by Holly Rayner
The wedding coordinator called my father up to the center. In response, my father prayed over all of us, giving a blessing to Angie and me, before breaking for a short speech.
“As many of you know,” he began, “I wasn’t entirely sure that my son Rami would ever settle down. He had a bit of a reputation around here. He was proud of himself, to be sure. But I knew, deep inside of him, he knew he needed to find someone who would honor him, who would see the good in him. Who wasn’t using him for the title his was born into.”
I shifted in my seat, eyeing Angie. It was true, at its core, that Angie was only really marrying me for money, but no one else in the world knew that. I felt my throat constrict, hopeful that she wasn’t just playacting her adoration for me. That this wasn’t false.
My father finished his speech and the crowd clapped. Afterwards, the coordinator led Angie and me into the circle, latching our hands together. She snapped her fingers, and in response, the band began to play a song. It was upbeat, alive—another romantic song from the 1920s—and I found myself slow dancing with my bride, touching my nose to hers.
The moment was intense, sizzling with passion. But after several bars, the music sped up, making me step back and twirl Angie in a circle. Her dress swirled around her, showing its intricate detail and shining in the soft lamplight of the inner tent. The crowd roared for us, but, perhaps best of all, Angie laughed. She placed her hand at the base of her stomach and giggled, staring into my eyes.
In that moment, I was sure I wanted to make her laugh for the rest of our lives; I just wasn’t sure how.
I didn’t allow the moment of confusion to stick with me, however. After the first dance, we were led back to our stations, where we were passed another glass of champagne. Alim swept toward the center of the floor and clicked his knife against his glass. In response, the guests perked up, waiting for the oil tycoon to speak.
He certainly held a court, my best man. He looked taller than usual, and his combed-over hair had an effortless quality to it now, making him look strangely more handsome. Gesturing toward me, he gave the crowd a firm nod as he began.
“I think we all had similar opinions about my best friend, Rami, didn’t we?” he said, his voice booming. “That he was a playboy. A scoundrel. Someone who was unwilling to fall in love if the opportunity was given to him.”
Several people tittered. Beside me, Angie squeezed my hand. I wondered what this meant. Was she agreeing that I was unable to love, that I was undeserving of it in return? I kept my eyes focused on Alim. I couldn’t allow myself to think of the worst.
“But when he met Angie, I know that all of that changed,” Alim continued. “The old days were over. He suddenly wanted to tell me about the poetry she was into—as if anyone wants to sit around and listen to Rami banter on about poetry!”
This was true. How many times had I asked Alim to read a poem I’d written, or discovered, only to be scoffed at? “I’m an oil man, Rami. Not an artist. I know you’re just trying on this poetry thing because it’s getting you into someone’s pants,” he’d told me once. After that, I’d known to keep the mentions of poetry at a minimum.
“But Angie does,” Alim continued. “She wants to listen to Rami talk about his poetry, about his horses, and about his life. And before now, all anybody wanted to do was pay attention to what Rami could do for them. Angie, that makes you a special woman in my book. Because, at his core, Rami here is an absolute knockout of a best friend. He’s thoughtful and kind. He thinks about his mother and father more than I think about food—which is a lot.” The crowd chuckled at the joke. “And he’s done more for me, as a friend, than I can really say here.”
Alim continued for a few more minutes, speaking about our friendship, and including the occasional story of when I got him out of a bind, or picked him up from prison in India (a long story, which I told Angie I’d fill her in on later). And when he finally filtered out, he pointed the microphone toward Angie and me. “In a moment, we’ll eat,” he said. “But first; to the happy couple!”
The crowd toasted us just as the caterers began to filter out of the kitchen with our meals, serving Angie and me before the other tables. The Middle Eastern dishes were filled with spices, brimming with cardamom, ginger and cilantro. Falafel, lamb, cheeses, and dips filled our plates, along with freshly baked pita bread. Angie pressed her palm against the flat of her stomach as she chuckled. “Good thing I don’t have to get into this dress again.”
The caterers brought red wine, which they poured into our glasses. Then, we began to eat, tasting each incredible morsel and closing our eyes with satisfaction. Angie placed her hand on my upper thigh, grinning broadly after a few seconds. “I can’t believe how good this is,” she said.
“What would we be eating if we were having this wedding in South Dakota?” I asked, suddenly conscious that I didn’t know a single thing about her culture. About her old life.
Angie paused for a moment. Her face fell, and I could sense that she was thinking about her parents. I allowed the pain to happen, knowing that it was always simmering beneath the surface, anyway.
“Probably steak,” she said finally, her smile returning. “Steak and potatoes. And wine, lots of wine. My daddy would be drinking beer, though. He loves his domestic brews.”
“I wouldn’t even know what that tastes like,” I told her.
After a pause, she gave me a meaningful look. “You can meet them soon, if you want to.”
The words were heartfelt, yet tentative. I reached for her hand and squeezed it beneath the table. I realized that to any onlooker at the wedding, we looked like we had been in love for ages. But in reality, I felt very much like we were falling in love with each other as we sat there. As we gave ourselves to one another, inch by inch and yarn by yarn.
“I would love to meet them,” I told her, feeling the weight of the question. “Please.”
Angie lifted an olive from her plate and tossed it into her mouth. She edged closer to me, allowing me to bring my arm around her small shoulders.
Looking down at her profile, I was suddenly reminded of the first time I’d ever seen her. She’d been standing at the edge of the playground at her school, speaking in whispered words to her students. Assuring them, in much the same way she assured me with her quiet presence. Moving toward her, I pressed my lips against her forehead, inhaling her perfume.
Suddenly, Alim was in the center of the room again, holding the microphone. I called out to him, “No more sappy speeches!”
But Alim just winked at me, lifting the microphone to his lips. Instead, he said, “Actually, kiddo, I have a better idea. A few of us were talking, and we think that this marriage thing is happening a bit quickly. For this reason, we’d like it if both the bride and groom gave a short toast. Just something quick, to give us a sense of your love for one another.”
I felt I’d been punched. Glancing toward Angie, I sensed similar terror in her. It wasn’t as if either of us were frightened of hearing our own voices—she was a teacher, and I was equally accustomed to speaking in front of people. But this was different, too personal.
Our love was something so new to us—something we hadn’t actually voiced to one another yet. In fact, I wasn’t entirely sure I could verbalize the words to myself.
What did I actually know? One, that I’d conned Angie into marrying me to win a bet. Two, that I’d stalked her for the first week, and grown angry when she wouldn’t instantly give me the time of day. Three, that when she hadn’t given me the time of day, I’d simply let her in on the secrets of my bet with Alim, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to say no to the money.
Beyond that, I couldn’t really say. Gradually, Angie had become the person I wanted to tell things to—all the minute details of my life. As I spoke to her about the intricacies of working with horses—and sensed that she actually cared about it—I found my words speeding up. I found myself diving from one topic to the next. I couldn’t imagine anyone else paying attention to m
e. I couldn’t imagine anyone else caring.
But how could I say these things in front of my parents? To my friends?
I shifted in my seat as the guests looked on in anticipation. Alim pointed his microphone at the pair of us—husband and wife. My tie felt tight around my throat. Somehow, I felt I would never be able to speak again.
But luckily, Angie perked up beside me. She scanned the room tentatively. “I’ll do it,” she said, flashing that bright-toothed smile. “I don’t mind.”
Relief flooded me. But as she brought herself up from the chair, allowing the dress to whirl around her feet, my anxiety took hold again. I had no concept of what she was going to say, how she would deliver this. With one hand around the microphone, she had her other hand around my heart. And if she was ready to squeeze, for whatever reason, she could.
She could hurt me, if she wanted to. And I had no way of stopping her.
Chapter 17
Angie
As Alim passed me the microphone, I was filled with a rush of emotions—complicated in their variety, but no less true. My wedding dress was heavy around my waist and on my shoulders, almost pulling me back to the ground.
Blinking into the crowd, I tried to remember the names that went along with the faces. Rami’s parents were at the nearby table, both looking solemn, yet bright with the happiness of the day. Beyond them were Rami’s relatives, his friends, and, apparently, some of the more important figures in the Middle East. Just knowing they were there, watching me—knowing that Rami had chosen to marry a teacher from South Dakota, of all places—chilled me.
“Hello,” I said to the crowd, feeling my voice waver. “Thank you all for joining us on this incredibly special day.”
With a lurch, I realized I didn’t even know where to start. My head felt woozy from the champagne. I blinked toward Rami, trying to match his strength and confidence. I knew he believed in me, perhaps more than anyone ever had in my lonely time in Al-Jarra. I had to translate that.
“I moved to your beautiful country two years ago,” I began, feeling my voice catch. “I work as a teacher with some of the most vibrant, hilarious and compassionate children. If ever I grow homesick, or wonder what I’m doing so far away from all my family and friends, they crowd around me and remind me just how special I am to them. Just how much they need me.
“But that’s not to say I always understood why I should stay here. I didn’t date often, and more or less kept to myself. Reading poetry in my room alone, things like that.”
I heard a chuckle from Alim—a very different kind of person than myself, I knew now. I sent him a meaningful, genuine look of affection. I knew we would be friends for a long, long time. Friends who didn’t necessarily have anything in common. More like cousins, maybe.
“Anyway, when Rami appeared at my door at school, I wasn’t sure what to think. I had never seen him before, nor had I heard his name. And I know that frustrated him,” I continued, making the crowd laugh.
“When the entire country knows your name, and the girl you’re trying to woo won’t give you the time of day, that’s a lot to take. But after a few days, I sensed something in him. Something that he wasn’t revealing to the rest of the world.”
At this, I watched as Rami’s mother leaned toward his father, the Sheikh, swiping a tear from her eyes. The air hung heavy with anticipation, all eyes on me as I gave this heartfelt speech. Even I wasn’t sure what would come out of my mouth next.
“Don’t give him away!” Alim cried behind me. “Leave something to the imagination!”
The crowd laughed at Alim’s clownish comments. I took a step back, shrugging my shoulders.
“I fear that Rami has been forced to create a false persona, which he has worn like a mask for years. One that has made him seem stronger, more dominant, for the good of the people. But in reality, there’s a soft side to him. Alim made fun of his love of poetry, but he’s actually able to write it, and he does it well.
“I’ve been thinking about how I can become a good wife for Rami,” I continued, my voice wavering again. “And I hope that now that I’m his bride, I can help him find a way to take off this mask he’s been wearing. I can help him reveal his true self to his people. His kind, romantic side. The side—I hope—he’ll reveal to our children, when we have them.” With this, I flashed my eyes toward Rami, wondering at his response.
Just weeks ago, our marriage had been a sham. And now, I was talking about children in a very real, very alive way. And he responded in kind.
Rami rose from his seat and reached around my waist , lifting me into him. He kissed me wholly, firmly, to immense applause. Whoops and cheers roared around us. I felt safe and cozy.
Leaning back from the kiss, I heard Rami whisper words that were only for me. “I never deserved you. I don’t know how on earth I got this lucky.”
“Groom’s turn! Groom’s turn!” Alim was chanting behind us, smacking his hands together.
Giving Rami a burning look, I passed the microphone off to him. “Do you think you can follow that speech?” I asked him, giving him a wink.
“I’d like to try,” he returned, chuckling.
As he drew back his shoulders, growing taller, he seemed to transform. He was no longer the Rami that had spoken with me intimately, or kissed the softness of my ear. He spoke like a diplomat, like the future Sheikh he would become. His father shifted in his chair, watching him with eagle eyes. It was impossible not to.
“I don’t know how I can say anything better than my wife just did,” he began, his voice gritty and warm. “I could go on and on about Angie’s dedication to her students, about her beauty and her intelligence. I could go on and on about the first time I ever saw her. What an image.
“She was perched outside of her school, helping the children as they left for the day. Buttoning buttons, tucking hair behind ears, and looking like a woman who had enough love for everyone. And for some reason, she chose to give that love to me.” He turned toward me. We locked eyes. “And I don’t deserve it. No matter what she says or how she says it, I don’t deserve it for a minute.”
The crowd began to clap, almost thinking he was finished. They’d begun to whisper, pointing excitedly at the cake which was already being wheeled in at the side of the tent. But Rami wasn’t finished.
“There’s just one more thing.” Rami began. “I should be totally honest about the reason we’re here today.”
I felt a stab of horror. Getting up from my chair, I gazed out across the crowd, staring into the now-interested faces. His mother and father exchanged confused looks.
But Rami just nodded at me. With this, Alim shot up from his chair and barreled toward him. He gripped Rami’s shoulder, staring at me with large, troubled eyes. He muttered into Rami’s ear, saying something I could vaguely make out.
“Don’t do this, you idiot. Don’t give the game away.”
Rami brought the microphone to his side. I watched as his shoulders shoved forward, as he glared at Alim. I could read his lips as they murmured, “I just think everyone should know the truth. It doesn’t matter any longer. We’re in love, Alim. I’m going to tell her everything, anyway.”
Alim looked horrified. Sensing animosity growing, I brought myself up from my seat and took Rami’s hand, a broad grin stretching across my face. Before he could say another word, I was kissing him, swallowing him whole. I reached for the microphone and yanked it from him, giving him a sneaky smile.
“Not now, baby,” I told him, our lips dripping with passion. “It’s too perfect. Don’t ruin it.”
“I don’t deserve you,” Rami murmured. “Everyone deserves to know that.”
“You do, though. You do,” I said, nudging my nose against his.
Alim snuck up beside me and grabbed the microphone, looking relieved. Taking several steps back, toward the cake table, he motioned for us to follow. “I think it’s about time for cake, don’t you?” he said into the microphone, his voice booming. The crowd answered in kind
, clapping wildly.
At the cake table, I held Rami’s hand, guiding the large knife through the thick white frosting. In the corner, the music had started up again. We took small pieces of cake and shoved them into one another’s faces, licking at the frosting on our lips before kissing each other. It was a picture-perfect moment.
Rami scrunched up his face at the flavor. “My mother said we should get a traditional American cake, so you could feel at home,” he said, sliding his finger across my cheek to wipe away a bit of frosting. “But I think I might stick to baklava from now on.”
“It’s too much,” I laughed, wrapping my arms around him and inhaling his soft lips.
We watched from the cake table as the guests ate from glittering china, nibbling at the too-sweet American confection. Their eyes grew wide with the delight of it. The sugar ignited them, the way it might children.
Rami and I cackled with delight as the guests drew up from their tables and began to dance to the music. The women swirled in brightly colored gowns, their hair coiling down their backs. And the men’s shoes clacked, like tap shoes, atop the wooden floor. Above us, the lights had begun to flash in time with the music, giving the tent an almost night-club feel as the night air grew cool on our skin.
“A more perfect wedding I’ve never seen,” Alim announced beside us. He had his arm wrapped around the model from Dubai, who’d clearly had a bit too much to drink. She wavered slightly on her feet, leaning heavily into Alim. But Alim was drunk as well, his face red and his smile overzealous and wild.
“He wants to tell you the truth, Angie,” Alim said, giving me a wink. “And when he does, you can’t think any less of me, okay? Do we have a deal?”
I feigned ignorance, giving Rami a bright-eyed look. “I don’t know what you boys have been up to…” I trailed off.
“Only making him the happiest bastard alive,” Alim responded, cackling. “And that reminds me, actually. I haven’t given the pair of you that wedding gift I’ve been planning for weeks. How could I forget?”