Chapter 4: Coffee in a Stocked Apartment
The airport in Riyadh was nothing like the one she'd left behind in Wisconsin.
It was bigger, louder, brighter—a city unto itself, all glass and steel and fluorescent light that seemed to hum at a frequency just below hearing. Layla stepped off the plane with her carry-on clutched against her chest and her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. The air smelled different here. Dry. Warm. Like dust and spice and something she couldn't name.
She followed the stream of passengers through customs, through baggage claim, through a maze of corridors that all looked the same. Her phone was still off. She hadn't turned it on since the plane took off, too afraid of what she might find—a text from her mother, a call from her father, some sign that they'd figured out what she was really doing.
The arrivals hall opened up before her, a vast space filled with people holding signs and flowers and balloons, their faces turned toward the doors like flowers toward the sun. Layla stopped at the edge of it, her suitcase heavy in her hand, and scanned the crowd.
She saw him before he saw her.
He was standing near the back wall, away from the crush of families and drivers, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the doors. He looked different than he had in Syria. Thinner, maybe. Tired. The trimmed beard was the same, the dark eyes, the shape of his shoulders beneath his plain white shirt. But there was something else, something new—a tension in his jaw, a tightness around his mouth, like he'd been clenching his teeth for weeks and forgotten how to stop.
Then he saw her.
The change was immediate. His whole body seemed to relax, then tense again, like a wave that couldn't decide whether to break. He pushed off the wall and started toward her, weaving through the crowd with a kind of focused determination that made people step aside without realizing they were doing it.
He stopped three feet away.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
They stood there, looking at each other, the noise of the airport swirling around them like water around stones. Layla didn't know what to do with her hands. Didn't know what to do with her face. She'd imagined this moment a thousand times on the plane, rehearsed a hundred different greetings, and now—now she couldn't remember any of them.
"You're here," he said.
"I'm here."
"I didn't—" He stopped, cleared his throat. "I wasn't sure you'd actually come."
"Neither was I."
A laugh escaped him, short and startled, like he'd forgotten he was capable of making the sound. "Fair enough."
He reached for her suitcase. She let him take it.
"The car's this way," he said.
She followed him through the doors, into air that hit her like a wall. Hot and dry and bright, so bright she had to squint against the sun even though it was late afternoon. The sky was a pale, bleached blue, the kind of sky that made everything beneath it look sharper, more vivid, more real.
The car was a small sedan, beige and unremarkable, parked in a lot that shimmered with heat. Omar loaded her suitcase into the trunk while she stood by the passenger door, waiting, watching.
"You don't have to do that," she said.
"Do what?"
"Be so—" She gestured vaguely. "Gentlemanly."
He closed the trunk and looked at her over the roof of the car. "I know I don't have to."
"Then why are you?"
"Because I want to." He opened her door. "Get in before you melt."
She got in.
The AC was already running, blessedly cold against her skin. She buckled her seatbelt and leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. She heard Omar get in, felt the car shift as he settled into the driver's seat. The engine turned over with a quiet hum.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine."
"You don't have to be fine."
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it might try to escape.
"I don't know what I am," she said.
He nodded slowly. "That's okay too."
They pulled out of the lot and onto a highway that stretched toward the city. Layla watched the landscape change through the window—sand, scrub, the occasional cluster of trees, buildings rising in the distance like a mirage. Everything was the color of dust and heat, except the sky, which was so blue it almost hurt to look at.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"It's a surprise."
"I don't like surprises."
"I know." He glanced at her, a quick flicker of a smile. "But this one's good. I promise."
She didn't answer. Just turned back to the window and watched the city get closer.
---
The apartment building was small and unremarkable—four stories of beige stucco, a few palm trees out front, a courtyard with a fountain that wasn't running. Omar parked in a spot near the entrance and killed the engine.
"Come on," he said.
She followed him inside, up a narrow staircase, down a hallway that smelled like cardamom and laundry detergent. He stopped at a door at the end of the hall and pulled a key from his pocket.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Just—" He unlocked the door and pushed it open. "Go in."
She stepped past him, into the apartment.
And stopped.
It was small—a studio, maybe, with a kitchenette on one side and a living area on the other. The windows were large, curtained with thin white fabric that let in the golden light of the setting sun. A bed was tucked into the corner, made up with clean sheets and a folded blanket. A desk sat by the window, a lamp on it, the cord neatly coiled. A prayer rug was laid out facing the direction of Mecca.
She walked further in. The fridge was full—she could see it from here, milk and eggs and vegetables and fruit, all neatly arranged. The cabinets were stocked, organized, everything in its place. On the counter sat a box of her favorite tea, the kind she'd only ever found at one shop back home.
She turned around.
Omar was standing in the doorway, watching her.
"How?" she asked.
"How what?"
"How did you—" She gestured at the room, at all of it. "This. Any of this."
He didn't answer right away. He looked down at his feet, then back up at her.
"I flew in two days early," he said. "I found the place, talked to the landlord, signed the lease. I stocked the fridge. I bought the tea at a market across town—took me three hours to find it, but the guy at the counter knew what I was looking for."
She stared at him.
"You did all of this?"
"I couldn't—" He stopped, started again. "I couldn't stand the thought of you showing up here to an empty room. To nothing. I couldn't let that happen."
Layla didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to do with the thing expanding in her chest, the pressure of it, the heat.
"You shouldn't have done this," she said.
"Maybe not." He shrugged, a small, helpless gesture. "But I did."
"Omar—"
"I know." He held up a hand. "I know. It's too much. It's—I'm sorry. I just—"
"Come in."
He blinked. "What?"
"Come in. Drink coffee with me." She gestured at the kitchenette. "I'm making some. I was craving it anyway."
He hesitated in the doorway, one hand still on the frame. "You don't have to—I don't want to make you work. You're pregnant. You should be resting."
She laughed.
It was the first real laugh she'd had in weeks—not the dry, humorless sound she'd made in the parking lot, not the forced thing she'd managed for her parents. This was different. This was real.
"I'm pregnant, Omar. I'm not dying." She opened a cabinet, found the coffee, found the pot. "I was going to make coffee regardless. So either you come in and drink some with me, or I drink the whole pot alone out of spite."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him—leaving it open a crack, she noticed. Just a crack.
He sat at the tiny kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him, while she moved around the kitchen. She found mugs, found sugar, found a small pot for the coffee. The motions were familiar, soothing, a kind of muscle memory that didn't require thought.
"So," she said. "Doctors."
"What about them?"
"Have you found one? I mean—" She paused, measuring the coffee. "I don't know how any of this works here. Insurance. Appointments. Whatever."
"I've been looking," he said. "There's a clinic near the university. Good reputation. They take walk-ins for initial consultations."
"Weekly."
He nodded. "I can take you. If you want."
She poured water into the pot, set it on the stove. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"I'm serious. You don't owe me anything."
"I know I don't." He leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracking her as she moved. "But I want to be there."
She didn't answer. Just turned the burner on and watched the water start to heat.
"Your family," he said after a moment. "Have you—"
"No."
"They don't know you're here?"
"They think I'm at school." She pulled two mugs down from the cabinet. "Early arrival. Orientation prep. That kind of thing."
"And they believed you?"
"My mother cried. My father said he was proud of me." She heard her own voice, flat and distant, like she was talking about someone else. "So yeah. They believed me."
Omar was quiet for a long time. Then: "Layla."
"What."
"When do you want to tell them?"
She turned around. He was watching her with those dark eyes, steady and patient, like he had all the time in the world.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't—I can't think about that yet."
"Okay."
"Because if I think about it I'll—" She stopped. Took a breath. "I'll fall apart. And I can't fall apart right now."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you keep asking questions I can't answer."
He didn't flinch. Didn't look away. "I'm just trying to figure out what you need."
"Right now I need to make coffee." She turned back to the stove. "That's it. That's all I can handle."
"Okay."
The water boiled. She poured it over the grounds, watched the dark liquid drip into the pot. The smell filled the small apartment, rich and warm, and for a moment she could almost pretend she was back home, in her mother's kitchen, doing something ordinary.
But she wasn't. She was here, in Riyadh, in an apartment she'd never seen before, with a boy—a man—who had rented it for her, stocked it for her, flown halfway around the world for her.
"What about you?" she asked.
"What about me?"
"Your family. Do they know?"
He shook his head. "No. They think I'm at the university. Extra study sessions before classes start."
"So we're both lying."
"I guess we are."
She poured the coffee into the mugs, carried them to the table, set one in front of him. He reached for the mug, and as he did, his hand brushed hers.
He didn't pull away.
For exactly one second, his fingers rested on top of hers—warm, solid, real. Then he withdrew, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her hand before letting it go.
She sat down across from him.
It's enough, she thought. That touch. That one second. It's more than we've had in weeks.
It's more than I thought I'd ever have again.
"The garden," he said.
She stiffened. "Don't."
"We need to talk about it eventually."
"Eventually. Not tonight." She wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the heat seep into her palms. "Tonight I just want to drink coffee and not think about anything else."
He nodded. Lifted his mug. Took a sip.
"It's good," he said.
"I know. I made it."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're impossible."
"I know that too."
They sat in silence for a while, drinking their coffee, the sounds of the city drifting in through the open window. Somewhere in the distance, a call to prayer began—soft, melodic, rising over the rooftops like smoke.
Layla closed her eyes and listened.
When she opened them, Omar was watching her.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing." He shook his head. "Just—you look peaceful. It's nice."
"I'm not peaceful. I'm exhausted."
"Same thing."
She laughed again. It came easier this time.
"You should rest," he said. "You've been traveling all day."
"I know." She didn't move. "In a minute."
They sat there, across from each other, the coffee cooling in their mugs, the light outside shifting from gold to amber to something softer, something gentler. The apartment around them was quiet, still, waiting.
"I'm glad you came," he said.
She looked at him. At the man who had rejected her once, gently and carefully, and then cracked open in a garden in Syria. At the man who had flown across the world to build a home for her. At the man who was looking at her now like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"Me too," she said.
And it was true
It was terrifying, and impossible, and true.
He was still looking at her when she said it, that word—true—hanging in the air between them like something solid, something you could reach out and touch.
The coffee had gone cold. Neither of them had touched it in minutes.
"Layla."
"What."
"I need to ask you something."
She set her mug down. "Okay."
"How far along are you?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. She watched the ripples spread across his face—the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes dropped to the table, then rose again.
"Six months," she said.
He nodded slowly, processing. Then his brow furrowed. "Six months?"
"Yes."
"Where's the—" He stopped, gestured vaguely at her midsection. "I mean. You don't—I can't see anything."
She almost laughed. Almost.
"No," she said. "The bump in bumping—I was just sucking it in."
He blinked. "What?"
"I've been sucking it in. This whole time." She pressed a hand to her stomach, the fabric of her shirt loose and dark. "Loose clothes. Baggy sweaters. I've gotten good at it."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't know if I was going to keep it," she said. "Because I didn't know if I was going to tell you. Because—" She stopped. Breathed. "Because I was scared."
He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he pushed his chair back and stood.
"Can I—" He stopped, started over. "Can I see?"
She looked up at him. At the man who had flown across the world for her. At the man who had stocked a fridge and found her favorite tea and left the door open a crack.
She stood up.
She pulled the hem of her shirt up, just enough, and let him see.
The bump was small but unmistakable—a gentle curve beneath the fabric of her tank top, low and round and real. She watched his face as he took it in. Watched something shift behind his eyes, something break and mend at the same time.
He crossed the space between them in two steps.
He knelt in front of her.
And he kissed it.
Not her stomach—the bump. The place where the fabric stretched over the shape of their child. His lips pressed against the cotton, warm and soft and trembling, and she felt the heat of it travel through her like a current.
He stayed there for a long moment. Then he pulled back, looked up at her, and his eyes were wet.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't apologize."
"I should have been there. I should have—"
"Omar." She reached down, touched his face, felt the roughness of his beard against her palm. "Don't."
He rose slowly, his hands finding her waist, his forehead finding hers. They stood like that, breathing the same air, the apartment quiet around them.
"We have to do something," she said.
"I know."
"No, I mean—" She pulled back, just enough to look at him. "We have to make this halal. We have to."
He nodded. "Okay."
"I can't raise a child alone. I can't—" Her voice cracked. She forced it steady. "We're in Saudi, Omar. We can't do this the way we did in Wisconsin. We can't just—exist like this. There are laws. There are families. There are consequences."
"I know."
"So we have to get married."
The words hung between them, heavy and bright.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just stood there, his hands still on her waist, his eyes locked on hers.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." He said it again, firmer this time. "Let's get married."
She stared at him. "Just like that?"
"What did you think I was going to say?"
"I don't know. That we need to think about it. That it's too fast. That we barely know each other anymore."
"We've known each other our whole lives."
"We were kids."
"We're not kids anymore." He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "Look—I've spent the last three months thinking about this. Every day. Every prayer. I've been praying istikhara until I couldn't see straight, asking for guidance, asking for a sign."
"And?"
"And every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face." He stopped pacing, turned back to her. "I saw the garden. I saw you standing there in the dark. I saw a child with your eyes."
She felt her throat tighten. "You never said."
"I didn't know how. I didn't know if you'd want to hear it." He laughed, short and humorless. "I thought you might hate me. After everything. After the way I handled it back then. After Syria."
"I don't hate you."
"I know that now." He took a step closer. "But I didn't then. And I couldn't—I couldn't reach out and risk you shutting me down. So I waited. And then you called, and you told me where you were, and I—"
He stopped.
"You what?"
"I got on a plane." He shrugged, helpless. "That's it. That's all I could think to do. I got on a plane and I flew here and I found an apartment and I stocked it and I waited."
She looked at him. At the man who had rejected her once, gently and carefully, and then cracked open in a garden in Syria. At the man who had flown across the world because he didn't know what else to do.
"We need to tell our families," she said.
"I know."
"My parents are going to kill me."
"They're not going to kill you."
"You don't know my parents."
"I know your father," he said. "He's not going to kill you. He's going to be disappointed. He's going to yell. And then he's going to look at his grandchild and forget all of it."
She wanted to believe him.
"When?" she asked.
"Not tonight." He reached for her hand, held it between both of his. "Tonight we figure out the logistics. The paperwork. What we need to do to make this legal."
"Legal."
"Halal." He squeezed her hand. "And legal. Both."
She nodded. The fear was still there, sitting in her chest like a stone. But underneath it, something else was starting to grow. Something small and fragile and stubborn.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay."
"Where do we start?"
He thought for a moment. "There's an imam at the mosque near the university. I've heard he does marriage contracts. Simple ones. Quick."
"Quick."
"Just to get the paperwork done. We can have a real ceremony later. With family. With everyone."
She thought about that. A real ceremony. With family. With everyone. Her mother in a nice dress, crying. Her father walking her down an aisle. Omar standing at the front, waiting.
"Later," she said.
"Later."
"After we tell them."
"After."
She pulled her hand free and walked to the window. The sun had set completely now, the sky turning purple and pink and orange, the city lights starting to flicker on below.
"What do we tell them first?" she asked.
"The truth."
"They'll ask why we didn't say anything."
"So we tell them the truth about that too."
She turned back to him. He was standing by the table, the two cold mugs of coffee in front of him, the open door behind him.
"They're going to think we're lying."
"About what?"
"About the timeline. About when this happened." She gestured at her stomach. "Six months. They know I wasn't with you six months ago. They know I was in Wisconsin."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Then we don't tell them the timeline."
"Omar—"
"It was a mistake. That's what we tell them. A mistake that happened when our families were visiting. A moment of weakness." He met her eyes. "It's not entirely a lie."
She felt the flush rise to her cheeks.
"No," she said. "It's not."
"Then that's what we say." He took a step toward her. "We say we were weak. We say we're sorry. And we say we're making it right."
"By getting married."
"By getting married."
She looked at him. At the man she'd confessed her feelings to years ago, only to be gently refused. At the man who had held her in a garden in Syria and then disappeared for three months. At the man who had flown across the world to build a home for her.
"You're really okay with this," she said.
"I'm really okay with this."
"Even though it's—"
"Fast."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old, Layla. I just didn't know what to do about it."
She stared at him.
"What?"
"For real?"
"For real." He laughed, that same short, startled sound. "Why do you think I wrote you that email? All those years ago. Why do you think I was so careful with you? I didn't reject you because I didn't feel anything. I rejected you because I felt too much, and I was terrified."
She didn't know what to say.
"I thought you didn't want me," she said.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You made me feel like I was nothing."
"I know." He crossed the distance between them, stopped just short of touching her. "And I've been ashamed of it for years. I was trying to protect you. From me. From what I wanted. I thought I was doing the right thing."
"Were you?"
"No." He shook his head. "I was being a coward."
She looked at him—really looked at him. At the tiredness in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were shaking slightly at his sides.
"You're not a coward," she said.
"I'm trying not to be."
She reached out and took his hand.
"Then stay," she said. "Stay tonight. Not—not like that. Just. Stay."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He squeezed her hand. "Let me close the door."
He let go of her, walked to the door, pushed it shut. The click of the latch was quiet, final, the sound of something ending and something else beginning.
When he came back, she was still standing by the window, the city lights twinkling below.
"What now?" she asked.
"Now we sleep," he said. "Tomorrow we figure out the rest."
She nodded. They moved around the apartment like ghosts, getting ready for bed. She found a toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet—he'd thought of that too. He found a pillow and a blanket on the top shelf of the closet.
"You take the bed," he said.
"Where are you going to sleep?"
"The couch."
She looked at the couch. It was small. Too small for him.
"Omar—"
"It's fine."
"Your feet are going to hang off."
"I've slept on worse."
She didn't argue. She was too tired, too spent, too overwhelmed. She climbed into the bed and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
He settled onto the couch, pulling the thin blanket over himself, his long legs hanging over the armrest.
Layla stared at the ceiling.
"Omar."
"Yeah."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For coming."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Always."a
She closed her eyes. And for the first time in weeks, she slept.