Chapter 4: What He Lost
The second-floor bathroom of the Haddad house had no window.
It had a skylight—a small square cut into the ceiling that let in a weak rectangle of afternoon sun—but no window, which meant the room held onto heat like an oven. The walls were tiled in white squares gone yellow at the grout lines. A bar of soap sat in a ceramic dish beside the sink. The mirror above it had a crack running through the bottom corner like a river delta.
Layla had been in this bathroom before. Years ago. When she was nine and the families still lived next door to each other in Wisconsin and she'd come over to play with Sami's sister. She remembered the soap dish. She remembered the crack in the mirror.
She remembered standing on her tiptoes to see her reflection and thinking she looked pretty in her new dress.
Now she sat on the edge of the bathtub with her phone in her hand and her thumb hovering over Sami's name. The party downstairs was just getting started—she could hear the bass through the floor, the same heavy pulse she'd felt at Rania's aunt's house three weeks ago. The same song, maybe. Same DJ. Same crowd of cousins and aunties and neighbors who'd known her since she was a baby.
She'd come up here to escape.
She'd come up here to think.
She'd come up here because she'd seen Sami walk through the front door twenty minutes ago and her whole body had seized up like a fist.
She hadn't spoken to him since the night at Rania's aunt's house. Three weeks of nothing. No texts. No calls. No accidental run-ins at the market. She'd told her mother the truth about the field and her mother had believed her and that should have been enough. That should have been the end of it.
But it wasn't.
Because she still thought about him. Every night. Every morning. Every time she closed her eyes and let her mind wander. She thought about the bathroom at Rania's aunt's house—the tears on his face, the way he'd said it out loud, the way his voice had cracked on every syllable. She thought about the market—the way he'd looked at her across the fruit stall, the way he'd said he didn't know how to help her carry it.
She thought about the field.
She thought about it all the time.
She thought about the way her body had felt when she was on top of him. The way it had felt to have him inside her. The way it had felt to take what she wanted instead of waiting for permission.
She thought about it and she hated herself for thinking about it.
But she couldn't stop.
There was a knock at the bathroom door.
Layla's head snapped up. She shoved her phone in her pocket and stood.
"Occupied," she said.
"Layla."
Her whole body went cold.
She knew that voice. She'd known that voice since she was five years old. She'd heard it in a hundred different rooms, a thousand different contexts—laughing at her, arguing with her, whispering to her, crying in front of her.
She opened the door.
Sami stood in the hallway.
He was wearing a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his hair was pushed back from his forehead and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. His eyes were red-rimmed. His jaw was tight. His hands were shoved in his pockets like he didn't trust them.
"What are you doing here," Layla said.
"I came with Noor." His voice was low. Hoarse. "I saw you come up here. I wanted to—"
"You wanted to what."
He didn't answer.
Layla looked at him. The hallway behind him was empty—just the same beige walls that had been there when they were kids, the same faded carpet, the same light fixture that had always flickered. Downstairs, the music thumped. Someone laughed. A door opened and closed.
She thought about her mother's hands around hers.
She thought about the way Sami had cried on the floor of that bathroom.
She thought about the way she'd felt in that field—powerful and wanted and loved and then broken into pieces.
She stepped back.
"Get in here."
Sami blinked. "What?"
"Get in here before someone sees you."
He hesitated. She watched him wrestle with it—with the same conflict that had always been there, the same war between what he wanted and what he thought he deserved. His jaw worked. His hands came out of his pockets and then went back in.
"Layla—"
"Now."
He stepped inside.
She closed the door behind him and turned the lock.
The bathroom was even smaller than she remembered. Maybe it was because Sami was in it. He was tall—taller than he'd been five years ago, taller than she remembered—and he filled the space like water fills a bowl. His shoulders almost brushed the walls. His head was inches from the skylight.
He was standing between her and the door.
Layla didn't move.
"What do you want?" she said.
Sami looked at her. His eyes were dark. His mouth was tight.
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Layla stared at him. The bathroom smelled like soap and old incense and something faintly chemical—the same soap that had been in the dish when she was nine, probably. The same incense burning downstairs. The same everything.
But they were different.
She was different.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
"You've been avoiding me too."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
She didn't answer.
Sami pressed his back against the door. His hands were flat against the wood behind him, the same way he'd stood three weeks ago. The same posture. The same waiting.
"I'm not going to touch you," he said. "I'm not going to move. I'm just going to stand here and whatever you want to do—whatever you need to do—I'm going to let you do it."
Layla looked at him.
Her heart was beating fast. Her palms were damp. She felt the way she always felt when she was near him—like she was standing at the edge of something, like she was about to jump and she didn't know if there was water below her or rocks.
She thought about the field.
She thought about the way he'd held her down. The way he'd covered her mouth. The way he'd laughed.
She thought about the market. The bathroom at Rania's aunt's house. The way his voice had cracked when he said what he'd done.
She thought about the way he was standing now—pressed against the door, hands flat, waiting for whatever she wanted to do to him.
She moved.
Not toward him. She moved back, toward the bathtub, until the edge dug into the backs of her knees. She sat down on the rim and looked at him.
"Do you remember what you said?" she asked. "In that bathroom at Rania's aunt's house?"
"I remember."
"You said you'd do anything I asked."
"I meant it."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
Layla looked at him for a long moment.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
Sami didn't move.
"What?"
"You heard me."
His jaw worked. His eyes searched her face like he was looking for something—some sign, some clue, some indication that she was joking. There was nothing. Her face was still. Her voice was level.
"Layla—"
"Take off your shirt, Sami. You said anything."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately. He undid the top button, then the next, then the next. The fabric parted and showed his chest—the same chest she remembered from the field, the same skin, the same shape. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
Layla looked at him.
He was beautiful. She hated that he was beautiful. She hated that her body still responded to him, still wanted him, still remembered what it felt like to have him on top of her and inside her and everywhere all at once.
She stood up.
"Now your pants," she said.
Sami's breath caught.
"Layla."
"You said anything."
"I know what I said." His voice was strained. "But I need to know—is this what you want? Is this actually what you want?"
The question hit her like a slap.
She stood there in the small hot bathroom with her heart pounding and her hands shaking and she didn't know how to answer him. Because she didn't know. She didn't know if this was what she wanted. She didn't know if she wanted revenge or connection or to hurt him or to have him or to prove something to herself.
She didn't know anything.
She moved toward him.
Sami went rigid against the door. His eyes were wide. His hands were still flat against the wood. He didn't move, didn't reach for her, didn't do anything except stand there and watch her come.
She stopped six inches away.
"If you tell me to stop," she said, "I'll stop."
"I won't tell you to stop."
"If you touch me without permission—"
"I won't."
"I'm serious, Sami. If you touch me without permission, I will scream loud enough for the whole party to hear. I will scream until your mother comes up here and your sister comes up here and every single person in this house sees what you did."
His face was gray.
"I know," he said. "I won't touch you."
"Good."
She looked at him. His chest was rising and falling with shallow breaths. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His hands were trembling against the door.
She reached up and pulled the strap of her dress off her shoulder.
Sami's breath caught.
She pulled the other strap down.
The dress fell to her waist. She was wearing a black bra underneath, simple and unlined, and she watched his eyes drop to her chest and then snap back up to her face like he was forcing himself to look at her eyes and not the rest of her.
"Keep looking at me," she said.
He did.
She reached behind her back and unclasped the bra. She let it fall. Her breasts were bare now—small and round and dark-nippled, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed and forced his eyes to stay on her face.
"Don't look away," she said.
"I'm not."
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and pushed them down over her hips. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside. Then she stood in front of him naked, her arms at her sides, her chin lifted.
"You're not touching me," she said.
"I know."
"Your hands are still on the door."
"I know."
"Good."
She turned around and walked to the bathtub. She sat down on the edge—the cold porcelain pressing against the backs of her thighs—and looked at him.
Sami was still standing against the door. His chest was bare. His hands were flat against the wood. His eyes were dark and fixed on her face. He hadn't moved. He hadn't looked anywhere but her eyes since she'd taken her dress off.
"Come here," she said.
He hesitated.
"Not too close," she said. "Stand in front of me."
He pushed off the door and crossed the small room. He stopped two feet away from her, standing over her where she sat on the edge of the tub. His body was close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his skin. Close enough that she could see the slight tremor in his hands and the way his cock was pressing hard and visible against the front of his jeans.
She looked at his jeans.
"I told you to take them off," she said.
"I know."
"Are you going to?"
His jaw tightened. "I don't know if I should."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what you want from me." His voice was low and raw. "I don't know if you're trying to hurt me or punish me or if this is something else. And I don't want to do something wrong. I don't want to mess this up more than I already have."
Layla looked at him.
She thought about the field. The way he'd held her down. The way she'd said no and he hadn't stopped. The way he'd laughed.
She thought about the bathroom at Rania's aunt's house. The way he'd cried. The way he'd said it out loud. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
She didn't know which version of him was real.
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
"I'm going to show you something," she said.
Sami's brow furrowed. "What?"
"Sit down."
"Where?"
"On the floor. Against the wall. Over there."
She pointed to the wall across from the bathtub—the one with the terrible floral wallpaper, the one that was farthest from the door. Sami looked at her for a moment, then walked over and sat down with his back against the wall. His knees were bent and his hands rested on his thighs and he looked at her like he was waiting for something.
Layla leaned back on the bathtub rim.
She spread her legs.
Sami's breath hitched. His hands clenched on his thighs.
"I'm wet," she said. "Can you see that?"
He didn't answer.
"Answer me."
"Yes." His voice was barely a whisper.
"I've been wet since you walked into this house."
Sami closed his eyes.
"Open your eyes," she said.
He did.
"I want you to watch me. I want you to see exactly what you can't have."
She reached down and slid two fingers through her folds. She was wet—so wet she could feel it on her fingers before she even touched herself. She spread her legs wider and used her fingers to part her folds and show him everything—the slick pink flesh, the swollen clit, the tight hole that had once belonged to him.
"You remember this?" she said. "You remember what it felt like to be inside me?"
Sami's breath was ragged. His hands were white-knuckled on his thighs. His cock was straining hard and visible against his jeans, a dark wet spot already starting to form at the tip.
"I remember," he said.
"Tell me what you remember."
His voice cracked. "I remember—I remember how tight you were. How wet. I remember the way you felt around me. I remember the way you said my name."
"Did I say it before or after you made me bleed?"
Sami flinched.
"Before," he said. "You said it before. And then—and then you said no. And I didn't stop."
"No. You didn't."
She slid her fingers inside herself.
She moaned. Loud. Loud enough to be heard over the music downstairs, loud enough for anyone in the hallway to hear. She didn't care. She wanted him to hear it. She wanted him to know exactly what he was missing.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, that feels good."
Sami was breathing hard. His hands were still on his thighs but his knuckles were white and his whole body was tense like he was holding himself back with everything he had.
"I've touched myself thinking about other guys," Layla said. She pulled her fingers out and rubbed slow circles on her clit with her middle finger while her other hand slid two fingers back inside her. "I've thought about what it would be like to be with someone who actually cared about me. Someone who didn't just want to use me and throw me away."
Sami made a sound. Low. Tight. Like he was choking on something.
"I've thought about being with someone who would stop when I said stop. Someone who would ask before they touched me. Someone who would make me feel good instead of just taking what they wanted."
She pumped her fingers faster. The sound was obscene—wet and slick and loud in the small bathroom. She didn't care. She wanted him to hear it. She wanted him to see it.
"You'll never know what it's like to be inside me again," she said. "You'll never know how it feels to have me want you. You had your chance and you ruined it. You ruined everything."
Sami's voice was barely audible. "I know."
"You don't know anything."
"I know I hurt you."
"You don't know what hurt means."
She curled her fingers inside herself and pressed the heel of her palm against her clit and her whole body jerked. She was close. So close. She could feel the pressure building in her belly, the tightness in her thighs, the way her whole body was coiling toward release.
"I've had better," she said. "I've had men who actually knew what they were doing. Men who made me come until I couldn't think. Men who—"
She stopped. Her breath caught. Her back arched.
She wasn't lying. Not entirely. She'd been with other guys since the field—guys at school, guys at parties, guys whose names she couldn't remember half the time. She'd let them touch her and kiss her and fuck her in the dark, hoping that if she said yes to them, the word might start to mean something again.
But none of them had ever felt like this.
None of them had ever made her feel like this—like her skin was on fire, like her heart was going to burst, like she was standing on the edge of something and about to fall.
She brought herself to the edge and held it there.
"I'm going to come," she said. "And I want you to watch."
Sami didn't move. His eyes were fixed on her hand, on the fingers working inside her, on the slick wet shine of her flesh in the dim bathroom light. His chest was heaving. His lips were parted. He looked like a man drowning and Layla felt a dark satisfaction curl in her stomach.
"Don't look away," she said.
"I won't."
She rubbed faster—hard and fast and brutal, the way she did when she was alone in her room at night and needed to stop thinking. She could feel the orgasm building and building and building, hot and tight and inevitable.
She thought about the field. The way he'd held her down. The way he'd covered her mouth. The way she'd bled.
She thought about the bathroom at Rania's aunt's house. The way he'd cried. The way he'd said it out loud. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
She thought about all of it—the pain and the pleasure and the way her heart still beat for him despite everything.
And then she let go.
The orgasm hit her like a wave. It rolled up from deep inside her and crashed over her and she felt her whole body clench around her fingers. She cried out—sharp and loud and broken—and a hot rush of fluid spilled out of her and soaked her hand and the bathmat beneath her.
She rode it out. Slow and shaking.
When it was over, she pulled her fingers out and looked at him.
Sami was still sitting against the wall. His hands were still on his thighs. His chest was heaving and his jeans were tented tight and there was a dark, wet spot on his lap where his cock had leaked straight through the fabric.
He hadn't moved.
Layla stood up.
Her legs were shaking. She didn't care. She reached for her dress and pulled it on over her head. Then her underwear. Then she stood in front of him and looked down.
"You feel that?" she said. "That's what you get. That's all you'll ever get. You can go home and deal with that yourself."
She stared at the wet spot on his jeans—the evidence of how badly he wanted her, how hard he was, how much he'd held himself back because she'd told him not to move.
"Pathetic," she said, and she laughed—short and cold and empty.
Then she turned and unlocked the door and walked out.
She didn't look back.
The party was still going when she got downstairs. The same music. The same crowd. The same heat and noise and press of bodies. She walked through it like a ghost. She found her mother in the kitchen and told her she had a headache and wanted to go home early. Her mother took one look at her face and didn't ask any questions.
They left ten minutes later.
In the car, Layla stared out the window and watched the streets of Damascus slide past.
She thought about the wet spot on Sami's jeans.
She thought about the look on his face when he came.
She thought about the way her own body had betrayed her—the way she'd come harder than she had in years even though it was her own damn hand.
She thought about all of it.
And she didn't know if she felt better or worse.
When she got home, she went straight to her room and closed the door and lay down on her bed in the dark. She stared at the ceiling and listened to the distant sounds of the city through the window—cars honking, men shouting, the call to prayer echoing off the buildings.
She thought about her mother's hands around hers.
She thought about what it meant to be believed.
She thought about Sami on the floor of that bathroom, and she wondered if she'd just made everything worse.
Then she closed her eyes and she slept.