Peaches and Cream Flavor Binge: In the Creases
Title: In the Creases
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Peaches and cream flavor binge, malt (Nina's crumbled-up cookie things: the first segment of Gravity from Farid's POV.), cookie crumbs (of, well, all of Gravity), rainbow sprinkles, butterscotch, brownie, fresh peaches (Usually when you're cornered, you're able to find a way to squirm to safety. Today you may run out of clever maneuvers).
Word Count: 6400
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Farid falls in love.
Notes: Title from a gorgeous song by Vienna Teng and Alex Wong. Also, I sort of got carried away... sorry, Nina, hope you don't mind.
6. daisy chain
The day that changed Farid Amala's life started just like every other day.
He got up, went through his usual morning routine. His wife gave him a cup of coffee; he kissed her cheek in exchange. His older daughters reached up their arms and gave him hugs; he sent them on their way to school with silent blessings. His younger girls presented him solemnly with a daisy chain; he put it in his briefcase. He dandled his year-old son on his knee for a bit, then got up, dusted off his hands. He had work to do. A meeting with Allen Terrini about some new project. He hardly knew what, but it hardly mattered; every meeting with Allen made them both richer.
He drove downtown, cursing LA traffic all the way. He parked his car carefully-- it was new, and he didn't want any dings in it-- then walked the three blocks to Allen's building. He walked out of the hazy spring air into air-conditioned, dark paneled halls, shouldering his way through the revolving door with the absentmindedness of habit.
And there he stopped.
And there everything changed.
Allen had a receptionist, or rather, shared one with rest of the building. Up until today, it had been a plain and quiet but spectacularly competent woman named Cynthia Debrossy. Farid had rather liked her, for all he'd never spoken to her.
But for whatever reason, she was gone today. In her place was...
She wasn't beautiful, or at least not in the way he'd been taught to accept. She dressed very simply, in a white blouse and a dark skirt that spread over her knees. Dark hair, hair that deserved a crown of the daisy chain still in his briefcase, waved down her back, pulled smoothly back from her face. And ah, that face... sweet but sharp, smooth skin over angled features, a soft mouth balanced by a straight nose. He wanted, very suddenly, to run his finger down that nose, to touch the arrogant tip of it. No. She wasn't beautiful. But she was striking, and she struck him, deeply.
He walked up to her desk in silence, searching for something to say to her. There was a plate on her desk, but he had no idea how to pronounce the name inscribed there. That could be a start, he decided, and cleared his throat.
"Hello, Mrs... er..." He felt stupid immediately, but she answered with a cheer that soothed him.
"Arelie Koch. Are-eh-ly. It's Hebrew. How can I help you?"
She hadn't looked up. It was his only disappointment.
"I have an appointment with Allen Terrini. Do you know where his office is?" Another stupid thing to say, but technically, at least, he hadn't lied. He hadn't, after all, said that he didn't know where it was.
She looked up at last, and her laughing eyes, a deep hazel close to amber, were as beautiful as he'd thought. "I do indeed," she said, and smiled at him, and Farid stopped paying attention to the conversation.
She had such a beautiful smile.
He got to touch her, later on, and her hand was soft in his own. But he cursed the impulse almost as soon as he'd given in to it, because those laughing eyes lit on his wedding ring and stopped laughing, like a fire after a bucket of water had been tossed on it. Her smile became less beautiful, more mechanical, as she rose to show him the way, and he cursed himself all the way to Allen's office.
On the way out, he paused by her now-empty desk, and again on impulse, took out the daisy chain. That could hardly hurt anything, he thought, and left it on her blotter as a silent apology.
--
11. deadly nightshade
To his quiet relief, she was back at her desk the next time he came to see Allen, and the smile she graced him with seemed undimmed. If it was no longer flirtatious, well, a man could not have everything.
He strained to see her now, when he came in. To see if it was her, first of all, because it wasn't always; Allen or Allen's building had apparently hired more than one receptionist to replace Cynthia. He didn't know why-- surely Arelie was more than clever enough for the job-- but they had. If it wasn't her, he passed by the desk without a word.
If it was her, he stopped, always, and said good morning. She always offered him her hand in return, and he always took it, loving the feel of it in his. They would talk, about anything and everything, and if Allen waited for him upstairs then Allen could just go on waiting, because Arelie Koch was far more interesting than anything Allen could possibly say. He loved to talk to her, loved to say clever things and make her laugh, loved to hear her say clever things in that smoky, rich voice of hers. She was so intelligent, so compassionate, he could say anything to her without fear of being judged.
And then he would go home, to his wife, to Fatimah, and she could not be more drastically different. Where Arelie saw him with an honest delight, Fatimah looked for him with a desperate need that had begun to frighten him. Where Arelie would disagree with him freely, argue if she thought that he needed it, Fatimah agreed with everything he said. Where Arelie let him touch her hand and only that, Fatimah clung to him and begged for contact.
He'd always known that Fatimah loved him far, far more than he loved her, and in a far, far different way. What he had not known was just how uncomfortable this could make him. And what could he say to her? "Don't love me so much?" "Be more like this woman I hardly even know?" She was his wife and the mother of his children. It was as it was. He would have to accept that with grace.
He knew he should not compare Fatimah to Arelie.
But still, he did it-- somehow he could not help it. And always, Fatimah came out worse.
--
10. hanafubuki
The pear trees were flowering in bright bursts of white on the day he decided to risk it. Every time the wind blew, hundreds of five-petaled stars of white would rain down on the city. Usually Farid thought this a nuisance, shaking them from his collar and brushing them from his hair, perhaps putting a few in his pocket for Joanna or Deborah to press in a book or wear in their hair.
Today... today it seemed an omen. Today he'd decided to give it a try. What had he to lose, after all?
He hurried through their usual greeting and the early small talk, then hazarded everything. "I wonder, Miss Koch, if you could do me a favor." He still called her Miss Koch, of course-- he loved her given name, but she hadn't given him permission to use it, and some things one did not do.
She gave him a curious look from under her long, gorgeous eyelashes. "Of course," she said. "What can I do for you, Mr. Amala?"
He smiled at her, and went one step further. "Well, you could begin by calling me Farid."
"Why, sir," she said. "If you think that wise."
"We're friends, aren't we?" he asked, even as his stomach sank. "Friends use each other's names. Please, Farid. But that's not what I meant to ask. The favor I need is rather more time-consuming than that, I'm afraid."
She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands across her stomach. "Please, ask."
Here it went. "There's a function I need to attend. My wife is... well, she has made it very clear to me that she won't be going." Because there was some things that Fatimah simply would not oblige him in, and appearing in public while pregnant was apparently one of them. "But these things are so boring, and... well, I was wondering if you might like to go with me. Strictly as friends, of course," he added, quickly. "I don't want you to think I mean anything improper by it."
And he didn't. He just wanted... to spend more time with here.
"Of course not," she said. "Well. I'll have to check my calendar, of course, but I see no reason why I couldn't, if I'm free."
Joy shot through him. She hadn't refused! "It's this Friday. At the Getty. Some sort of cocktail reception... ah, that won't be a problem, will it?"
"What? ...No, no, of course not. I'll meet you there?"
And pass up a few minutes he could spend with her? "Oh, no need. I can come and pick you up. It should end quite late, and a lady shouldn't be walking around Los Angeles at night. Please."
"Thank you," she said. "But on one condition."
He'd do anything for her. "Anything."
"That you call me Arelie," she said.
His heart jumped. "As you wish, Arelie," he said, and let himself kiss her hand.
After that, the rains of white flowers felt like a benediction.
--
4. rose petals
Farid didn't know when he fell in love with her. It might have been the first moment he saw her, the moment she struck his heart, the moment she looked up at him and smiled. It might have been during that first conversation, the first time they'd really talked, when he'd really understood how intelligent she was, how she matched him word for word and thought for thought. It might have been when he picked her up for that first party and she'd been so beautiful in a bright pink dress with her hair curled to one side, or when they went to a premiere and she'd been so excited about meeting Ryan O'Neal.
He knew to the second the moment he realized it, though.
They were at a party, at someone's house somewhere, or rather they had been... now they were sitting together on a bench outside, in the really impressive garden. Roses climbed and twisted around them, filling the air with scent and dusting Arelie's dark hair with pollen. He'd wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to comb it out, and then to just keep doing it... but that would have been too forward. They were friends, nothing more.
He didn't remember what they'd been talking about originally. Somehow the conversation came around to fathers, and Arelie had gone quiet.
"What is it?" he'd asked, squeezing her hand in his, gently.
"My father," she began, then reached out, pulled a rose from the arbor beside her, and began to pull it apart in her lap, petal by petal. "My father," she said, again. "He didn't love my mother. She loved him, at least at first, but he didn't love her."
He knew what that was like. But he said nothing, and in a moment, he was glad that he hadn't.
"I don't think that he loved anyone, actually," Arelie continued, stacking the petals very neatly in her lap. "He didn't love me at all. I know because he didn't spare a thought for my mother or for me when he left."
Farid must have made a noise, because she turned to look at him, and smiled sadly. "I was seven, you see," she said. "I didn't understand any of this then. I just knew that my daddy was gone. My mother told me it was because he'd met somebody younger and prettier, and he didn't want to be bothered with us anymore." She shook her head. "I can't imagine a crueler thing to say to a child. But she was right. She was only telling the truth." Finished with plucking the rose, Arelie began to shred the petals.
"I can't imagine that," he said, thinking of his own children, his beautiful daughters, his strong son. "I can't imagine never seeing my children again."
"You love your children," Arelie said, simply. "My father never loved me. He never even tried to contact me again. Not even when my mother died."
A tear splashed on the petals in her lap. She was crying, he realized, and on instinct he put an arm around her shoulder. That must have triggered something in her, because she turned to him, put her face against his shoulder and began to sob, very quietly.
He put his other arm around her, held her while she cried, and felt a sudden desire to find her father and peel the skin from his skull, like his daughters shucked corn. And then he would come back and hold Arelie again, keep her safe from everything that might hurt her, make her smile, always.
He knew then that he loved her.
The rose petals fell from her lap, dusting their feet. He found some later when he took off his shoes, and put them into an envelope, to keep.
--
7. she loves me, she loves me not
Farid thought at first only to hide it. Arelie was a good woman, and he could not imagine, after what her father had done to her, that she could possibly trust men again. They were friends, and she spent time with him. He would take that and be happy.
But the next time he picked her up, she seemed... unhappy. Subdued and quiet. Something was wrong, he was sure, and he only grew more certain when she drank more than she usually did at the party they went to. He kept a close, careful eye on her, and though she (thankfully) never got beyond tipsy, he still worried for her.
He'd ask her, he decided, when he took her home. Maybe it was a problem at work. He could perhaps help.
She was silent on the ride home, and by the time they pulled up to her house, he could no longer keep silent. "Arelie, is something wrong?"
"I'm fine," she said, and did not meet his eyes, so he knew she was lying. "Only... I can't come, on Tuesday. Or ever."
He inhaled, feeling as if she'd hit him. "For heaven's sake, why? Did I say something wrong? Did I..." Oh God. Oh, God, oh sweet Lord in heaven, did she know? Had she guessed? Had he been too obvious in his love for her, frightened her with it? "Did I make you feel uncomfortable? I swear I never meant to. I swear it."
She blinked at him, and the knot in his stomach eased just a bit. "No, no," she said. "It's only that I love you--"
She said more than that, but he heard nothing else. She loved him. She loved him. This woman, the most perfect woman he'd ever met, loved him.
Farid reached forward, cupped the back of her head, pulled her gently towards her, and kissed her.
Her mouth was still moving against his, and it was just as soft and lovely as he'd ever imagined. Her hair through his fingers felt like silk. The skin of her jaw like silk and velvet beneath his hand...
Just then she stopped moving, froze entirely, and for a horrible second he thought he'd misjudged her, misunderstood her. In a moment she'd push him away, run out of the car and he would never, ever see her again...
Her hands twined in his hair, she pulled him hard against her, and he forgot that thought entirely.
He pulled away from her a moment later, just long enough to say her name, "Arelie," like music on his tongue. She whimpered, pulled him back against her, and joy swept over him.
"Arelie," he said, into her mouth. "Arelie. I love you. Arelie." He couldn't say it enough.
She was everything he'd ever dreamed, lithe and sleek in his arms, climbing over the gear shaft to sit in his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight against his body.
He never, ever wanted to let her go. And, for that night at least, he didn't have to.
--
9. morning glory
She was gone when he woke.
Farid honestly had not expected that, and fear crawled into his throat. The other side of the bed was still warm, so she hadn't gone for long, but...
She'd been tipsy, last night. Not drunk, but enough. He hadn't even thought of that at the time, but what if she thought differently in the sober light of morning?
He sat up in bed, pulled the sheets loosely around his waist, ran both his hands through his hair. If she felt differently, if she felt they'd done something wrong, he could still lose her, and he didn't think he could stand that. Now that he had her...
Now that he had her, he intended to marry her. He felt as if he couldn't breathe right without her. And if she would only come back so he could tell her that, everything would be fine.
"Arelie?" he called, hearing an uncertain note in his own voice. "Are you there?"
"Here," she called back, and to his relief she padded out of the bathroom, looking rumpled and sexy and so beautiful it took his breath away. She looked happy, comfortable, moving with the loose stride of a woman who'd been well loved. She smiled sleepily at him, and something unknotted in his stomach.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, idiotically, but what else could he say? The joy he felt with her seemed to take his brains away entirely.
She yawned, and nodded. "You?"
"Wonderfully." He held out a hand to her, and she took it, let him pull her down on the bed beside him. "Arelie, I have something to ask you."
"Hmm?" It seemed to him that she stiffened, then. "What is it?"
He took a deep breath, and felt her stiffen further beside him. "I want you to marry me," he said, all in a rush. "Will you?"
Arelie lost her stiffness and gaped at him, eyes wide. "You... what? But you're married!"
"I'm going to leave Fatimah," he said. He'd known that he would have to the moment he took Arelie in his arms, because he couldn't be without her, and he didn't intend to try. "I want you to marry me after I do."
Arelie gaped at him for a little while longer. He held his breath. If she said no...
And then she flung her arms around his shoulders, saying, "yes, yes, a thousand times yes, oh, you idiot, of course I'll marry you," squirming into his lap, planting messy kisses all over his face.
He laughed from sheer joy and kissed her back, let her push him back down on the bed. "I love you," he told her, looking up into her face that shone with happiness, running his hand through the dark curls that hung down around both of them.
"I love you," she replied, then kissed him emphatically. He wrapped his arms around her shoulder and rolled her over, and the next time she said it, it was in a scream.
--
5. baby's breath
It wasn't until he arrived home and Fatimah came out to meet him, worry on her face and her belly great with child, that Farid realized he couldn't tell her yet. He didn't dare. He remembered the baby born too early, the little boy that had only lived three days, remembered Fatimah clutching Deborah and sobbing until he thought she'd gone mad. No, he didn't dare tell her yet.
None of this was her fault, after all. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried, and it wasn't as if he hated her-- he was rather fond of her, in a vague sort of way. He intended to make this as easy on her as he could. She would lose her husband-- that wasn't even in question anymore. But she would not lose this child, not if he could avoid it.
He had not meant to lie. But he could hardly tell the truth.
When she reached him, and asked him where he'd been, he told her he'd drunk too much at the party, had slept over at a friend's rather than risk driving home.
It wasn't that much of a lie, anyway. And it smoothed the wrinkles from Fatimah's face.
Then his children came piling out of the house, his daughters dancing, Deborah carrying little Jasper on her hip, and he ran to meet them, his other joy. There was something else to be grateful to Fatimah for: she had given him such beautiful children. Deborah, his oldest, hair braided serenely back; Joanna, quieter and more solemn than the others, her dark eyes saying so much that she never did. Ruth and Nadia, two years apart in age but already nearly inseparable, their curls twined with soft sprays of some white flower. And Jasper, clapping his small, chubby hands, babbling out all the words he knew in a random jumble of sound. He loved them so much sometimes he thought his heart would burst.
His children. Arelie would love them. They would love her. They'd be so happy together.
And maybe-- it was much too soon to even begin thinking of it, but the thought was still there-- maybe he and Arelie would have some children of their own. A son, with Arelie's amber hazel eyes and his dark hair; a daughter with her sharp, striking features and his long hands. Yes. He could already imagine her, sitting in a hospital bed, exhausted but glowing, with their child at her breast...
She'd told him not long ago that she wanted children, wanted them desperately. He'd give her all of his and more.
"Baba!" His children had reached him at last, dancing around him like so many stars. Nadia held up her arms imperiously, and he stooped obediently to pick her up and set her on his hip.
"Baba!" Ruth cried, twirling to better show off her hair and dress. "Look, look! Don't you like my dress? And Deborah braided my hair with flowers!" She pointed at one, in case he'd missed it somehow.
"Yes, I see," he told her, indulgently. "You look beautiful! Quite the little lady. Well done, Deborah."
Deborah, at ten, was too probably too old to need such compliments, but she smiled anyway. "Thank you, Baba," she said, bouncing Jasper a little.
He smiled at her, then bent and kissed Joanna's forehead.
Oh, yes. They'd be so happy.
--
3. dandelion
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Arelie asked, spreading the blanket out with a deft flick of her wrist.
He wasn't so much anymore. A picnic was a good thought in theory, but it wasn't as nice out as he'd hoped. Too hot as it always was in Los Angeles, the sun glaring down hot and orange, the sky a brassy blue. Cars honked on the street below, exhaust fumes drifted up, and there were dandelions everywhere, growing up between the cracks in the concrete and all but smothering the grass that was supposed to be growing in this postage stamp of a park.
Still, he thought that Arelie would enjoy herself, and she did look as if she was. Even if she looked a little nervous.
Which told him that she wasn't actually asking him about the weather, but more about the possibility that someone might see them.
"What could happen?" he asked in reply. This park was near her house, far from anyplace anyone who knew them both would frequent. Besides, even if they were seen and recognized, what was the harm in two friends eating lunch together? "It's just a picnic, galiya. Don't worry so."
Arelie smiled at him then, and looked so beautiful that he couldn't help but bend down and kiss her. "I won't, then," she said. "It's a beautiful day for it, anyway."
He blinked at her, but she had already turned away, looked out across Los Angeles. Confused, Farid frowned, then turned and looked with her.
All right, the sky was really more of a picture-book blue, dotted with a few of the fluffy white clouds that children always painted. And it was a clear day, all of the smog out to sea for once, the palm trees spreading their fronds like they did on all the postcards. In fact, there was something oddly beautiful about the city, spread out like a blanket, silver and grey towers jutting in the distance, and beyond it all the deep blue sea.
"Almost as beautiful as you," he said to Arelie. It was foolish, but it was the truth, and he was rewarded with a kiss.
He could kiss her forever.
She reached for one of the Tupperware containers, opened it, and said, suddenly, "Let's get married on a day like this."
He tilted his head back, looked up at the sky. "Yes," he agreed. "A day just like this." A day with both of them happy, a day when the sun shone and flowers were everywhere, even if they were only dandelions.
His gaze fell on one that had already gone to seed, its head a little halo of fluffy white. A memory bubbled up --one of his daughters, he thought Deborah, picking a dandelion and wishing that Mema would have the baby safely before she blew it away-- and inspired, he reached out and picked one. Let us always be happy.
"What are you doing?" Arelie asked, and he looked at her, to find him watching her curiously.
"Making a wish," he said, simply, and blew.
--
2. bleeding heart
Farid woke to screaming.
For a heartstopping moment he thought it was Arelie, that something dreadful had happened to her, and he was out of bed and halfway down the hall before he realized that they weren't her screams. It wasn't her voice, and in any case Arelie would never call someone a whore, much less do it at the top of her lungs.
No. His stomach sank. He did know who it was, and it was not good.
He could not face her naked. For a moment he considered not going downstairs, not facing her at all, but that was cowardice. He'd have to see Fatimah sooner or later. And he could not leave her to scream down there and possibly bring on a miscarriage.
Farid got dressed and went downstairs.
It was worse than he'd ever imagined. Fatimah's eyes lit on him as he came out behind Arelie, and her expression was so betrayed-- he took a step back at the shock of it. What had put that look on her face?
"You," she said, and put a hand out, steadying herself on the door. "How could you do this to me?"
"I didn't do anything to you," Farid said, steadily. Arelie reached out for him, her eyes frightened; he took her hand, squeezed it quickly, then gently moved her behind him, back into the depths of the house.
She shouldn't see this.
Fatimah followed every move that Arelie made, and there was a deadly hatred in her eyes. "That's right," she spat. "Get your whore out of my sight. How could you do this to me?"
Rage flashed through him, so quickly he was almost astonished. "Don't call her a whore," he said, his voice full of quiet steel. "I did nothing to you, Fatimah."
"Only a man would say that," she said, but she was straightening up now, looking less as if she'd just been punched in the stomach. Better for the baby, he thought. "Well, if you think I'm going to let you keep seeing your whore--" her voice was so deliberate, and so were her eyes when she raised them to meet his-- "then you're dreaming."
"If you call her a whore one more time," Farid said, surprised at how calm his voice was, "I really don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it at all."
Fatimah folded her arms under her breasts, rolled her eyes. "I don't know why you bother defending a woman like that," she said.
Strange. Her voice was almost pleading.
"I defend her because I love her," he said. "And she loves me. Don't you dare impugn her for that."
She shook her head, fast, desperation leaking into her eyes. "No," she said. "No. No. You love me. I'm your wife! You love me!"
He sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it, a little. "I never meant for you to find out this way."
"You meant me never to find out!" Fatimah screamed, her voice rising shrilly into hysteria. "You just wanted to have your perfect life and your whore on the side and..."
"Stop it!" he shouted, striding down the steps. He seized her shoulders and shook her. "Stop it, Fatimah! I love her, and I will marry her!"
He was close enough to her that he saw her breath hitch, saw her eyes widen as it sank in.
And then she simply fell through his hands, collapsed on the stoop, and began to scream as if the world was ending.
--
12. poison ivy
She wept the whole way back to their house, and as soon as they arrived she plunged out of the car, sobbing, and ran up to their bedroom. By the time he got there, she'd locked herself in. Farid knocked, and got nothing for his pains but a screamed order to go away.
Someone tugged at his sleeve and he looked down to see Joanna, her eyes wide. "Baba," she said. "Baba, what's wrong with Mema?"
"She's upset," he told her, gently, and cursed himself for bringing Fatimah back here. "It's all right, galiya. She's only a little upset."
Joanna glanced uncertainly at the closed bedroom door. Wild sobbing emanated from behind it, now. "I don't know," she said. "She sounds really sad."
"Yes, love, she is." How the hell could he explain this to his children? Well, not yet, obviously. Damn Fatimah, anyway. How dare she make such a scene and frighten the children? They were so young, still.
"Baba," Joanna said, and he looked down at her again. "Can't you make her stop crying?"
Damn Fatimah. "No, Joanna," he said, crouching to get on her level. "Sometimes you just have to cry it out."
"Oh." Joanna looked at the door again. "It scares me, Baba."
"Don't worry," Farid said, swiftly. "Don't worry, galiya. Everything will be all right."
The door slammed open and he looked up, to see Fatimah in full rage. "How dare you?" she screamed at him. "How dare you lie to her like that?"
Joanna backed up, her eyes wide. "Mema..."
Fatimah ignored her. "Do you tell all women lies like this?" she demanded of Farid.
Thanks to all the angels in heaven, Deborah hurried up then. She looked between her mother and father, then ran to Joanna, put her arm around her sister. "Don't cry," she said, quietly. "Don't cry."
"Deborah," Farid said, shortly. He dug in his pocket, came out with his wallet. "Take your sisters out for ice cream, please."
"Yes, Baba." She took the wallet, looked at them both again with too-old eyes, then led Joanna gently away and down the stairs.
Fatimah must have gotten some small hint of self-control back, because she waited until the girls were out of earshot before she turned on him again. "And have you thought what you're going to say to them?" she demanded. "How will you tell them that you're leaving them for some woman you met on the street?"
"I won't be leaving them," he said, as calmly as he could. "I am divorcing you, Fatimah. That doesn't mean I love them any less."
She stared at him for a moment, mouth open, then laughed, harshly. "And you think I will let my children-- my children-- spend one moment of their lives with that woman? You can do anything you want, Farid, and it will not make her any less a whore."
Farid had never hit anyone in his life. It was that and Fatimah's pregnancy that saved her now. "For the last time," he hissed. "Do not call her a whore. You can't keep my children from me. I am their father!"
"And I am their mother, who you are leaving for your mistress." Fatimah spat. "You leave me and you will never see them again."
A chill ran down his spine. He didn't believe it, not quite, but there was a strange, ugly smile on her face that he'd never seen before. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," Fatimah said, and slammed the bedroom door again.
--
8. weeping willow
The girls came back around eight, crept back into the house, but thank goodness she was finished screaming by then. He'd taken a break to put them to bed, tried to calm them down a little, but when he came back Fatimah began screaming again and, he was sure, undid all his careful work. Did she want their children to be traumatized by this? He simply couldn't understand it.
It took him until nearly one in the morning to talk Fatimah out of her insanity, and even then he still slept on the couch. So it was aching and exhausted that he made his way to Arelie's house the next day.
The sight of her when she opened the door was like water to a man dying of thirst, and he was so busy basking in her presence that he failed to notice her expression. "Arelie," he said. "Galiya. I'm so sorry about that. It's done, now, though."
He had to touch her, had to complete the healing. But when he reached for her, she backed up, and then the brokenhearted look on her face registered.
Fear knotted in his throat. "Arelie?"
"I can't do this," she said.
The fear turned to heartbreak, and for a moment, he couldn't even speak for the pain. What had changed?
"If this is about my wife," he began, but she shook her head and he stopped talking immediately. If it wasn't Fatimah, what?
"I don't give a damn about your wife," she said. "I never did. I should think that was obvious. But I do care about your children. You have five children, Farid. How old is your oldest? Nine? Ten?"
"Eleven," he murmured, thinking of her small face and her too-wise, too-old eyes. "Deborah is eleven."
"Eleven." Arelie shook her head, and backed up another step. "And the others are younger. Do you have any idea what it will do to them if you leave?"
He did know. Oh, God in heaven. He did know. "I could get custody," he said, but it came out sounding more like a question. If only Arelie would tell him he could, it would be all right and all of Fatimah's words would mean nothing. If only...
"After running off with your mistress?" she asked. "No. The courts favor the mother anyway, and after that... They'll give your wife custody, and you know she'll never let you see them. And you know what she'll tell them when they ask why. They'll hate you for it, and you'll hate me for that."
Oh God. They would hate him, his innocent little girls, his brave little son. But he couldn't let her go, not even for that. "Arelie," he began.
"No," she said. The gentleness in her voice broke his heart even more. "You can't leave your children. Not for me. I won't let you."
"Arelie," he said, again, desperately. She couldn't leave him like this, she couldn’t...
"No," she said, and closed the door.
--
1. forget-me-not
He knew somehow, even as the door was closing, that he would never see her again. He didn't want to believe it, not now, not when they were so close to everything they'd both wanted, but he knew it. He'd lost her.
Fatimah said nothing more about it, when he came back to the house, but then she didn't say much of anything to him anymore. Their children tiptoed around the house for days, but gradually relaxed-- still, every so often, he would see that too-wise look in Deborah's eyes, sometimes Joanna's. He hated it, what Fatimah with her scenes had done to his daughters, and all for nothing.
His girls would never be the same. He knew it.
And Arelie was gone. There was a hole in him where she'd been, a hole he'd always had and hadn't even noticed until she filled it. Arelie. God. He'd lost her.
He couldn't let her go so easily. He couldn't go and see her, because that would hurt her and that was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn't let her go so easily.
The florist had the roses and the daisies, though they balked at putting them in one bouquet. After that little difficulty was got over, he convinced them to add morning glories, remembering Arelie's face the morning after, the joy he'd felt. He convinced them to add the pear tree flowers and a few sprigs of baby's breath, for the children they would never had. They even came up with a weeping willow branch from somewhere, and one of the florists produced some bleeding heart. But they balked at including dandelions.
"The dandelions," Farid said, "are essential," and when they told him it was not a flower they stocked, he went to the vacant lot next door, pulled up a handful, and presented them to the florists with an implacable expression. They put them in the bouquet.
"Will that be all, sir?" one of them asked, sounding offended.
Farid didn't care. "Just see she gets them," he said. "Oh... and put some forget-me-nots. In the center."
He took one for his lapel on the way out. Fatimah saw it, and her lips compressed, but she said nothing.
The florist called him, the next day. "I'm sorry, sir," the woman said. "We attempted to deliver, but no one was home. Neighbors said the lady at that address has moved. Do you have the new one?"
She'd moved?
She really was gone, then.
Farid hung up on the florist without an explanation, and stared out the window.
Arelie was gone. What now?
He had no answer, even for himself.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Peaches and cream flavor binge, malt (Nina's crumbled-up cookie things: the first segment of Gravity from Farid's POV.), cookie crumbs (of, well, all of Gravity), rainbow sprinkles, butterscotch, brownie, fresh peaches (Usually when you're cornered, you're able to find a way to squirm to safety. Today you may run out of clever maneuvers).
Word Count: 6400
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Farid falls in love.
Notes: Title from a gorgeous song by Vienna Teng and Alex Wong. Also, I sort of got carried away... sorry, Nina, hope you don't mind.
6. daisy chain
The day that changed Farid Amala's life started just like every other day.
He got up, went through his usual morning routine. His wife gave him a cup of coffee; he kissed her cheek in exchange. His older daughters reached up their arms and gave him hugs; he sent them on their way to school with silent blessings. His younger girls presented him solemnly with a daisy chain; he put it in his briefcase. He dandled his year-old son on his knee for a bit, then got up, dusted off his hands. He had work to do. A meeting with Allen Terrini about some new project. He hardly knew what, but it hardly mattered; every meeting with Allen made them both richer.
He drove downtown, cursing LA traffic all the way. He parked his car carefully-- it was new, and he didn't want any dings in it-- then walked the three blocks to Allen's building. He walked out of the hazy spring air into air-conditioned, dark paneled halls, shouldering his way through the revolving door with the absentmindedness of habit.
And there he stopped.
And there everything changed.
Allen had a receptionist, or rather, shared one with rest of the building. Up until today, it had been a plain and quiet but spectacularly competent woman named Cynthia Debrossy. Farid had rather liked her, for all he'd never spoken to her.
But for whatever reason, she was gone today. In her place was...
She wasn't beautiful, or at least not in the way he'd been taught to accept. She dressed very simply, in a white blouse and a dark skirt that spread over her knees. Dark hair, hair that deserved a crown of the daisy chain still in his briefcase, waved down her back, pulled smoothly back from her face. And ah, that face... sweet but sharp, smooth skin over angled features, a soft mouth balanced by a straight nose. He wanted, very suddenly, to run his finger down that nose, to touch the arrogant tip of it. No. She wasn't beautiful. But she was striking, and she struck him, deeply.
He walked up to her desk in silence, searching for something to say to her. There was a plate on her desk, but he had no idea how to pronounce the name inscribed there. That could be a start, he decided, and cleared his throat.
"Hello, Mrs... er..." He felt stupid immediately, but she answered with a cheer that soothed him.
"Arelie Koch. Are-eh-ly. It's Hebrew. How can I help you?"
She hadn't looked up. It was his only disappointment.
"I have an appointment with Allen Terrini. Do you know where his office is?" Another stupid thing to say, but technically, at least, he hadn't lied. He hadn't, after all, said that he didn't know where it was.
She looked up at last, and her laughing eyes, a deep hazel close to amber, were as beautiful as he'd thought. "I do indeed," she said, and smiled at him, and Farid stopped paying attention to the conversation.
She had such a beautiful smile.
He got to touch her, later on, and her hand was soft in his own. But he cursed the impulse almost as soon as he'd given in to it, because those laughing eyes lit on his wedding ring and stopped laughing, like a fire after a bucket of water had been tossed on it. Her smile became less beautiful, more mechanical, as she rose to show him the way, and he cursed himself all the way to Allen's office.
On the way out, he paused by her now-empty desk, and again on impulse, took out the daisy chain. That could hardly hurt anything, he thought, and left it on her blotter as a silent apology.
--
11. deadly nightshade
To his quiet relief, she was back at her desk the next time he came to see Allen, and the smile she graced him with seemed undimmed. If it was no longer flirtatious, well, a man could not have everything.
He strained to see her now, when he came in. To see if it was her, first of all, because it wasn't always; Allen or Allen's building had apparently hired more than one receptionist to replace Cynthia. He didn't know why-- surely Arelie was more than clever enough for the job-- but they had. If it wasn't her, he passed by the desk without a word.
If it was her, he stopped, always, and said good morning. She always offered him her hand in return, and he always took it, loving the feel of it in his. They would talk, about anything and everything, and if Allen waited for him upstairs then Allen could just go on waiting, because Arelie Koch was far more interesting than anything Allen could possibly say. He loved to talk to her, loved to say clever things and make her laugh, loved to hear her say clever things in that smoky, rich voice of hers. She was so intelligent, so compassionate, he could say anything to her without fear of being judged.
And then he would go home, to his wife, to Fatimah, and she could not be more drastically different. Where Arelie saw him with an honest delight, Fatimah looked for him with a desperate need that had begun to frighten him. Where Arelie would disagree with him freely, argue if she thought that he needed it, Fatimah agreed with everything he said. Where Arelie let him touch her hand and only that, Fatimah clung to him and begged for contact.
He'd always known that Fatimah loved him far, far more than he loved her, and in a far, far different way. What he had not known was just how uncomfortable this could make him. And what could he say to her? "Don't love me so much?" "Be more like this woman I hardly even know?" She was his wife and the mother of his children. It was as it was. He would have to accept that with grace.
He knew he should not compare Fatimah to Arelie.
But still, he did it-- somehow he could not help it. And always, Fatimah came out worse.
--
10. hanafubuki
The pear trees were flowering in bright bursts of white on the day he decided to risk it. Every time the wind blew, hundreds of five-petaled stars of white would rain down on the city. Usually Farid thought this a nuisance, shaking them from his collar and brushing them from his hair, perhaps putting a few in his pocket for Joanna or Deborah to press in a book or wear in their hair.
Today... today it seemed an omen. Today he'd decided to give it a try. What had he to lose, after all?
He hurried through their usual greeting and the early small talk, then hazarded everything. "I wonder, Miss Koch, if you could do me a favor." He still called her Miss Koch, of course-- he loved her given name, but she hadn't given him permission to use it, and some things one did not do.
She gave him a curious look from under her long, gorgeous eyelashes. "Of course," she said. "What can I do for you, Mr. Amala?"
He smiled at her, and went one step further. "Well, you could begin by calling me Farid."
"Why, sir," she said. "If you think that wise."
"We're friends, aren't we?" he asked, even as his stomach sank. "Friends use each other's names. Please, Farid. But that's not what I meant to ask. The favor I need is rather more time-consuming than that, I'm afraid."
She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands across her stomach. "Please, ask."
Here it went. "There's a function I need to attend. My wife is... well, she has made it very clear to me that she won't be going." Because there was some things that Fatimah simply would not oblige him in, and appearing in public while pregnant was apparently one of them. "But these things are so boring, and... well, I was wondering if you might like to go with me. Strictly as friends, of course," he added, quickly. "I don't want you to think I mean anything improper by it."
And he didn't. He just wanted... to spend more time with here.
"Of course not," she said. "Well. I'll have to check my calendar, of course, but I see no reason why I couldn't, if I'm free."
Joy shot through him. She hadn't refused! "It's this Friday. At the Getty. Some sort of cocktail reception... ah, that won't be a problem, will it?"
"What? ...No, no, of course not. I'll meet you there?"
And pass up a few minutes he could spend with her? "Oh, no need. I can come and pick you up. It should end quite late, and a lady shouldn't be walking around Los Angeles at night. Please."
"Thank you," she said. "But on one condition."
He'd do anything for her. "Anything."
"That you call me Arelie," she said.
His heart jumped. "As you wish, Arelie," he said, and let himself kiss her hand.
After that, the rains of white flowers felt like a benediction.
--
4. rose petals
Farid didn't know when he fell in love with her. It might have been the first moment he saw her, the moment she struck his heart, the moment she looked up at him and smiled. It might have been during that first conversation, the first time they'd really talked, when he'd really understood how intelligent she was, how she matched him word for word and thought for thought. It might have been when he picked her up for that first party and she'd been so beautiful in a bright pink dress with her hair curled to one side, or when they went to a premiere and she'd been so excited about meeting Ryan O'Neal.
He knew to the second the moment he realized it, though.
They were at a party, at someone's house somewhere, or rather they had been... now they were sitting together on a bench outside, in the really impressive garden. Roses climbed and twisted around them, filling the air with scent and dusting Arelie's dark hair with pollen. He'd wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to comb it out, and then to just keep doing it... but that would have been too forward. They were friends, nothing more.
He didn't remember what they'd been talking about originally. Somehow the conversation came around to fathers, and Arelie had gone quiet.
"What is it?" he'd asked, squeezing her hand in his, gently.
"My father," she began, then reached out, pulled a rose from the arbor beside her, and began to pull it apart in her lap, petal by petal. "My father," she said, again. "He didn't love my mother. She loved him, at least at first, but he didn't love her."
He knew what that was like. But he said nothing, and in a moment, he was glad that he hadn't.
"I don't think that he loved anyone, actually," Arelie continued, stacking the petals very neatly in her lap. "He didn't love me at all. I know because he didn't spare a thought for my mother or for me when he left."
Farid must have made a noise, because she turned to look at him, and smiled sadly. "I was seven, you see," she said. "I didn't understand any of this then. I just knew that my daddy was gone. My mother told me it was because he'd met somebody younger and prettier, and he didn't want to be bothered with us anymore." She shook her head. "I can't imagine a crueler thing to say to a child. But she was right. She was only telling the truth." Finished with plucking the rose, Arelie began to shred the petals.
"I can't imagine that," he said, thinking of his own children, his beautiful daughters, his strong son. "I can't imagine never seeing my children again."
"You love your children," Arelie said, simply. "My father never loved me. He never even tried to contact me again. Not even when my mother died."
A tear splashed on the petals in her lap. She was crying, he realized, and on instinct he put an arm around her shoulder. That must have triggered something in her, because she turned to him, put her face against his shoulder and began to sob, very quietly.
He put his other arm around her, held her while she cried, and felt a sudden desire to find her father and peel the skin from his skull, like his daughters shucked corn. And then he would come back and hold Arelie again, keep her safe from everything that might hurt her, make her smile, always.
He knew then that he loved her.
The rose petals fell from her lap, dusting their feet. He found some later when he took off his shoes, and put them into an envelope, to keep.
--
7. she loves me, she loves me not
Farid thought at first only to hide it. Arelie was a good woman, and he could not imagine, after what her father had done to her, that she could possibly trust men again. They were friends, and she spent time with him. He would take that and be happy.
But the next time he picked her up, she seemed... unhappy. Subdued and quiet. Something was wrong, he was sure, and he only grew more certain when she drank more than she usually did at the party they went to. He kept a close, careful eye on her, and though she (thankfully) never got beyond tipsy, he still worried for her.
He'd ask her, he decided, when he took her home. Maybe it was a problem at work. He could perhaps help.
She was silent on the ride home, and by the time they pulled up to her house, he could no longer keep silent. "Arelie, is something wrong?"
"I'm fine," she said, and did not meet his eyes, so he knew she was lying. "Only... I can't come, on Tuesday. Or ever."
He inhaled, feeling as if she'd hit him. "For heaven's sake, why? Did I say something wrong? Did I..." Oh God. Oh, God, oh sweet Lord in heaven, did she know? Had she guessed? Had he been too obvious in his love for her, frightened her with it? "Did I make you feel uncomfortable? I swear I never meant to. I swear it."
She blinked at him, and the knot in his stomach eased just a bit. "No, no," she said. "It's only that I love you--"
She said more than that, but he heard nothing else. She loved him. She loved him. This woman, the most perfect woman he'd ever met, loved him.
Farid reached forward, cupped the back of her head, pulled her gently towards her, and kissed her.
Her mouth was still moving against his, and it was just as soft and lovely as he'd ever imagined. Her hair through his fingers felt like silk. The skin of her jaw like silk and velvet beneath his hand...
Just then she stopped moving, froze entirely, and for a horrible second he thought he'd misjudged her, misunderstood her. In a moment she'd push him away, run out of the car and he would never, ever see her again...
Her hands twined in his hair, she pulled him hard against her, and he forgot that thought entirely.
He pulled away from her a moment later, just long enough to say her name, "Arelie," like music on his tongue. She whimpered, pulled him back against her, and joy swept over him.
"Arelie," he said, into her mouth. "Arelie. I love you. Arelie." He couldn't say it enough.
She was everything he'd ever dreamed, lithe and sleek in his arms, climbing over the gear shaft to sit in his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight against his body.
He never, ever wanted to let her go. And, for that night at least, he didn't have to.
--
9. morning glory
She was gone when he woke.
Farid honestly had not expected that, and fear crawled into his throat. The other side of the bed was still warm, so she hadn't gone for long, but...
She'd been tipsy, last night. Not drunk, but enough. He hadn't even thought of that at the time, but what if she thought differently in the sober light of morning?
He sat up in bed, pulled the sheets loosely around his waist, ran both his hands through his hair. If she felt differently, if she felt they'd done something wrong, he could still lose her, and he didn't think he could stand that. Now that he had her...
Now that he had her, he intended to marry her. He felt as if he couldn't breathe right without her. And if she would only come back so he could tell her that, everything would be fine.
"Arelie?" he called, hearing an uncertain note in his own voice. "Are you there?"
"Here," she called back, and to his relief she padded out of the bathroom, looking rumpled and sexy and so beautiful it took his breath away. She looked happy, comfortable, moving with the loose stride of a woman who'd been well loved. She smiled sleepily at him, and something unknotted in his stomach.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, idiotically, but what else could he say? The joy he felt with her seemed to take his brains away entirely.
She yawned, and nodded. "You?"
"Wonderfully." He held out a hand to her, and she took it, let him pull her down on the bed beside him. "Arelie, I have something to ask you."
"Hmm?" It seemed to him that she stiffened, then. "What is it?"
He took a deep breath, and felt her stiffen further beside him. "I want you to marry me," he said, all in a rush. "Will you?"
Arelie lost her stiffness and gaped at him, eyes wide. "You... what? But you're married!"
"I'm going to leave Fatimah," he said. He'd known that he would have to the moment he took Arelie in his arms, because he couldn't be without her, and he didn't intend to try. "I want you to marry me after I do."
Arelie gaped at him for a little while longer. He held his breath. If she said no...
And then she flung her arms around his shoulders, saying, "yes, yes, a thousand times yes, oh, you idiot, of course I'll marry you," squirming into his lap, planting messy kisses all over his face.
He laughed from sheer joy and kissed her back, let her push him back down on the bed. "I love you," he told her, looking up into her face that shone with happiness, running his hand through the dark curls that hung down around both of them.
"I love you," she replied, then kissed him emphatically. He wrapped his arms around her shoulder and rolled her over, and the next time she said it, it was in a scream.
--
5. baby's breath
It wasn't until he arrived home and Fatimah came out to meet him, worry on her face and her belly great with child, that Farid realized he couldn't tell her yet. He didn't dare. He remembered the baby born too early, the little boy that had only lived three days, remembered Fatimah clutching Deborah and sobbing until he thought she'd gone mad. No, he didn't dare tell her yet.
None of this was her fault, after all. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried, and it wasn't as if he hated her-- he was rather fond of her, in a vague sort of way. He intended to make this as easy on her as he could. She would lose her husband-- that wasn't even in question anymore. But she would not lose this child, not if he could avoid it.
He had not meant to lie. But he could hardly tell the truth.
When she reached him, and asked him where he'd been, he told her he'd drunk too much at the party, had slept over at a friend's rather than risk driving home.
It wasn't that much of a lie, anyway. And it smoothed the wrinkles from Fatimah's face.
Then his children came piling out of the house, his daughters dancing, Deborah carrying little Jasper on her hip, and he ran to meet them, his other joy. There was something else to be grateful to Fatimah for: she had given him such beautiful children. Deborah, his oldest, hair braided serenely back; Joanna, quieter and more solemn than the others, her dark eyes saying so much that she never did. Ruth and Nadia, two years apart in age but already nearly inseparable, their curls twined with soft sprays of some white flower. And Jasper, clapping his small, chubby hands, babbling out all the words he knew in a random jumble of sound. He loved them so much sometimes he thought his heart would burst.
His children. Arelie would love them. They would love her. They'd be so happy together.
And maybe-- it was much too soon to even begin thinking of it, but the thought was still there-- maybe he and Arelie would have some children of their own. A son, with Arelie's amber hazel eyes and his dark hair; a daughter with her sharp, striking features and his long hands. Yes. He could already imagine her, sitting in a hospital bed, exhausted but glowing, with their child at her breast...
She'd told him not long ago that she wanted children, wanted them desperately. He'd give her all of his and more.
"Baba!" His children had reached him at last, dancing around him like so many stars. Nadia held up her arms imperiously, and he stooped obediently to pick her up and set her on his hip.
"Baba!" Ruth cried, twirling to better show off her hair and dress. "Look, look! Don't you like my dress? And Deborah braided my hair with flowers!" She pointed at one, in case he'd missed it somehow.
"Yes, I see," he told her, indulgently. "You look beautiful! Quite the little lady. Well done, Deborah."
Deborah, at ten, was too probably too old to need such compliments, but she smiled anyway. "Thank you, Baba," she said, bouncing Jasper a little.
He smiled at her, then bent and kissed Joanna's forehead.
Oh, yes. They'd be so happy.
--
3. dandelion
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Arelie asked, spreading the blanket out with a deft flick of her wrist.
He wasn't so much anymore. A picnic was a good thought in theory, but it wasn't as nice out as he'd hoped. Too hot as it always was in Los Angeles, the sun glaring down hot and orange, the sky a brassy blue. Cars honked on the street below, exhaust fumes drifted up, and there were dandelions everywhere, growing up between the cracks in the concrete and all but smothering the grass that was supposed to be growing in this postage stamp of a park.
Still, he thought that Arelie would enjoy herself, and she did look as if she was. Even if she looked a little nervous.
Which told him that she wasn't actually asking him about the weather, but more about the possibility that someone might see them.
"What could happen?" he asked in reply. This park was near her house, far from anyplace anyone who knew them both would frequent. Besides, even if they were seen and recognized, what was the harm in two friends eating lunch together? "It's just a picnic, galiya. Don't worry so."
Arelie smiled at him then, and looked so beautiful that he couldn't help but bend down and kiss her. "I won't, then," she said. "It's a beautiful day for it, anyway."
He blinked at her, but she had already turned away, looked out across Los Angeles. Confused, Farid frowned, then turned and looked with her.
All right, the sky was really more of a picture-book blue, dotted with a few of the fluffy white clouds that children always painted. And it was a clear day, all of the smog out to sea for once, the palm trees spreading their fronds like they did on all the postcards. In fact, there was something oddly beautiful about the city, spread out like a blanket, silver and grey towers jutting in the distance, and beyond it all the deep blue sea.
"Almost as beautiful as you," he said to Arelie. It was foolish, but it was the truth, and he was rewarded with a kiss.
He could kiss her forever.
She reached for one of the Tupperware containers, opened it, and said, suddenly, "Let's get married on a day like this."
He tilted his head back, looked up at the sky. "Yes," he agreed. "A day just like this." A day with both of them happy, a day when the sun shone and flowers were everywhere, even if they were only dandelions.
His gaze fell on one that had already gone to seed, its head a little halo of fluffy white. A memory bubbled up --one of his daughters, he thought Deborah, picking a dandelion and wishing that Mema would have the baby safely before she blew it away-- and inspired, he reached out and picked one. Let us always be happy.
"What are you doing?" Arelie asked, and he looked at her, to find him watching her curiously.
"Making a wish," he said, simply, and blew.
--
2. bleeding heart
Farid woke to screaming.
For a heartstopping moment he thought it was Arelie, that something dreadful had happened to her, and he was out of bed and halfway down the hall before he realized that they weren't her screams. It wasn't her voice, and in any case Arelie would never call someone a whore, much less do it at the top of her lungs.
No. His stomach sank. He did know who it was, and it was not good.
He could not face her naked. For a moment he considered not going downstairs, not facing her at all, but that was cowardice. He'd have to see Fatimah sooner or later. And he could not leave her to scream down there and possibly bring on a miscarriage.
Farid got dressed and went downstairs.
It was worse than he'd ever imagined. Fatimah's eyes lit on him as he came out behind Arelie, and her expression was so betrayed-- he took a step back at the shock of it. What had put that look on her face?
"You," she said, and put a hand out, steadying herself on the door. "How could you do this to me?"
"I didn't do anything to you," Farid said, steadily. Arelie reached out for him, her eyes frightened; he took her hand, squeezed it quickly, then gently moved her behind him, back into the depths of the house.
She shouldn't see this.
Fatimah followed every move that Arelie made, and there was a deadly hatred in her eyes. "That's right," she spat. "Get your whore out of my sight. How could you do this to me?"
Rage flashed through him, so quickly he was almost astonished. "Don't call her a whore," he said, his voice full of quiet steel. "I did nothing to you, Fatimah."
"Only a man would say that," she said, but she was straightening up now, looking less as if she'd just been punched in the stomach. Better for the baby, he thought. "Well, if you think I'm going to let you keep seeing your whore--" her voice was so deliberate, and so were her eyes when she raised them to meet his-- "then you're dreaming."
"If you call her a whore one more time," Farid said, surprised at how calm his voice was, "I really don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it at all."
Fatimah folded her arms under her breasts, rolled her eyes. "I don't know why you bother defending a woman like that," she said.
Strange. Her voice was almost pleading.
"I defend her because I love her," he said. "And she loves me. Don't you dare impugn her for that."
She shook her head, fast, desperation leaking into her eyes. "No," she said. "No. No. You love me. I'm your wife! You love me!"
He sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it, a little. "I never meant for you to find out this way."
"You meant me never to find out!" Fatimah screamed, her voice rising shrilly into hysteria. "You just wanted to have your perfect life and your whore on the side and..."
"Stop it!" he shouted, striding down the steps. He seized her shoulders and shook her. "Stop it, Fatimah! I love her, and I will marry her!"
He was close enough to her that he saw her breath hitch, saw her eyes widen as it sank in.
And then she simply fell through his hands, collapsed on the stoop, and began to scream as if the world was ending.
--
12. poison ivy
She wept the whole way back to their house, and as soon as they arrived she plunged out of the car, sobbing, and ran up to their bedroom. By the time he got there, she'd locked herself in. Farid knocked, and got nothing for his pains but a screamed order to go away.
Someone tugged at his sleeve and he looked down to see Joanna, her eyes wide. "Baba," she said. "Baba, what's wrong with Mema?"
"She's upset," he told her, gently, and cursed himself for bringing Fatimah back here. "It's all right, galiya. She's only a little upset."
Joanna glanced uncertainly at the closed bedroom door. Wild sobbing emanated from behind it, now. "I don't know," she said. "She sounds really sad."
"Yes, love, she is." How the hell could he explain this to his children? Well, not yet, obviously. Damn Fatimah, anyway. How dare she make such a scene and frighten the children? They were so young, still.
"Baba," Joanna said, and he looked down at her again. "Can't you make her stop crying?"
Damn Fatimah. "No, Joanna," he said, crouching to get on her level. "Sometimes you just have to cry it out."
"Oh." Joanna looked at the door again. "It scares me, Baba."
"Don't worry," Farid said, swiftly. "Don't worry, galiya. Everything will be all right."
The door slammed open and he looked up, to see Fatimah in full rage. "How dare you?" she screamed at him. "How dare you lie to her like that?"
Joanna backed up, her eyes wide. "Mema..."
Fatimah ignored her. "Do you tell all women lies like this?" she demanded of Farid.
Thanks to all the angels in heaven, Deborah hurried up then. She looked between her mother and father, then ran to Joanna, put her arm around her sister. "Don't cry," she said, quietly. "Don't cry."
"Deborah," Farid said, shortly. He dug in his pocket, came out with his wallet. "Take your sisters out for ice cream, please."
"Yes, Baba." She took the wallet, looked at them both again with too-old eyes, then led Joanna gently away and down the stairs.
Fatimah must have gotten some small hint of self-control back, because she waited until the girls were out of earshot before she turned on him again. "And have you thought what you're going to say to them?" she demanded. "How will you tell them that you're leaving them for some woman you met on the street?"
"I won't be leaving them," he said, as calmly as he could. "I am divorcing you, Fatimah. That doesn't mean I love them any less."
She stared at him for a moment, mouth open, then laughed, harshly. "And you think I will let my children-- my children-- spend one moment of their lives with that woman? You can do anything you want, Farid, and it will not make her any less a whore."
Farid had never hit anyone in his life. It was that and Fatimah's pregnancy that saved her now. "For the last time," he hissed. "Do not call her a whore. You can't keep my children from me. I am their father!"
"And I am their mother, who you are leaving for your mistress." Fatimah spat. "You leave me and you will never see them again."
A chill ran down his spine. He didn't believe it, not quite, but there was a strange, ugly smile on her face that he'd never seen before. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," Fatimah said, and slammed the bedroom door again.
--
8. weeping willow
The girls came back around eight, crept back into the house, but thank goodness she was finished screaming by then. He'd taken a break to put them to bed, tried to calm them down a little, but when he came back Fatimah began screaming again and, he was sure, undid all his careful work. Did she want their children to be traumatized by this? He simply couldn't understand it.
It took him until nearly one in the morning to talk Fatimah out of her insanity, and even then he still slept on the couch. So it was aching and exhausted that he made his way to Arelie's house the next day.
The sight of her when she opened the door was like water to a man dying of thirst, and he was so busy basking in her presence that he failed to notice her expression. "Arelie," he said. "Galiya. I'm so sorry about that. It's done, now, though."
He had to touch her, had to complete the healing. But when he reached for her, she backed up, and then the brokenhearted look on her face registered.
Fear knotted in his throat. "Arelie?"
"I can't do this," she said.
The fear turned to heartbreak, and for a moment, he couldn't even speak for the pain. What had changed?
"If this is about my wife," he began, but she shook her head and he stopped talking immediately. If it wasn't Fatimah, what?
"I don't give a damn about your wife," she said. "I never did. I should think that was obvious. But I do care about your children. You have five children, Farid. How old is your oldest? Nine? Ten?"
"Eleven," he murmured, thinking of her small face and her too-wise, too-old eyes. "Deborah is eleven."
"Eleven." Arelie shook her head, and backed up another step. "And the others are younger. Do you have any idea what it will do to them if you leave?"
He did know. Oh, God in heaven. He did know. "I could get custody," he said, but it came out sounding more like a question. If only Arelie would tell him he could, it would be all right and all of Fatimah's words would mean nothing. If only...
"After running off with your mistress?" she asked. "No. The courts favor the mother anyway, and after that... They'll give your wife custody, and you know she'll never let you see them. And you know what she'll tell them when they ask why. They'll hate you for it, and you'll hate me for that."
Oh God. They would hate him, his innocent little girls, his brave little son. But he couldn't let her go, not even for that. "Arelie," he began.
"No," she said. The gentleness in her voice broke his heart even more. "You can't leave your children. Not for me. I won't let you."
"Arelie," he said, again, desperately. She couldn't leave him like this, she couldn’t...
"No," she said, and closed the door.
--
1. forget-me-not
He knew somehow, even as the door was closing, that he would never see her again. He didn't want to believe it, not now, not when they were so close to everything they'd both wanted, but he knew it. He'd lost her.
Fatimah said nothing more about it, when he came back to the house, but then she didn't say much of anything to him anymore. Their children tiptoed around the house for days, but gradually relaxed-- still, every so often, he would see that too-wise look in Deborah's eyes, sometimes Joanna's. He hated it, what Fatimah with her scenes had done to his daughters, and all for nothing.
His girls would never be the same. He knew it.
And Arelie was gone. There was a hole in him where she'd been, a hole he'd always had and hadn't even noticed until she filled it. Arelie. God. He'd lost her.
He couldn't let her go so easily. He couldn't go and see her, because that would hurt her and that was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn't let her go so easily.
The florist had the roses and the daisies, though they balked at putting them in one bouquet. After that little difficulty was got over, he convinced them to add morning glories, remembering Arelie's face the morning after, the joy he'd felt. He convinced them to add the pear tree flowers and a few sprigs of baby's breath, for the children they would never had. They even came up with a weeping willow branch from somewhere, and one of the florists produced some bleeding heart. But they balked at including dandelions.
"The dandelions," Farid said, "are essential," and when they told him it was not a flower they stocked, he went to the vacant lot next door, pulled up a handful, and presented them to the florists with an implacable expression. They put them in the bouquet.
"Will that be all, sir?" one of them asked, sounding offended.
Farid didn't care. "Just see she gets them," he said. "Oh... and put some forget-me-nots. In the center."
He took one for his lapel on the way out. Fatimah saw it, and her lips compressed, but she said nothing.
The florist called him, the next day. "I'm sorry, sir," the woman said. "We attempted to deliver, but no one was home. Neighbors said the lady at that address has moved. Do you have the new one?"
She'd moved?
She really was gone, then.
Farid hung up on the florist without an explanation, and stared out the window.
Arelie was gone. What now?
He had no answer, even for himself.