Bound By Love, Torn By Loyalty

CHAPTER FOUR

     One situation I never expected to be in was the same car as Mustafa. Especially in his own car. The car is black, probably his favourite colour, like mine. Surprisingly, it isn't messy like I expected. Instead the air is filled with the fresh smell of air freshener and possibly his cologne. His dashboard has a phone holder and his cup holder has a red bull. I consider asking for a sip but then realise my mouth will be where his was. Then I realise I can just sky it, but I also don't want to be uncomfortable by asking. What if he says no?  

     Mustafa notices my panicked expression fixed on the red bull and gives me a weird look. Great I'm getting embarrassed anyway. 

     "Are you going to come in?" Oh. My mouth is slightly parted and I realise how fucking stupid I look. I scramble to get inside the car. 

     "Sorry." I randomly blurt out. 

     He lifts a brow. If cartoons were real Mustafa would have multiple question marks popping up around his head. God, I'm so awkward.

     When we finally drive off, we sit in silence. I contemplate what just happened in the restaurant. I almost forgot about everything as soon as I laid my eyes on the handsome man beside me. I suddenly feel really bad for leaving. Worst of all, I'm with Mustafa. They are gonna give me so much shit if they find out I was hanging out with a guy, whether we are fighting or not, or if he's my boyfriend or not. As much as I would love the sound of that, never in a million years will I ever be with Mustafa. Plus, he seems to be in a happy, healthy relationship and, to be honest, that's all that matters to me. 

     "Are you okay?" Mustafa asks. I jump at the sudden voice caressing my ears. My eyebrows are furrowed. I smooth them out and stare back into the road and we fall back into silence. I turn to Mustafa and realise he's still waiting for an answer. His eyes glow with concern. I reluctantly start to speak. "I think..." I have this sudden urge to tell him whats really going on inside my head, "if I go back in that Nando's and tell all the others that I'm sorry for being such a selfish, stuck up bitch they won't forgive me because of all the times I've fucked up before. You know? But if I never tell them I'm sorry like I did in our last big fight I might just end up losing the only trustworthy and amazing and genuine friends I have. And I don't wanna lose that because what we have is just so... special. I've never felt anything like it. It's almost like being in love because I get butterflies when I'm around them but I would also go, well I don't know, skinny dipping with them because of how comfortable I am with them. I'm of course not in love with them and probably would never go skinny dipping with them, but I do truly love them and if I lose them I'm practically losing a good chunk of my heart that quite possibly will never be replaced."

     "Mary?" 

     "Sorry was that too much?"

     "No, no, no of course not sweetheart. Please, by all means, continue." That's twice he called me a nickname he has never called me before in the span of 20 seconds.

     "I should probably tell you what happened in Nando's."

     "If you want."

     "Well at first Nessa-" I pause and realise what I'm about to say. No way in shaytans hellfire will I ever tell him I got jealous when he kissed someone else. And that Nessa did too! I think.

     "Helloooooooooo? Earth to Mary. You really need to stop zoning out all the time." I blush at that. Almost even gets a giggle out of me. Out of embarrassment and because I thought it was so cute how he made a small joke out of a serious situation. But I stand my ground and think through what I have to say. I really cannot tell the whole truth, as much as I want to, so I go with the classic truth but also a half lie. 

     "Nessa and I are having... boy problems. We didn't really fight but things were awkward between us this past week. And when we finally all hung out today, we being Ivy, Tasha, Amanda, Sabrina, Nessa and I, Nessa ended up bailing. I get it, sometimes you can't make it, but it was so unlike Nessa to text us a whole ass hour later saying she can't make it. Everyone, understandably, thought it was my fault something was wrong, particularly after I foolishly reacted in a way that made me suspicious."

     "Wait, hold on, what do you mean understandably?" 

     "That they had the right to be mad at me."

     "And yet you're the one who seems to be even more frustrated with them. I feel like you are not telling me everything."

     "You are supposed to listen and support, not oppose. And I'm obviously not telling you everything, I have only known you for a few months!" I throw raging hands. Suddenly, the world around me just seems like too much. The air feels heavier. I need to fucking breath. It's worse with my hijab. A part of me just wants to rip it off but Mustafa is right next to me. "Hey can I open the window?" I ask. He opens it for me instead. My bizarre and one lonely brain-cell finds that weirdly attractive.

     "Are you trying to avoid conversation with me right now? Because I would appreciate it if you at least finished what you started. I won't tell anyone. Pinky promise darling." I turn to him, a smile growing on my face. He lifts his pinky and pouts while he gives me puppy eyes. He adorably looks at me, his brown eyes looking amber from the glowing hue of the streetlights. It's mesmerising. 

     "I genuinely don't even know myself to be honest." I latch my pinky finger onto his. Actually, I wouldn't even say that because his finger is so large, it wraps around my finger, straightening it because I physically cannot let it curve around his finger from his strong grip. At that moment, I try to stop the butterflies whirling and fluttering in my stomach.  

     "Anyway, I got pissed because I felt left out in a way, and I always felt the blame going on me in these types of situations. Again, understandable that they blamed it on me. But my point still stands." I give a selfless look. Instead of laughing, or smiling, or anything, his expression goes solemnly. "Can I be honest too?"

     "Sure."

     "I recently fucked up too. On Monday actually. And I have fucked up in the past. Multiple times. But this one time included my..." He pauses, and swallows audibly, "...friend. And I still feel guilty about it to this day, especially when it happened 10 years ago." Mustafa is 20. That means this happened when he was 10. Whatever this was sounds pretty fucked up for a 10 year old, let alone a 20 year old.

     "What happened?" I ask softly, weirdly feeling panicked yet calm.

     "That's my cue to tell you that I'm not comfortable telling you."

     "Oh come on it can't be that bad. I won't tell anyone. Pinky promise darling." This time I'm granting him huge puppy eyes and a pout. This is me trying to make light out of our situation. I hate serious talks. My gaze travels across his face for a reaction. But he doesn't smile. 

     "Maryam, I'm not telling you. End of." A part of me thinks he's joking, but when he finally turns to me, I see the anger trying to be kept hidden. I'm so sick and done of people shielding me from things. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at that thought. I just want to pull off every single imaginary mask or break down every hypothetical wall and see what people are really thinking. But of course I can't do that. So I resort to turning away and falling silent, once again. Although, this time my mind is running through miles and miles of baggage left behind over the course of my life. I blink back tears, the sting burning. 

     Mustafa abruptly pulls over onto a random street. "Mary what's wrong?" He says softly. I never registered I was unable to hold back my tears running down my cheek, the flow never-ending. "I'm sorry I didn't know I hurt you."

     Guilt washes over me. "No, don't say that it wasn't your fault. Completely mine. Ugh I feel stupid now."

     "Can I do anything?" He asks, his voice remotely quivering from his worry. 

     "Just take me home please." I whisper. You can hardly discern my voice from the uproar of the streets.

     "Okay, let's get you home." Why does he have to seem so paternal at times like this? My eyes are probably bloodshot, my cheeks are drowned from tears, I have a small peri-peri sauce stain down my sweater that I'm only noticing now and I probably look like a big, fat, hot mess and yet he has the audacity to lift his hand and wipe away all the tears from my cheeks. I try not to cry even more. And then he drives away.