My body and mind relaxed around him so easily that it took considerable effort to heave my barriers back up. I did it, though, because this set me on edge. I said, ‘Yeah, it is . . .’ while I pushed myself off his chest and leant against the back of the sofa in what I presumed would seem like a carefree manner. ‘I think what makes it so good is that we both know what it is, you know?’
Shahryār put his book down on the side and folded his glasses away, adjusting himself on the sofa so he could look at me through those sweet amber eyes that always made me want to furl myself into him. His face didn’t betray a mite of emotion. ‘Right. What is it again?’
I shrugged. ‘We’re casual. Two friends whose mutual interests align considerably, and one of those interests happens to be sex with each other.’
He was quiet for a few moments before nodding slowly. ‘Of course. I’m actually talking to two other women right now.’
I smiled brightly, perhaps too brightly. ‘Good. That’s great. I’m happy for you.’
I snuggled back up against him and inhaled the soft cottony heat of his chest. He had stopped stroking my hair.
When I told Shahryār to keep talking to those women, I truly believed I meant it. It was painful, but it was that pain that assured me I was doing the right thing. I saw it as a necessary bloodletting to maintain my health. I had to cut the infection out, and in this case the infection was deep affection for Shah. I’d got this far by being on my own and not allowing myself to be softened. That was what I knew and what I grew up with. That was where I was safe. Aloneness. The fact that I was unnerved by how I felt at the thought of him kissing these women, or whispering softly in their ear like he did with me, was confirmation of my wise decision making.
It was incomprehensible that I should care. As I perused his （few and limited） social media pages at night and went through his follower list with monomaniacal determination, trying to see who looked like they might be his type, I was certain it was my professional habit having its way with me. I was just researching; I was just thirsty for knowledge. Was having a curious mind a sin and . . . Okay, am I crazy or does that girl Ziba look exactly like me, except that I can actually pull off that haircut?
It was turning me into a bad person, and not the fun kind of bad person either, but the kind of bad person I abhorred: jealous, petty and critical of another woman’s shade of lipstick. So, I did my job and fixed it. I moulded the narrative to one that served me. We were both equally available and it just so happened that I was pickier than he was. It wasn’t that I thought of him and smiled in public like a loon, it wasn’t that I skipped home after work on days that I knew he was coming over. I believed the story I sculpted because I had to. The alternative was that I had lost control of my own narrative, that our story was spilling beyond my set limits, that it may not have a limit. It would be out of my hands; I would not be able to protect myself. That was something I refused to allow.
Now, however, looking at Shahryār across the kitchen island and seeing how he saw me, eyes blistering through me, I realised that there was no way I could be protected from this, and, worse still, I didn’t want to be. He shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up in the process. ‘Let’s talk about it, Scher.’
I twitched a shoulder and blinked innocence at him. ‘Talk about what?’
Shahryār shrugged. ‘Talk about how my toothbrush is in your bathroom. About how I keep the yoghurt that you like to eat for breakfast in my fridge.’
‘That kind of seems like a boring topic of conversation . . .’
‘Okay, here’s the thing: I like this. I like us. I think you like this and you like us too. I think this could be a lot easier if you stopped sabotaging and manipulating yourself out of it. I know you told me that you hooked up with someone else thinking I’d get mad and end this, but I won’t be the one to do that. It has to be you. I’m not a political pawn that you can mould and shape; I am a man who is in love with you. You can’t do what you do out there in here,’ he gestured to the space between us. ‘In here it’s us. In here it’s sacred. You and me. Don’t insult us by doing that. If you want to call it quits, then do it, but I won’t let you make me do it. If you want to walk out right now, do it, but you’re not going to make me push you out. I thought this was a love story, but if it isn’t, tell me I’m wrong. If I’m right, though, I can promise you that it will never end with me leaving you. I will want you forever.’