by Holly Rayner
After all, I wasn’t entirely sure I was doing the right thing, so I thought it was better to press forward, eyes on the horizon, without hesitation. At this point, I had feelings for Rami—feelings I wasn’t entirely sure about, but which were certainly romantic in nature. It wasn’t love, but it could become that. Maybe. And beyond that, I was doing the right thing for my mother’s health. With the check I would receive in exchange, I could pay for her surgery. I could give her a path toward wellness. I would be keeping her around.
Reaching for my phone, I called my mother across the ocean. She picked up on the second ring, knowing. There, it was late at night, maybe eleven. I could picture her gazing out across the plains, her thin fingers against her cheek. This had been her stance when I’d been a much younger girl, a teenager coming home late from a school event, or a date.
“Angie. Baby. Happy wedding day,” my mother said, her voice almost lost in my ear.
“Hi, Mommy.” I paused, having mistakenly called her that. I hadn’t called her that in years. But the word somehow fit the moment, so I let it remain, hovering between us. “I can’t believe the big day’s here already.”
“Well, it’s sudden,” my mother said. “When I married your father, I gave myself an entire year to plan. And most of that was for me, mentally. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Marrying one person, for the rest of my life? That seemed crazy. And yet…”
“It worked out,” I said, feeling a grin form on my lips.
“It did. Thank goodness. He’d be lost without me,” she said, teasing.
I heard my father grunt in the background in response, probably reading his paper, trying his best to keep his eyes open. It was past their bedtime, but they were making an exception. They so often did that for me.
“Just tell me something, baby,” my mother said, her whisper coming louder in my ear. “Tell me you love him, and that he loves you. Tell me that, and I won’t worry another moment more.”
She couldn’t have asked a worse question. With a sigh, I drew myself up on my tiptoes, reminding myself that my mother didn’t have any more time to wait. I could apologize for lies later. I could tell her the truth, every facet of it.
“Of course we do,” I said, hearing my voice shake. “He’s the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with, Momma.”
“Good.” I heard my mother’s relief in her voice. I just had to maintain this hope. If not for me, then for her.
We talked for a few minutes more, about how my mother so wanted to be there for me. About what my father would do at the reception that would surely embarrass everyone. “You’ve seen his dancing,” my mother said knowingly. “He would never be allowed back in the country if he was there. So it’s probably for the best.”
“For the best,” I echoed, feeling my throat grow tight. “Yes.”
We hung up, my mother’s “I love you” still resounding in my ears. In mere seconds, I found myself on the ground, hunched over, my eyes glittering with tears. Outside, I heard the limousine Rami had sent for me as it pulled up against the curb and stopped its engine. It was waiting for me; everyone was waiting for me.
With all the strength I could muster, I drew myself back to standing, reached for my bag, and stepped out onto the staircase outside my door. I gave the limo driver a small wave, and then inhaled deeply, trying to restructure my thoughts. Outside, the sun was too bright—dazzling and fiery—and I kept my gaze to the ground and got into the back of the limousine.
“Angie! The bride-to-be. What a wonderful sheikha you will be,” the limo driver sang. “The entire nation is talking about it. And about how you must have a bun in the oven, given this running down the aisle.” He winked at me, peering toward my stomach.
I swept my hands over my stomach, hugging myself close. “Anyone who thinks I’m pregnant is delusional,” I told him flatly, which seemed to put an end to the conversation.
Suddenly, we were skirting across the city, toward Rami’s parents’ mansion, where the ceremony and reception would be held. I wrapped my hands around my knees, resting my chin on my thighs. I could feel the car jostling around me. I felt vulnerable, like the slightest knock might break me.
I was met at the mansion by one of the wedding choreographers, almost lifting me from the backseat and tugging me toward the preparation room. There, the dress awaited me, swinging from a hanger. It looked strange and alien, nothing that could fit my small frame. But the woman ordered me to undress immediately, to put it on. And I did so, reminding myself that each uncomfortable step I took for the good of my mother. For the good of my father. For the good of me.
As I pulled the dress up over my shoulders, I didn’t dare look in the mirror. I didn’t dare face myself. Rather, I reached toward the radio and snapped it on, allowing the music to blare through the air. The upbeat rhythm grated on me, but it was almost welcome—it fit with this sham of a ceremony.
The makeup artist was the next to work on me, taking time to make delicate strokes down my cheeks, my nose, and contouring with different colors to add depth and intrigue to my face.
The next time I looked in the mirror, I no longer recognized the woman I’d been back in South Dakota. I no longer recognized the woman who’d made love to Rami on that hay bale, taking time to feel at every inch of his back. Taking the time to kiss at his shoulder, to whisper in his ear. Sweet nothings. Nothing I remembered now, but everything at the time.
“All right, I think that’s it,” the coordinator said to me. She swiped her hand along my hairline, ensuring the last of my curls were in place. “You just have 40 minutes to wait. The photographer is on his way over to capture a few pre-ceremony shots. You’ll want these to show your daughter someday.”
When she left, I was alone in the preparation room for the first time, waiting. I was too frightened to sit, as I knew it would crumple my dress. And so I remained standing, pacing from side to side along the lush carpet.
Outside, I could hear the chaos of setting up for the reception. Smells wafted in from the kitchen, featuring spices I could only guess to name. Somehow, despite the warmth of the aroma, the warmth of the mansion around me, I felt chilly. I shivered, bringing my fingers to my elbows and squeezing.
My only hope, in those moments, was that time would pass quickly. Soon, I would have the money to return home to my mother and celebrate her victory over her disease. That would give me all the warmth I needed.
Chapter 16
Rami
Alim leaned heavily against the wall, watching as I fastened my bow tie. He was already prepped, gleaming in a tailor-made tuxedo. His hair had been swept back, surely in an attempt to impress his date—a 22-year-old model from Dubai. He seemed mighty pleased with himself, as if, despite me winning the bet, he had proven himself.
Alim poured two glasses of whiskey, passing one to me. I clinked my glass with his, unable to make eye contact. My mind was elsewhere.
“Boy, what a ride it’s been, getting to this day,” Alim said, chortling. “Seems like only a few weeks ago you laid eyes on our girl, Angie. And now… Oh wait, that was only a few weeks ago, wasn’t it?”
“Come off it,” I said, giving him a false smile. “You know I won the bet, fair and square, and yet you won’t give me the respect I deserve.”
“All right, Rami,” Alim said, bowing his head. With a playful shrug, he said, “You are the all-powerful, confident and incredible Sheikh. How could any woman say no to your charms? I, for one, have been waiting for you to ask me to marry you for years, and yet…”
“And yet here you are, as the best man,” I told him, gripping his shoulder and squeezing it tight.
“You feeling good about going through with it, then?” Alim asked me, as I released my grip. “You said Angie was worth it.”
“She’s a remarkable woman,” I said, truthfully. “And I think it’s about time I settled down. You, with a model girlfriend, at your age? You’d better find someone to settle down with, as well. We’ve got kids to make, fami
lies to build.”
I said it with sarcasm, wanting to force Alim to backtrack, to stop asking questions. I felt a surge of confidence as Alim stuttered, hunting for a smart answer. But already, my mind was a million miles away, swimming with guilt.
I had caught feelings for Angie. Perhaps this was the worst thing that could have happened: caring about her outside the bounds of our agreement. Memories from the night at the stables followed me, reminding me of how sweetly we’d made love. How nice she’d smelled. How she’d moaned as I’d kissed her…
But was it love yet? No, we needed more time to develop that. And me—falling in love? That was a path I didn’t understand. I’d never allowed myself to fall in love, forever flitting from one woman to the next. But now, with Angie poised to become my wife, wasn’t this an opportune time?
Again, guilt swamped my stomach. With a sudden surge of understanding, I knew, with certainty, that the best thing to do would be to call off the wedding. To tell my family, my friends, the entire nation, that Angie and I would wait until we were sure to get married (if that ever happened). I could tell Angie that I was falling for her. That my feelings were more truthful, purer, than they’d been before.
But as I followed that line of thought to its necessary conclusion, I realized what would happen if I pulled the plug. I’d humiliate myself, for one. After trying to convince the nation that this marriage was a valid one, I’d be telling them that they’d been right about my decisions all along.
Beyond that, I would be humiliating my parents. My father had invited dozens of important people from all over the continent to attend my wedding. They’d been in meetings all morning, talking about the state of the nation, about future plans and how I could be involved, as his now only married son—one, apparently, “ready for the commitment to his country, along with his wife.”
And perhaps worst of all, although it seemed incredible to say, it was horrendous to consider what would happen between Angie and me if I gave up on the wedding. Perhaps no amount of trying to convince her that we “weren’t ready” would convince her to stay. She could turn away, never want to see me again. She could tell me that she never wanted me anyway. That she’d only been in it for the money. Perhaps worst, she could agree with me. Tell me that it was better if we didn’t marry at all.
All of these possibilities terrified me, kept me inside that little preparation room with Alim by my side. He poured me a second drink, watching as I guzzled it back. He clapped his hand atop my shoulder, the glass clinking against my teeth.
“We all have to grow up sometime, Rami,” he said. “And now it’s your turn.”
Minutes later, the coordinator arrived to fetch me, leading me to the front of the small ceremony room where many of the guests were already seated. Alim was beside me, nudging his elbow into my side. “Did you see her?” he asked, speaking of his Dubai model girlfriend. “She’s always pouting like that. Do you think she’s having a good time?”
My eyes flickered toward the girlfriend, who was, indeed, looking more bored than I’d ever felt in my life, chewing slowly at a piece of gum. I gave Alim a chuckle, wanting so badly to make a sarcastic comment. But my brain was filled with thoughts of my own sadness, and guilt. I kept my mouth shut.
After speaking with my parents, we’d decided to keep the ceremony a small one, with special photographers present to record the event for the press. Only 50 or so guests were attending the ceremony, dressed in all manner of high-end robes, gowns and tuxedos. They eyed me coolly, whispering amongst themselves. In the background, a pianist played a collection of 1920s romance songs, which had been my mother’s choice. I realized, with a lurch, that I hadn’t bothered to ask Angie her favorite song. There was still so much I didn’t know.
Suddenly, the violinist rose from her seat beside the piano, poised to play the processional. I waited, my eyes growing wide, wondering if this wave of fear was what every groom felt.
Angie appeared at the other end of the aisle, wearing a gorgeous tiered wedding dress, which—she was right—did resemble a cake. But instead of thinking she looked silly or out of place, I felt my stomach warm with how gorgeous she looked. Her black hair hung in curls on either side of her slim neck, and her lips quivered with nerves. When the music began, the violin swelling over the crowd, she took her first step toward me. Toward our life together.
And immediately, I felt tears begin to form in my eyes.
But of course, I could not allow them to fall. I couldn’t be seen as weak, not on my wedding day, not in front of these diplomats, and certainly not in front of my father.
I righted my posture and continued to gaze at Angie, sometimes making eye contact, sometimes not. The moments passed with intensity, and I was struggling to remember to breathe. But when Angie appeared directly beside me, I went through the motions, as instructed. I remembered to take her hands, to give her a kiss on the cheek. As we turned toward the front, preparing to hear the words that would latch us together “for life,” I felt her hands quivering in mine.
During the ceremony, we both continued to shake. Angie gazed into my eyes, saying back the words she was told to say. Her voice was soft, light, yet seemed to hold purpose. I followed suit, nodding along with her. And when we were told to say “I do,” and kiss, we did so without hesitation. I felt the softness of her lips on mine. I was reminded of our intimate night together and I closed my eyes, wanting to memorize every second of her touch. Every taste of her.
When we drew back, she gave me a quiet, intimate smile, and she squeezed my hand a final time—telling me, without words, that it would be all right. I decided, in that moment, to throw myself into the rest of the day. Not to allow myself to get lost in the guilt of involving her in my stupid game. This was our wedding day, damn it. I was going to enjoy it.
Linking her hand in mine, we walked back down the aisle, both of us shaking hands with the people on either side, laughing and smiling. Angie had no idea that she was shaking hands with diplomats, with some of the richest and most important people in the world. But if she had, I doubted she could have acted any better. She was a shining light, absolutely infectious. I wondered, in the back of my mind, if I could have picked anyone better to be my life if I’d actively sought someone. If I hadn’t just been trying to lure anyone into the position in order to prove a point.
When we finally reached the back of the ceremony room, we darted into the hallway for a few seconds alone. She was still shaking, taking short little breaths. But she started to chuckle the minute it was just us.
“Wow,” she exhaled. “I mean—we did it. Right? That was it?”
“We still have a whole night of more of that,” I said, squeezing her hands. “Do you think you’re up for it?”
“As long as there’s cake…and alcohol,” she said, laughing. “And more kisses like that.”
Feeling my heart grow light, I lifted my mouth toward hers and kissed her lightly, then with more fire, more passion. I drew her closer to me, bringing her against my chest. And then, as our guests began to stream out from the ceremony room, we broke away, saying our hellos to even more of them. In the back of the crowd, I spotted my father and mother, both dressed in immaculate outfits, speaking animatedly to their best friends and colleagues.
“Your mother looks ravishing,” Angie whispered to me. “That dark burgundy…”
My mother wore a plum-colored gown, which flowed like robes around her feet. Her hair was piled high on her head, covered with a gold-accented scarf, and her eyes were focused, darting around the room to assess every face, ensure that everyone was happy. When she spotted me, she broke into a wide smile. This was her at her best, her most playful. She was taking care of everyone. And most of all, she was taking care of me.
Just behind her, my brother, Adil, stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He was speaking with one of our cousins, his face indifferent and bored-looking. He’d been out of the country for years, and only returned for functions like this. For this reas
on, my father and mother knew I was the one to take on the role of ruling sheikh, when the time was right. Especially now that I’d taken a wife.
“The future Sheikha!” one wife of a diplomat said, wrapping Angie in a tight hug. “And a more beautiful one I haven’t seen since the last,” she said.
“Oh, certainly that’s not true,” Angie said, blushing.
Minutes later, Angie and I were led out to the massive tent that they’d set up outside the mansion for the reception. At the top, dozens of small flags fluttered in the breeze.
Within the tent, several long tables had been stretched out, their tablecloths white and almost too bright. I blinked into it, finding the bride and groom’s table at the far end of the tent. There, Angie and I sat side by side, posing for a photograph before falling back, exhausted.
“That dress looks like it weighs a million pounds,” I told her, chuckling.
“I’d do anything to be in that tuxedo right now,” Angie sighed. “You’ve no idea.”
“No deal,” I said. “There’s no way you’re getting this tuxedo off my shoulders. Not for all the money in the world.”
“You mean, you don’t want to make this interesting?” she asked, her eyebrows waggling. “We could have a bet…”
“Stop,” I said to her, my stomach quaking with laughter.
Suddenly, the wedding coordinator burst to the center of the tent, waving a microphone. The guests were being seated in their correct seats, heads turning back and forth as they tried to take in everything—every sight, every smell, every sound. The caterers began to make the rounds, giving out appetizers and glasses of champagne.
I watched my mother and father ease into their own chairs, just a table away, and give me a small wave. I nodded in return, sensing the pride brimming from their hearts. My father’s posture seemed just a bit taller. My mother seemed lost in his eyes, falling in love with him all over again each time he spoke.