I tore away suddenly, gasping a hundred apologies.
I wiped at my eyes, scrubbed at my face. I was suddenly mortified, afraid to look at him. Silence descended, expanded in the darkness, grew thick with tension. And when I finally dared to look up, I was surprised.
Ali looked shaken.
He was breathing so hard I could see it, could see his chest move up and down, up and down. He stared at me like he’d seen a ghost, witnessed a murder. He was still staring at me when he touched my elbow, traced a line down my arm, took my hand, tugged me forward.
Kissed me.
Heat, soft, silk. His hand was under my chin, tilting me up, breaking me open. I didn’t understand, didn’t know what to do with my hands. I had never been touched like this, had never felt anything like this, was defenseless in the face of it. He dragged his fingers down the side of my neck, my shoulder, grabbed at my waist, my sweater pulling, bunching in his fist. My heart was pounding dangerously in my chest, harder and faster than I’d ever felt it and I gasped as he moved against me, gasped as I drowned, went boneless as he broke away, kissed my throat, tasted the salt of my skin. A whisper, a whisper of my name and a hand behind my head and then a sudden, desperate explosion in my chest. He kissed me with a fire I’d never, never, I’d never, I’d gone limp, trembling everywhere, my brain failing to spark a thought.
I pulled back, backed away, fell off the earth.
I braced my liquid body against the bench, unable to breathe, certain I would never again be able to stand. I did not understand what had just happened, did not know how it happened. I only knew that it was probably bad. Probably very bad. Almost certainly, maybe, probably a mistake.
Ali looked at me, looked at me and then looked away, stood up too quickly, pushed both hands through his hair. He looked panicked.
“Oh my God,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t—”
He couldn’t catch his breath, I could see it from here, even in this half-light. He looked as shaken as I felt, and his disorder comforted me, made me feel less adrift. Less insane.
I stumbled to my feet, unsteady.
I had to leave. I knew that much, knew I had to go home, get there somehow, but my heart would not calm down. My head was spinning. No one had ever kissed me before. No one had ever touched me before, not like that, not like this, not like this, here, he was here again, his hands around my face again, his mouth soft and hot and tasting faintly of cigarettes. My knees nearly gave out as he held me, parted my lips with his, kissed me so deeply I cried out, made a sound I didn’t even know existed. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt certain I was dreaming, my mind failing me. He kissed my cheek, my chin, his teeth grazed my jaw, his arms drawing me tighter, closer. I felt every inch of him under my hands, felt him move, felt his body harden into a solid weight, a wall of lean muscle. The scent of him, his skin, hit me, confused me. I breathed him in like something essential, the resulting sensation so heady it shattered something vital inside of me, startled my consciousness back to life.
This was too much.
I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea what I’d done, what I’d just undone. I needed space, needed time, needed, needed to breathe.
I broke away desperately, gasping for air.
My hands were shaking. Ali was breathing hard. He looked unsteady as he stood there, closed his eyes. Opened them.
“Shadi,” he said. “Shadi.”
I shook my head. Shook my head over and over and over again.
“I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I’m—I didn’t mean—”
I ran home.
Sixteen
I was a corpse lying in bed, face pointed up at the ceiling, my body frozen and unwilling to warm. I watched, as if from outside of myself, as the moon stole through the slats of my poorly designed blinds, scattering light across my popcorn ceiling, creating uncanny constellations.
My father was coming home tomorrow.
I discovered this upon arrival, my brain mostly soup. I got caught in a sudden, torrential rain as I ran home, the resulting effects of which were nothing short of a miracle. I was soaked through, sopping wet and pathetic, and my mother was too busy berating me for my thoughtlessness to notice the evidence of my recent tears or worse, infinitely worse: the proof of someone else’s mouth on my lips, my cheeks, my chin, my throat. Hands, hands all over my body.
I was burning up under the wet, feeling feverish. I was hurried into the shower, hurried into warm clothes, forced to sit on the couch with a hot cup of tea. I sank into the unexpected comfort, savored the attentions I’d long been terrified to extract from my mother. She and my sister didn’t even seem to remember the awful scene from earlier, the two of them too distracted by good news, good news I nearly choked on, hot tea scalding my throat.
My father was coming home tomorrow.
I couldn’t stop staring at my mother, at the smile on her face. I’d thought she and I had a tacit understanding of the situation. I’d thought we were on the same page. But she seemed happy about the news, seemed grateful.
I’d frozen as she shared it, chiseled a smile onto my face.
Et tu, Brute? I thought.
I’d been so
