by Holly Rayner
But I couldn’t even tell her what was going on with my family. I couldn’t bring any of the worlds together in my mind.
I blasted out into the sunshine and raced around the corner, finding the path toward my apartment. When I couldn’t sprint any longer, I placed my hands on my knees and let myself fall to the ground. When I caught my breath, I realized I had a text message from Rami.
“Let me know your bank details when you can,” it read. “And thanks for doing me this huge favor. You don’t know how much grief I’d get from Alim if I lost you.”
If he lost me. The words echoed through my brain. There was nothing between us to lose. And yet, in his little world, without cancer and without tumors and without oceans between him and his family, he was allowed to worry about such drivel. What a scandal. How stupid.
And here I was, at the center of it all.
Chapter 8
Rami
I met up with Alim the following morning, catching him in the corner of the little coffee shop between our penthouses. The place was bustling, filled with gorgeous women who studied me with interest. I nodded to them instinctively, still unaccustomed to the fact that I was going to get married—married!—to a woman I barely knew, all for a bet. Whatever. I was sure I’d done crazier things.
Alim eyed me suspiciously as I sat down, probably already aware of the secret that sizzled in my brain. He shoved a cappuccino toward me, gesturing. “I got this for you.”
“So thoughtful of you,” I told him, sounding sarcastic. I gave him a meaningful smile and took a long sip. “I don’t suppose you have anything big to report in the twenty-four hours since we last saw one another?”
“What?” Alim asked. His smile faltered. “No. I just had that business meeting. And an early night.”
“Ah. Not all of us can have big, dramatic nights, now, can we?” I said to him, chuckling.
“Come off it. Who did you get to sleep with you this time?” he asked, his cheeks reddening with jealousy.
“Actually, Alim, I returned to our agreement, knowing that if I fought just a bit harder, committed just a bit more, I could latch our girl into seeing me again.”
“The American?” Alim asked, aghast. “There was no way she was going to see you again. She hated you, man.”
“Turns out a bit of apologizing and a bit more sweet-talking will always get the job done. I should have relied on it to begin with,” I told him, tilting my head.
“So? What happened? Is she going to go out with you again?” Alim asked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Surely she has more self-esteem than that…”
“It’s not an issue of self-esteem, Alim. She sees something in me. And it’s not because I’m a sheikh. It’s because I’m handsome, charming, and a good conversationalist. I’ve wooed her, wholly and completely, and it’s time for you to see just how far my charms can go.”
It was a mess. But I felt I was high-rolling, impressing my friend. I stood up from my empty coffee cup, pointing toward the door. “And tonight, we’re going out together. Just the two of us.”
“Is that so?” Alim asked, hardly able to comprehend my words.
“It is.”
It wasn’t. At least, not yet.
As I marched from the cafe, I lifted my phone and texted Angie, knowing that I had the power to influence her. I had the money awaiting her. The first ten thousand dollars had been a taste, luring her deeper. And her exclamatory text, which read: “I can’t believe we’re doing this. But okay, count me in,” had assured me she was in for the ride.
“I’ve just spoken with my friend,” I wrote to her, “and I think we should go out on a date tonight. We have to prove that we’re rekindling our relationship. Or kindling it for the first time, maybe. You in?”
I walked down the road for a few minutes more, anticipating the text back. But it didn’t come, not for another two hours. By then, I felt rattled and strange, fearing she was going to back out. We had no written agreement. I realized she could have taken ten thousand dollars from me and bounced.
But as I perched over my lunchtime sandwich, I received the message back.
“Fine. I guess we’ll have to start this at some point. What time?”
The message was stunted, without the usual excitement I received from women I took out on dates.
Feeling dejected, I puzzled over it for a moment, nibbling at the end of my sandwich. The bread was growing soggy. I dropped it back onto the plate. Why was this girl getting under my skin? Was it really that I was so frightened of losing to Alim?
“Let me pick you up at seven, like a proper date. That way, if Alim follows me, he’ll think he’s seeing something romantic between us. What’s your address?”
“Can’t we just meet there?” Angie responded moments later. Another blow!
“Fine,” I typed out, irked by her stubbornness. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s a hole-in-the-wall downtown called Tommy’s. Paparazzi normally don’t follow me there.”
“Sure. See you there.”
I found myself anxious, my stomach stirring for the next few hours. Even my normal routine—lifting weights at the gym, meeting with my father to discuss what was happening in parliament, and shopping for the perfect new suit for the date ahead—did little to calm me down.
Shrugging into a perfect dark grey suit, I gazed at myself in my bedroom mirror, certain that I would sweep Angie off her feet that night. How could I not? I was desired by half of Al-Jarra. People couldn’t stop saying my name.
I reminded myself that it couldn’t have mattered less. After all, Angie was playing along with my game. She didn’t need to fall in love with me for me to get the best of Alim. But the fact that she wasn’t even open to it, couldn’t see the benefits… It was annoying, at best. And a bit too much to bear.
Tommy’s was a place I’d discovered as a younger man, around 22, when I’d had an enormous appetite and an even bigger desire to hide from the cameras. It was around this time that I’d become known as something of a Casanova, yet wanted to ensure that the girls I was dating weren’t frightened by the flashing cameras. Plus, I loved the feeling of watching shoddy sports television and digging into an enormous American-style burger. It felt like heaven to me.
Now, I went there at least twice a month, and knew Tommy well. He was a good guy, an American from New York City, who grilled burgers and smoked cigarettes out the side window. Somehow, the smell of the cigarettes didn’t get into the food, and it added to the general “greasy” quality of the place.
When I entered, I realized that Angie was already there, seated at the bar. Her head of thick black hair was tilted slightly as she watched a television near the top corner of the room. On it, basketball players raced down the court, popping the ball into the net to rapturous applause.
Angie seemed unmoved, and a bit out of it. As I approached from the side, her eyes looked glazed, almost lost. Tommy himself was working behind the bar and placed a pitcher of beer in front of her, along with two pint glasses.
“Here you are,” he said, glancing over at me. “Oh, hey there, Rami! I didn’t expect you today.”
I shot my finger toward the pint glasses, giving him a grin. “Actually, I think one of those glasses is for me.”
Tommy’s eyes turned from me to Angie and back. I could almost see the lightbulb above his head, a realization that Angie was just another woman on my “list.” But Angie tossed her hair to the side, lifting the pitcher of beer and filling her own glass. The motion was so uncharacteristic of the many girls I’d brought into the restaurant, and it made Tommy chuckle.
“I always wondered when you’d bring an American in here, Rami,” he said. “I’m not sure you can handle the American girls. They’re tough.”
“People keep saying that, don’t they?” Angie said, giving me a side smile.
The smile felt powerful, like a wave crashing over my heart. But in just seconds, I regrouped, giving them both a nod.
“Good to see you.” I lea
ned forward, giving Angie a brief kiss on the cheek. She didn’t flinch, but didn’t react warmly, either. Her skin was smooth beneath my lips, and she smelled vaguely of hazelnuts and cream.
“We’ll take the usual, then, Tommy,” I told him, sitting beside Angie and watching as she poured my drink too. Behind us, the bar was completely empty. The speakers blared with ’80s music, which rang in my ears, taking me back to another time.
Tommy disappeared to make our burgers and smoke out the side window. I shifted in my chair, trying to make eye contact with Angie, but she’d turned her face back toward the television, excluding me. Outside, I wondered if Alim was watching. I wondered if he could sense the distance between Angie and me, a distance I desperately wished didn’t exist.
Chapter 9
Angie
Tommy’s reminded me of a place I’d gone as a child, a diner in our small town where my mom and I had swapped stories—some fiction, some real—and eaten onion rings.
One time, snow had fallen in massive clumps while we were seated inside, and we’d had to rush back home before the storm caught up with us. I still remembered being filled with greasy food and love, racing back toward the car and clinging to my mother’s hand. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old.
Now, the smells, the sight of the television, and even Tommy himself were pulling me back to the memory. I compared my carefree past with my current predicament: the date with Rami and our impending marriage, my mother’s illness, the money. As he began to banter beside me, speaking in that confident manner, I tried my best to act interested. This—this entire charade—it was for the woman in my memory at that diner. It was for my mother. And I would fight to keep her alive.
When there was a pause, I cleared my throat, sensing it was my turn to speak. “Hey,” I began, shrugging. “Sorry I didn’t want you to pick me up today. I know that we need to keep with this kind of, erm, romantic theme. I’m just so out of practice. It’s going to take me a second to get in character, as it were.”
Rami nodded, his eyes burning with a kind of validation. “I wondered about that,” he said. “But just know that I’m not trying to rush your inner feelings. It’s not like I’m trying to force your love.”
“Not anymore, at least,” I told him, giving him a sneaky smile. God, he was handsome. This feeling pulsed through me, a constant reminder of his firm jawline, his thick black hair, and his honest eyes.
“Right. Again, I’m sorry about that.” He swallowed sharply, looking anxious. “I’m just glad we can help one another, in the end.”
Tommy arrived with the burgers. The smell wafted into my nose, making me close my eyes. Rich, vibrant, salty and alive—the meat was just the right level of pink, and the side of French fries was massive, like a haystack. Rami poured some ketchup onto the side of his plate. A bit of it got on the edge of his finger, and he licked at it, meeting my gaze.
“So anyway, I was thinking I would update you on my family, now that you know who I am…” Rami began. “Especially since you’ll be lucky enough to be a part of it.”
“Oh?” I asked, feeling a punch in the gut. Lucky enough? Who did this guy think he was, a billionaire Sheikh? Oh. Yep.
“Sure. My father, of course, is the ruling sheikh. His name is Ammar, and he’s one of the wisest men in the country.”
“Was he a playboy once, like you?” I heard myself ask, chuckling.
“He was certainly just as handsome,” Rami said, making my cheeks burn. Yes, he was handsome, but God, did he really have to go on about it like that?
“And my mother is a class act. Always dressed to the nines. I’ve never seen her without makeup on, and she’s always sitting properly, her posture perfect.”
“Like this?” I asked, slumping forward in my chair. I watched as he chuckled slightly, his eyes glittering.
“And she certainly wouldn’t be caught eating a burger,” he grinned.
“Sounds like a rough life,” I said, wiping a napkin across my lips.
“It has its benefits, sure,” Rami said, raising his eyebrows, “but when you meet her, you might need to, erm, advance your manners a bit.”
I felt my stomach fill with rage. But I forced myself to keep my mouth closed, to hold everything in. My mother’s next appointment with the doctor, happening in the next few hours, made my mind grow heavy. I had to remain focused on the date, nodding along. I had to listen. I had to obey.
Rami continued to blather on, telling me more about his older brother, Adil, who lived abroad; about his mother, and his father, their family traditions, and what I would have to wear and do and say when I inevitably met them.
He spoke about it all in such a detached way, as if these were just steps on a career path. I almost asked him several times if he thought I should draw up my resume, but held my tongue. The world around me had begun to spin. I allowed my chin to fall to my chest, and dropped my burger to the table, half-eaten.
Out of nowhere, my eyes started filling with tears. I tried to hold them back, but they overflowed, streaming silently down my cheeks. I grabbed the bar top in an attempt to steady myself.
Beside me, Rami was sipping at his beer, still focused on his own story, his own words, but I had lost them almost completely. After a long, horrible moment, I lifted myself from my bar stool, gazing at Rami.
Finally, Rami saw me. His lips parted, taking in the vision of this woman he hardly knew, crying in front of him. Tilting his head, he said, “Darling, why are you crying?”
I couldn’t think of an answer beyond the truth. I stuttered slightly, waiting for the words to come.
“You want to call it off, don’t you?” Rami said, his voice growing solemn. “You don’t want to go through with it. Even when this could be the single greatest event of your life, Angie. I mean, knowing my family, being a part of it—it’s beyond most people’s wildest dreams.”
I gripped the stool in front of me, trying to stay upright. I inhaled deeply, willing myself to stay calm. “This isn’t about your family. It isn’t even really about you,” I told him, my voice shaking. “I don’t want to call off the deal, no. It’s just… It’s a lot for me to handle right now, is all.”
“Why?” Rami demanded, his voice softening slightly.
To the side, Tommy had begun to ease into the front of the restaurant, before spotting our altercation. He drew back, lifting a cigarette from his pocket. He flipped it into his mouth and lit it, his eyes on me. I wondered how much he could possibly understand.
“My mother’s sick,” I told Rami suddenly, my voice low. “She needs surgery soon, but we don’t have the money to pay for it. Since she got her diagnosis, I’ve sent paycheck after paycheck home, for the radiation and the chemotherapy and whatever else, but whatever I make will never be enough for the surgery. Not without your…input.”
Rami didn’t speak. When I finally forced myself to look into his eyes, they were gleaming, filled with a surprising amount of compassion. I felt a flicker of understanding within him, for perhaps the first time.
As the tears continued to flow down my cheeks, I waited, watching, as he brought his hands over mine on the stool. He eased his thumb over my palm, over and over and over again, trying to calm me down. And after a moment, it worked. I felt my thoughts begin to slow. I felt my heart stop its hammering.
“I know there’s nothing I can say to make you feel better,” Rami said softly.
He was right. And yet, just the fact that he understood this unique thing about heartache endeared him to me. I blinked several times, finding a small smile forming on my lips. For the first time since meeting Rami, I saw something beyond his incredible, handsome looks—something deeper.
Suddenly, with a flourish, Rami turned his left hand to his pocket and drew out a small, black box. He tapped it on the counter, beside my half-eaten burger. I looked at it for a long moment, feeling my heart begin to flutter.
“Is that…?” I asked, cocking my head.
“You don’t have to
open it now if you don’t want to,” Rami said, his voice low. “But just know that I’m here for you to help with this. I know that this silly marriage is much, much smaller than your real problems. But if you help me with this…” He reached to the side, tapping a long finger on the top of the engagement ring box, “then I think both of our problems will go away. Like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Reaching to the side, feeling somehow lighter, fresher, without the weight of my mother’s illness on my shoulders, I drew the black box toward me. I opened it, watching as the ring glittered in the soft light of the grungy bar. It was a strange mix, the ring and Tommy’s.
“It was my grandmother’s,” Rami said, taking the ring from my hands and slipping it over my finger. “And now, it belongs to you.”
I gave him a soft smile, unsure of this wave of genuine energy. But after seconds of silence, I felt strength enough to reach toward him and give him a hug. I placed my cheek against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne.
Again, my heart fluttered. But I ignored it, knowing that nothing true could ever grow between us. We were orchestrating a plan, each of us, separately—but together. That was all.
At the end of the night, I agreed to let Rami take me home in his convertible. With the top down, the breeze blasted through my hair, bringing my head back against the seat. Rami played music I didn’t recognize, with a quick beat and vibrant vocals, and I allowed my brain to fall away from thoughts of my mother—at least, for a few minutes. It was freeing.
“So, do you want to do this again sometime?” Rami asked me, after following me up to my apartment door. He scratched at the back of his neck, giving me heavy eye contact. Again, my stomach lurched with sudden—strange—desire.
“We are engaged, aren’t we?” I asked him, giving a sneaky smile.
“I don’t think we should announce it for another week,” Rami told me. “The timeline is a bit fast, even for how alluring and irresistible I am…” At this, he gave me a wink, proving he was in on the joke. He knew that I sensed his arrogance.