As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (21)

Khawf narrows his eyes and impatiently brushes down his suit before taking out a cigarette. Khawf doesn’t care where we are. There’s nothing else for me to do except ignore him, focusing on Kenan and Lama and praying he doesn’t torment me. I can’t question my grip on reality with Kenan and his sister right here. I can’t lose myself tonight.

“Your sister was amazing today,” I begin. Khawf raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t met many nine-year-olds who could have gone through that and still been able to smile at their brothers.”

“Yeah, she’s a tough one.” He gently caresses her hair to the side. “Always has been. I think she hates herself for screaming so much, which shows you how much pain she was in.”

I feel guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t trying to blame you! It must have been hard on you too.”

“Ask him again. Where do you know him from?” Khawf interjects, blowing out silver smoke.

I continue ignoring him.

“Do it, and I won’t bother you again tonight.”

Please go away, I beg in my mind.

“Are you really satisfied with that stutter of a reply? Any fool would know he’s hiding something. What if it’s bad? What if it’s something that could harm you?”

I shoot him a furious look. He doesn’t seem abashed in the slightest.

“You’re here, all alone, for the whole night. And even if Layla knew where you were, how much help do you think a pregnant girl would be? All you have is your scalpel.” He straightens, eyeing Kenan up and down. “And judging by his physique, even though you’re both starving, he could overpower you in five seconds. Three, if you don’t resist.”

The back of my neck breaks out in sweat. Why does he do this to me? Wedge every doubt and dread in my brain until all I can think about is what he’s saying.

Kenan Aljendi. His name sounds so familiar. Where have I heard it before?

“He knows you,” Khawf presses on. “He recognized you. That gives him the upper hand. I bet he already knew your name. He didn’t ask you about your last name.”

Shit, he has a point.

I clear my throat. The rational part of my brain knows Kenan won’t harm me, but the other part is annoyed he’s hiding something.

“Kenan. I’m sorry, but I feel like we really have met.” I leave no room for negotiation in my tone.

The candlelight flickers across his clouded eyes.

“I told you we haven’t,” he insists.

I stare at him, my gaze turning colder by the second. “I’m pretty sure we have.”

He sighs loudly and stands. My body instantly goes into defense mode, but the surgical bag is a bit far away for me to grab a scalpel from. Even if I were to stand, he’d still be much taller than me, and I hate that. I should have listened to my gut and walked home, snipers and all.

Calm down!

“I’m not lying, Salama, when I say we haven’t met.” He turns around to look at me. Khawf enjoys this immensely, glancing from me to Kenan and back to me.

“Then?” I feel vulnerable from my place on the floor.

“We haven’t met because we never got the chance to.”

You know what? I’m going to stand too.

“Can you please stop talking in code?”

He looks at me pointedly. “We were supposed to meet for coffee about a year ago.”

Coffee.

Friday.

Layla’s blue kaftan.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, putting the pieces from over one year ago together. “You were—”

“I was, but life changed.”

“You were going to come to my house for that marriage talk thing!” I finally splutter out.

Khawf gasps and claps his hands.





KENAN STARES AT ME, HIS CHEEKS AND EARS GROWING redder, and I stare right back, remembering Mama and how the beginning of the end began.

The day before my world came crashing down around me, I was on my phone scrolling through my Facebook feed. I’d just paused Princess Mononoke on my laptop—Layla had tagged me in a makeup tutorial video—when Mama walked in.

“Salama,” she said.

I looked up, my hair falling over my eyes. I pushed it back.

Her smile was tentative, and she brushed her fingers along the devil’s ivy leaves cascading from my bookshelf to the floor. Layla had gifted me the plant when I was accepted into pharmacy school, and I named her Urjuwan. The name was ironic, seeing as it meant purple, while my devil’s ivy’s leaves were the darkest shade of green. Still, it is a name I love. The way the U, R, J, and W all come together to create a melodic word that sounds the most Arabic. Urjuwan looked pretty beside the jars of herbs and flowers and the two scrapbooks I had made containing all the information I had gathered on medicinal flowers and herbs over many years, with dried petals glued to the heavy pages and captions scribbled on the side. Drawings by Layla when I needed a hand. I was so proud of those scrapbooks, I even showed them to my professor, who praised me in front of the whole class. That was the day I decided to specialize in pharmacology.

Mama sat beside me on the bed. “They’re coming tomorrow.”

I’m sure she didn’t think this day would arrive so soon. Especially since Hamza and Layla had gotten married not even a year ago.