. She almost pinched herself to see if she was dreaming. She could ask anything. Why he had moved here, what made him so sad, why May made him so happy. Anything. And yet. She didn't have it in her. She didn't want him to tell her things just because she demanded it.

"No, it's none of my business. I'm sorry," she said, softly.

He looked at her as if she were an alien. "You can't be real."

"Huh? What does that even mean?"

He shook his head and stood up, running a hand through his soft wavy hair, the action causing the worn t-shirt to tighten on his chest which in turn caused her own chest to tighten and mouth to dry. Well then.

"It means, Lutfiyah, that you are something else. You're this," he gestured at her, "this gorgeous woman," the words coming out of him as if it pained him to speak, "who feeds strangers because they look like they've been through hell and looks out for varsity girls because they don't eat whole meals enough. And who entertains old ladies because they don't have any company and who has the sweetest daughter in the world which only shows what a great mother you are. You give everything of yourself and then when you rightfully ask for something back, you apologise. What's the catch? There has to be something here that I'm missing. Because you can't be real."

She felt the tears rise up and hurried to wipe them away. No one had dissected her that way, saw so much yet so little. "You're right. There's a darkness with me. I have to atone for it."