how late i am getting this to y'all is so embarrassing I am looking away now but the story is ending soon and everything is wrapped up i am not letting you down this summer
...i think
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The city breeze sang. The moon and stars looked down at them. Suddenly, Samira could hear the serene sound of the River Mersey, those old gushes of water rushing toward the dock with a low swoosh. Her palms tingled, remembering the warm hand intertwined with hers, eyes envisioning the midnight horizon.
The air was cold, and tiny droplets hit her skin.
Her soul stepped into Liverpool, a city she initially loved but left resenting. Beside Samira was that other soul, her preceding lover. Tall, kind, but mysterious, who couldn't have her heart.
As the old memory meandered around her mind, Samira pulled her pashmina scarf around her body. Her smile seemed glued to her face; her lips didn't frown. Inhaling a shaky breath, she stared at the twinkly smaragdine eyes that looked back at her, almost in adoration.
Harry's eyes widened, and he raised his eyebrows, turning away with a chuckle. A soft laugh of his filled the space between them.
"Oh God," he giggled wholeheartedly now, his deep cratered dimples dipping into his cheeks, the shape of his face sharper. A tingly yet pleasant chill swirled Samira's chest, and she simpered, watching Harry laugh.
"I almost forgot your humor," Harry added, holding his stomach as he cackled. "Jesus, Sam."
"Well?" Samira questioned, raising a brow facetiously, eyes wandering around his cheeks and chin. "What's the answer?"
Harry had come all the way to her hometown, not only bringing himself and his big heart but a patch of scruff, spreading from above his lips down to his jaw. Samira never thought she'd ever see this day coming, where he'd actually let himself grow it out.
"Always been Harry." He shook his head, looking away. "Not Haroon."
"It looks good."
"It's been growing a lot faster lately. I am going to get rid of it tonight, though."
"It hasn't grown on you?"
"Yeah, I'm not sure I like it. I look old."
Laughing, Samira took a step closer, holding her arms out. Staring at her open arms dubiously, Harry blinked.
"Am I allowed?"
Snorting, Samira rolled her eyes.
"Of course."
Harry moved his muscles slowly, almost bewilderedly; hesitation glistened in his gaze. But Samira rolled her eyes—the moment she wrapped her arms around Harry's waist and rested her chin on his shoulder, he loosened up. That crisp redolence lingered on his skin like dust from an old book.
And Harry pulled her into him as if he were a child finding his long-lost teddy bear after thousands of nights without it. The way he sank his face into her neck, how tight his arms were around her. She could feel each of his breaths fanning her skin.
The longer Samira waited to unhand Harry, the tighter the hug, and she could swear a bone in her body cracked.
"I missed you," he mumbled.
A low sigh.
"I missed you too."
As her hands unclutched, the embrace got even warmer. Finally, Samira cleared her throat, holding in a stupid laugh.
"Harry?"
"Hmm?
"Are you going to let go of me?"
"Oh." Harry released her with an oomph. "Sorry."
"It's okay." Samira crossed her arms over her chest, holding a tight simper that hurt her cheeks. "How have you been?"
"I'm okay—doing well," He chuckled, tilting his head. "Do you . . . um . . . do you have time?"
"I do."
They sat in wooden rocking chairs on the other side of the roof, and Samira held an enchanted gaze. She couldn't stop staring with a rather impressed expression, like a proud friend, marveling at the changed shade in Harry's eyes.
"Will you stop staring?"
A snicker left Samira's lips. Her right leg rested over her left, and she held her chin up with her fist.
"I can't."
Harry laid both arms on the manchettes of the rocking chair, holding a sheepish grin.
"So?" Samira began. "What have you been up to these days?"
A quiet, amused laugh left Harry's mouth, and he rubbed his eyes. Then, leaning close, Harry intertwined his hands, rings rubbing with a clink.
"A lot, actually. I got a dog."
"Really?" Samira elevated her eyebrows.
He pointed his phone toward Samira, and she squinted her eyes and inched close. It was a picture of Harry smiling and holding a tennis ball next to a big dog with its tongue stuck out—a golden retriever—at an unfamiliar park. Samira cooed, zooming into the dog with a wholehearted frown.
"Awwwww," Samira whined, handing the phone back. "She's so cute."
"He, actually." Harry smiled.
"Name?"
Pursing his lips idiotically, Harry bit his lips.
"You're going to make fun of me."
"I doubt it."
Harry cringed; his face reddened.
". . . G . . . eor . . . gie?"
And his cheeks turned deeper and deeper in color between each syllable.
Before Samira could wheeze, she covered her face, laughing to herself.
"I can't even look at you."
"I told you you would make fun of me!"
Harry had been doing a lot more than she thought. He'd spent a lot of time traveling to different countries, taking a piece of what he'd learned with him—Japan, Ecuador, Morocco, Germany—many places, she'd lost count. Harry showed her the delicious food he'd eaten and the spices and ingredients he'd learned more about.
"That many places in a year?" She asked. "You're not in Liverpool anymore?"
"No, um, I'm with my mum now in my hometown."
"You two are good?"
"We're perfect," Harry chuckled, caressing his arms. "Aside from how much she wants me to garden with her. And church with her on Sundays isn't so bad."
Samira's mouth parted, just a little.
"Looks like someone became a believer, after all."
"Absolutely."
"You're still wearing the sabr necklace." Samira pointed at the bar pendant on Harry's chest, the same necklace he'd snatched from her, still paired with his cross.
"Oh yeah? Your idea of patience is one of my favorite things." He looked down at the necklace, toying it between his fingers. "Do you want this back?"
"Nah. It's always been yours."
Samira licked her lips, thinking about the drizzly streets they'd walk in daily, to class, to restaurants, and just to breathe the misty ambiance. All the little alleys, cobblestone walls, and the dreary, open sky. The fresh smell of seawater at the docks. The heavy treads into puddles. It all felt like a fever dream.
"You left Leaf?"
"I did. Bridget got promoted to my spot. I don't know if you remember her."
"I do. Why did you leave?"
"I just . . . needed a change." Harry swallowed, looking away.
Samira almost frowned, regretting even asking; maybe he hated that city just as much as she did.
"What are your plans then? Any work?"
Harry inhaled sharply, puffing his chest up before he sighed. His gaze moved to the stars above the two of them, and he pursed his lips, walking through his trail of thoughts.
"I have a practical plan. And a plan that I hope can work. See? I started planning. I picked up on a few of your things," he smirked.
"Shut up."
She always felt that Harry might've wanted to open a restaurant, with all his own recipes, and he was in the process, but he wanted to start small, with a food truck. First, there were meetings and documents to be signed, and now he had to lay the blueprint for what was next. As he spoke emphatically about it, Samira smiled to herself, remembering how much of a fantastic cook he was. But she knew she was a bit better.
"I will admit I have tried to make that stupid pineapple curry you'd make me. It could never be like yours." Harry shook his head. "I refuse to serve it to anyone unless it tastes like it."
"Well, good, or otherwise, I expect a monthly check," Samira rolled her eyes, teasing. "So you're doing absolutely nothing with math? Didn't even think of being a math teacher?"
"You're never going to let that down, are you?"
"Did you even have any friends in college?"
"Sam."
It felt nice, how words flowed off their tongues as if no time had passed. Or maybe there was a pause at the end of their good parts, and their story continued playing exactly where they were now, in the present, before those bad parts began.
As if all the bad parts were skipped over. As if they never existed.
But Samira removed the rose-colored glass from her eyes, deciding to see everything instead of ignoring it. The past, the reality of their relationship, the ugly truth.
"Are you okay, Harry?" She asked, softening her eyes. "With everything?"
Licking his lips, Harry inched forward and scratched the wisps on his cheeks.
"Yeah . . . I am." He nodded. "I'm doing better."
Samira tilted her head. "What changed?"
Harry had knocked on his father's door, tired of blaming his father.
Then, he knocked on Zayn's family's door, tired of blaming himself.
"They found a note somewhere in Zayn's room," he said. "After I left for uni."
"It was for you?"
"Yes." He twisted the rings on his fingers, tightening his shoulders. "I spent too long thinking it was my fault. But I guess after that . . . I realized I must stop inserting myself into secrets people don't want to tell me. I did that with him . . . and I did that to you."
Samira shook her head, blinking slowly: "I played a part too."
"No, that's not true," he mumbled. "I think . . . you and I were people that ran away from our families. But, in the end, we needed them."
The moment she left for her family, he'd gone to his. It felt uncanny how similar they were, yet so different. They'd always been a paradox, above the surface and under the covers.
"Did seeing your family and his family help you?"
"Greatly," he replied, almost disbelieved. "The simplest thing seemed so fucking complicated. Zayn never hated me; I spent my whole life thinking that was the last thing he felt about me. It's strange, isn't it? How we make everything about ourselves?"
"I agree," she replied.
A tear or two forming in Harry's eyes, he relaxed them, displaying a soft smile. He held his gaze on Samira for a good few seconds, almost musing on her complexion.
"I can see it helped you too."
A soft lump grazed her throat, and tears of sentiment glossed her eyes.
"Are you kidding me?" Samira giggled. "I'm . . . I'm on top of the world. I've never been this happy."
"So, I guess I changed your life?"
"Slow down. I'm not giving you any credit."
Another round of laughter erupted between them. As Samira cackled, she noticed how Harry's gaze never left her.
"Now you're the one who's staring." She cleared her throat. "Did you just arrive in Columbus?"
"No, I came this morning."
"Really? Were you at the nikkah–I mean, the first ceremony?"
Harry shook his head, pursing his lips tightly, deepening the craters of his dimples.
"I was there. But I didn't care too much to make myself visible."
Tilting her head, Samira cocked an eyebrow: "Why?"
Harry licked his lips, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"I didn't want to ruin anything." He swallowed, looking right into her eyes. "I knew for a fact that you invited me out of the kindness of your heart. I didn't know if you regretted it, or if you wished you never . . . sent me that email. So I just wanted to stay . . . away . . . as much as possible, I guess."
Her heart had become a bomb, ticking and ticking, almost about to burst. Although Samira had gotten way over the idea of loving Harry again, the idea of how much he'd learned about Samira after she'd walked out the door fucking terrified her. And now, Samira knew, he'd acquired too much, too late that another man came and swooped her away. Taking a step back, the whole picture was so strange, yet so real.
Actually, it was lovely, pleasant. Pleasant sounded about right.
"But you didn't."
"Out of my own selfishness, yes." Harry grinned sheepishly. "I thought I'd . . . never get to see you again. So it was sort of a now or never thing for me. But I'm really happy for you."
"You are?"
"Oh, Sam, stop using that condescending tone. I am." Harry rolled his eyes, leaning back into the chair.
"Did you bring a date?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Waseem, who else?"
Looking away, Samira giggled: "Alright, sorry. I didn't see him either."
"He probably blended in." Harry pinched his lips with two fingers. "But I am happy for you. I saw you dance, laugh . . . and . . . A-and you look beautiful. I can see it in your face that you're happy."
Just like Harry, Samira rested her back against her chair, continuing to listen with a smirk on her lips.
"I saw your husband. He's . . . tall."
"Really? I didn't know."
A laugh. "You've told me about him."
Samira's face twisted, gaze clouding: "I did?"
"You told me he loved kids as much as you, and you hadn't seen him because he went to medical school or whatever."
During a long, ten-second trip in her mind, Samira struggled to recollect any memory of Zafri's name leaving her mouth in Liverpool.
"I don't remember any of that." Samira scratched her head. "That's crazy."
"It's kind of cute, though," Harry murmured, looking far behind her at the sky. "You two are kind of like . . . childhood sweethearts, right?"
Her cheeks pulled back every muscle like hooked fingers to her flesh, displaying the widest grin. Although Samira had seen Zafri just minutes before this, she already missed him.
"Yeah, I guess you could put it like that."
She'd gone on, holding her tongue back at certain parts, about how it began with Zafri and where it'd go after the wedding festivities. Yes, they argued about where they'd live and had to compromise—Samira wanted New York City; Zafri wanted Dearborn. And finally, they found a one-story home in Massachusetts, right where it was the perfect balance of city and suburb—well, it was mostly Samira's taste. A library room was there, just for her. Zafri found an office for The Yara Foundation, and the pediatric hospital was within walking distance.
"Are you planning to work outside of the foundation?"
"Yeah, of course. At the Boston Globe," Samira nodded proudly. "I will be a projects creator. I will work with video and stuff. I start in three months . . . ish."
"Wowwwww. You're going to kill it," Harry mused, crossing his inked arms over his chest. "How do you feel about leaving your family?"
Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Samira shrugged lazily.
I feel ready. I'm not running away from them or leaving them because I feel the need to. They'll still be there when I need them, and vice versa, you know? I think that's something that Zafri and I value a lot—our families."
Harry's eyes twinkled: "You said it perfectly."
What was nice about the hotel they stayed at, Harry and Samira could see a good view of Columbus. She pointed at the Scioto Mile, the Dispatch sign, and a little bit of the university she went to for her Bachelor's.
"This place really isn't that exciting."
"I agree."
"Hey. Only I can say that."
As Harry continued gazing over the city, Samira leaned against the railing, staring at him, pondering. His shoulders had broadened, his youthful countenance had matured, and he still never let go of his stupid black button-up shirts. That particular fire in his eyes still existed, but she didn't know if it was being put out slowly, or if it was fueled the longer they spent together. Or if he'd tended the fire himself or an outside factor had done it for him. Or if it was a different kind of fire. Who knows?
But none of it mattered. Samira smiled, remembering everything her therapist told her.
"What are you laughing about?"
Samira pinched her lips. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Harry narrowed his eyes. "Tell me."
"Should I be honest?"
"Please."
"A little part of me expected you to crash my wedding."
Harry shut his eyes tightly, wincing with a smile. Samira snorted, giggling yet again at his reaction.
"Honestly?" Harry sighed uncomfortably. "I'm not even surprised you think that. But I'm not here to crash your wedding."
"Promise?"
"Promise." Harry nodded, giggling sheepishly. "I mean, it'd be too late for that anyway, right?"
Samira watched his inquisitive eyes, which pointed at the shiny ring on her finger.
"I mean, yeah, true." Samira shook her head, stretching her left hand. "I don't know, I just . . . I'm sorry for even thinking it."
"No, no. I'm sorry. If anyone is sorry, it should be me," That familiar, blooming twinkle appeared in Harry's eye. "I really am. But I am telling you the truth. I am really happy for you."
"Harry—"
"Hey." Harry sighed, interrupting her. "You know I haven't said sorry to you. So let me."
There, Samira felt that final weight dissipate. One she'd never realized was there, the weird, wretched feeling she allowed herself to get used to.
"I'm just here to have a good time," he added. "You don't have to worry."
A chill, not from the wind, traveled down her arms; she wondered how such a word like 'sorry' could take away that very last bit of pain inside her, like finally finding that jarring needle in the haystack.
"It's in the past. Let's leave it there," Samira replied quietly. "But thank you for saying those things."
"Of course." He pursed his lips into a smile.
"Don't do that."
"What?"
"Give me the white people smile."
Lifting his shoulders, Harry threw his head back, laughing.
"Alright, sorry," Harry cleared his throat. "You should get some sleep, bride. I will see you tomorrow."
"Really?"
Harry began to walk past her, looking over his shoulders. Then, with his eyebrows elevated, he simpered widely, his nose mere inches away from hers.
"That you are."
Slightly annoyed with his playful behavior, Samira rolled her eyes.
"I hate you."
The moment those words left Samira's mouth, immediate regret flooded her chest. As an apology raced to her tongue, Harry stopped in his tracks, looking back at her. Although Samira had expected worse, she loosened her jaw at Harry's sly smirk, seeing no amount of resentment on his countenance.
"I hate you, too, Sam."
And Harry had gone down the stairs, both hands in his pockets, with that old yet charming twinkle in his eye.