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“So.” She tilted her head back to look at him, her brown eyes illuminated by the passing lights of downtown. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else on the agenda?”
He smiled but couldn’t find the words to respond.
“The hidden agenda?” She poked his side, waiting for a response. “Any agenda at all?”
He feigned tiredness, looking over at her with a regretful smile. “I don’t think we should pursue the hidden agenda tonight. I need to be up early tomorrow.”
Her face fell, which lashed at him. “Oh. Well, that’s fine.” She pulled away a little, turning to look out the window. “What’s going on tomorrow?”
“I have a few family obligations,” he said, which wasn’t a lie. Every Sunday he met with his brothers and father and other relations for lunch. Annabelle would be there, which he remembered only after the words had left his mouth. Marian could find out about the Sunday family meet-up easily enough. But wouldn’t it be nice to bring her along?
His stomach twisted violently. He needed to process this conflict alone.
“Well, thanks for the great day.” She patted his knee like a mother would to a small child.
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her knee. He didn’t want this to be the end of their day, but it had to be. “I had a great time.”
Her eyes were full of doubt as she looked at him, his own confusion reflected back to him.
11
Marian woke up on Sunday and pouted. It wasn’t terribly mature of her, but she needed it. She ordered an extra-large mimosa and pancakes from room service—Part of my self-care routine, right?—and drew a bath in the hot tub so she could pout some more.
Omar’s weird mood at the tail end of their fabulous day together left a bitter taste in her mouth, one that tasted and smelled exactly of rejection. Why does he do this? She wanted to shake her fists at the sky and scream it from the mountains. On the one hand, he felt like a natural companion—someone who could even be a partner someday. Like a real-life romantic equal. But then shit like this flared up, reminding her of the sorry truth.
Omar lived in Parsabad, he would never be her partner, and his wife was the ghost elephant in the room who just wouldn’t go away.
With those factors operating against her, what was she even hoping for? Omar had to be a work colleague and nothing more. And that needed to start today.
Marian took the pancakes and mimosa into the bathroom, leaving her phone on silent in the bedroom. Part of her decision to pout and process involved not texting Omar at all and masturbating at least once, but not to his memory. Or maybe only slightly to his memory. Because the man was a sex god, and she’d probably never find his equal again in life.
Ugh. Why does he have to be so hot and good? She slipped into the warm water, pouting more, and then carefully reached for her pancakes. She leaned against the tub wall, balancing the plate along the edge, and shoveled small squares into her mouth while she angrily studied the tiles of the bathroom floor.
It just didn’t make sense. She’d brought up his wife in an attempt to make that final, glaringly obvious link. He was moving on, which was evident by the way in which they hung out together. Or wasn’t it?
She sighed, stuffing another syrupy stack of squares into her mouth. These were almost better than back home, which seemed illegal somehow. How could Parsabad do American pancakes better than a New York diner?
They do men better, too. Except maybe they didn’t. She’d found the one professional and personal equal, and he just happened to still be in love with someone else. Not that she could blame him. But damn, the mixed signals were infuriating. She’d thought that their sex, at least, had been a strong enough indicator of…something.
She took a sip of the mimosa and then took a gulp. She’d be ordering plenty of these today, and probably lying in bed a lot too. Why did this feel like breaking up? She’d known Omar for less than a week, and yet it felt like they were ending a months-long courtship.
Sex had probably made things muddy and awkward. It always did—as a thirty-two-year-old, she should know this by now. Age didn’t matter when dealing with men. It was always confusing and just this side of a shit show, no matter how mature, no matter what part of the world.
“Ugh.” Marian finished the last of her pancakes and set the plate on the tiled floor. Then she sank back, letting the warm rush of water overtake her, basking in the churn of the currents.
A few hours later, she was awoken from a nap by the buzzing of her phone. She’d collapsed onto her bed after her skin went wrinkly in the tub, and she must have passed out soon after. She scrambled to find the phone on the bedspread. Only a few shafts of light peeked through the heavy curtains she’d left drawn from the night
before.
When she found the phone, she sighed, turning it over tensely. She’d wanted to disconnect today, but already she was being a slave to her device.
Layla. Three missed calls.
Marian furrowed a brow, swiping her phone open. Three missed calls and one urgent text saying “CALL ME ASAP.” Marian called Layla and leaned back onto the bed, yawning.
“Jesus, where have you been?” Layla sounded rushed. Cars honked in the background.
“I just woke up from a nap.” Her gaze traveled to the nightstand. Six thirty p.m. “It’s been a rough Sunday.”
