The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(94)
Chapter Twelve
Lucy
The next few weeks were a merry-go-round of highs with Khabib, and lows alone at home, hating myself after my latest call with his parents. Sure, at this point, I was telling them more lies than truths, but it still tore me up inside to lie to Khabib. He was so caring, so giving, so charming. So perfect for me.
Every day that passed, I found myself caring for him more. Mornings were filled with his sweet, cheery texts, my favorite bagel on my desk already when I got in, glances over to see him smiling at me through the glass. Afternoons were lunches together, a baguette and cheese in the park, a shared giant strudel at the café nearby. Nights held dates, adventures, and escapes: walks on the beach, in the park, by the canyon; horseback riding through fields; hiking through forests; wandering through Disneyland, half-drunk with happiness and the whirling celebration of rides; dinners at every swanky restaurant in a five-mile radius; drinks at all the hottest clubs.
On Friday, he let me choose where we ate. As I prepared to do so my usual way, with my eyes closed and my finger landing on whatever place on the city map, Khabib smiled at me.
“Tonight’s a special night.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I frowned.
“So, shouldn’t you choose? What if my finger lands on a fast food joint?”
Khabib’s dazzling smile broadened.
“Then we’ll have a really special burger and fries.”
Closing my eyes, my finger landed on the location of “Pen and Pencil” on the map. Khabib’s smile fell, even if it was barely perceptible.
“This should be interesting.”
Why exactly, he didn’t reveal until much later.
The place, as I soon discovered, was a hip concept bar with an old-fashioned boarding-school theme, with a huge vintage map on the wall, blue, studded booth seats, and hardwood floors. Only once we’d chatted about work, about Khabib’s upcoming 30th birthday, and about Oscar’s latest transgression (pooping on a trainer’s foot), did Khabib bring up the relevance of the theme.
“I went to boarding school, you know.”
I glanced at him, surprised.
“Really?”
He nodded.
“My parents thought it would prepare me for coming over here, since they always planned to have me move here to expand the family business. What they didn’t count on was how much I hated it.”
“The school?”
“Yeah, the school, the States, everything. I didn’t fit in, didn’t understand why things were so different here. I pleaded with my parents, but it was only once I got expelled that they finally let me go home and stay there. I vowed to never come back.”
Khabib looked downright upset now, while I wasn’t sure what to say. My head was so full of questions that it felt like it was spinning.
“Why…”
“I was homesick. All the other kids, they seemed to have no love or affection for their families, didn’t even seem to miss them. They didn’t seem to care about anything, really. It was fun for them, tormenting me.”
His eyes had an angry sheen and I clasped his hand.
“It was brave of you, coming back to the States.”
He shrugged.
“I knew I had to come back. I needed to prove it to myself, I think. That I was different. That I wasn’t the awkward little boy who couldn’t fit in anymore.”
I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it.
“Well, clearly you’ve succeeded in that.”
He nodded, although he wasn’t looking at me, wasn’t smiling either.
“Yes, I suppose in the way I wanted to, I did. I don’t find it hard to talk to people, not anymore. It’s just…”
“What?”
Now his gaze met mine.
“I still feel alone. More alone than ever before.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, being here, seeing your country like this…I can’t go back home now; I’ve adapted to the L.A. lifestyle too much. I feel like the worst kind of hybrid, one who still holds the value of his home, but has seen too much of a different world to go back and be happy there.”
Smiling absently, he clasped my hand with both of his.
“Because your country’s way of life Lucy, your equality—how plumber and business mogul alike can toast drinks at the bar—your skyscrapers and your gardens, your malls and innovation…there’s nothing like it in my home country.”
When he met my eye again, his face fell once more.
“And yet, as with everything, with good comes the bad. From what I’ve seen, many people here take their families for granted, live in the future, don’t enjoy what they have. It’s ironic—the people who have the most, being the unhappiest in the world.”
As he nodded, I found myself doing the same.
“It’s hard, living in such a fast-paced environment, where the name of the game is striving for success, no matter the consequences. I think it’s easy to forget what’s important, and who is important,” I said.
Khabib squeezed my hands once more and his face lit up. It was as if he’d said the words himself.
Just then, our waiter came up. Khabib turned to him.