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I don’t know. I guess when you’re a hopeless romantic in the middle of a romantic-comedy montage, it’s hard to notice the red flags waving right in front of you.
“Or maybe you don’t like her because you’re scared of how much you might end up loving her.”
“What happened here?” His fingers tap at the side of his neck. “Where did your birthmark go?” “My—” Oh. I gather my hair to the side, revealing the hidden spot. “I covered it with concealer. It’s not very pretty, so . . .” “That’s not true,” he responds almost instinctively. “I mean, it’s—it’s a part of you, and you shouldn’t be ashamed of it.” He settles back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Don’t cover it from now on.”
He’s dressed like a stereotypical goth—black hoodie, black jeans, and . . . black headphones.
Zoha gives Connor’s cheek a gentle tap and shakes him slightly. Her action puts me off because who knows what kind of germs Connor carries?
“I like to read,” Connor mumbles, protecting his backpack as if we’re about to criticize him for being a bookworm.
“Did you use my card?” He tilts his head when he notices the little bob in my throat. “I did.” A smirk. “Good girl.” Oh, god. He called you a “good girl.”
“You are . . .” He trails off, inhaling a deep, strained breath and exhaling painstakingly slowly. “Between the two of us, you are the ocean, Alina. Uncontrollable. Ferocious. Mystic. Wet.” A deep chuckle rumbles from his throat. “Correct me if I’m wrong about the latter.”
“I’m grateful to God for allowing me to exist in the exact timeline as you, Alina jaan.”
Knowing my wife is swiping my credit card to make unnecessary, over-expensive purchases brings me joy. Turns out, they’re all figurines she’s been pining for since her teenage years but could never afford on her meagre childcare assistant salary. But hey, if it makes her happy, I’m content to watch every last cent disappear.
