Page 9 of To Tango, with Desire

I turned, unlocking the bottom drawer.

I picked up the manila envelope. It had arrived shortly after Omar’s funeral. And for the first time in twelve months, I actually contemplated opening the damn thing. I cursed, then threw the unassuming packet back down.

As far as I was concerned, Kadin Latif was dead to me.

And from my experience, I preferred the dead to stay well and truly buried.

THREE

AMIRA

That Wednesday evening, I sat in my parents’ living room, trying to convince them that my single status wasn’t tantamount to a humanitarian crisis. To me, it was a minor blip. To them, it was the end of the world.

I supposed it was normal for them to pressure me, especially given that they were the product of an arranged marriage, as were most of my siblings. Yet here I was at the ripe ‘old’ age of twenty-five, nearly—shock, horror—twenty-six and still single. The youngest of five children, I had no intention of taking part in the over-the-top, loud and expensive wedding rituals that my older siblings had engaged in.

Succumbing to an arranged marriage was my idea of hell.

I’d flirted with the notion that I’d been switched at birth dozens of times over the years. It would at least have explained why I felt so damn out of place in my loud Lebanese family. I glanced at my parents, who sat on opposite sides of the room. I knew if I looked in the mirror that my mother’s large almond eyes and fair skin would be staring back at me. Not to mention my dad’s small, curved nose. No, I was a Hadid, alright. And as a Hadid, I was expected to listen to my parents’ advice because they knew best.

“It’s not natural for a woman to stay alone.”

I glanced at my dad, who tried his best to appear firm but looked weary. His usually healthy golden skin seemed dull.

“I’m perfectly fine with that, Dad. If you recall, we live in the modern world, where women can do and be anything they want, without a man.”

“But habibti, there are so many men that ask me to show their son to you. Why you no like them?”

I sipped at the dark, murky coffee, trying my best to keep my temper in check.

If my parents knew I’d already had sex before marriage, I’d be taken off the respectable market shelf immediately. In their eyes, a woman was only allowed to have sex with one man. Her husband. And God forbid if I tried to kiss a few of them in the process to determine whether or not they could satisfy me sexually.

I had needs. What young, healthy woman didn’t? And I wanted those desires met by someone who wasn’t fumbling around my underwear, unable to tell the difference between my labia and my clit.

I bit into the sweet, sugary homemade baklava and sighed. Guys my age just didn’t cut it.

Was it so wrong of me to want to be wildly in love with the man I married? I’d grown up listening to my parents’ arguments, knowing that they didn’t love but tolerated each other. Half a century of marriage hadn’t softened their communication style; it had poured caustic soda on it.

Did they love each other? God, I’d never even seen them kiss or hold hands. Theirs was a bond forged out of proximity rather than any deeper sentiment.

“Dad, I don’t have a connection with any of them. They’re so immature. All they talk about is football or how many babies they want me to have. And, and what makes it worse is that they’re all mamma’s boys. I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen all day. I have work to do. My job is important.”

“Your job doesn’t give you babies, eh?” Nasrin interrupted. “And look at you, now unemployed!”

My mother had never forgiven me for quitting work at the bridal shop. She hoped that being in close proximity to wedding dresses and gushing brides would somehow rub off on me. If I were going to get shackled, I wanted to be head-over-heels, hopelessly devoted, panty-meltingly hot for the man I would call my husband. So far, the dudes my parents had found left a lot to be desired.

And my panties? Totally dry.

“What’s wrong with cooking, I want to know?” My dad frowned.

“You need to eat!” Nasrin interrupted.

“La, you need a man to take care of you, so you don’t have to work,” Dad replied. “Look at me? Eh? Worked all my life for a company that doesn’t care. Treats me less than a dog.” He tried to stand, then cried out, doubling over.

“Are you okay?” I helped him sit back in his armchair, propping him up with a few cushions for comfort. No matter how many times I witnessed his pain, it was still unsettling.

I ran to the medicine cabinet and took out two strong painkillers, waiting until he was calm before administering them.

Unfortunately, Hasan’s back pain was only manageable with drugs. Some days, he couldn’t even straighten his back, the pain that severe.