Chapter 16
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 7 min read
was wearing a white hoodie over black leggings, lying on Ahmad’s bed,
laptop propped open on a pillow. My textbook and study notes were
sprawled open on the sheets as I answered multiple-choice review
questions. My last exam for the semester was in less than 24 hours, and I
was preparing for it by going over questions from previous exams.
“Did you do the quiz at the end of the book?” his voice broke into my
thoughts. I looked up to see him taking off his black workout gloves. He
was still in his gym clothes – a sleeveless black Under Armour shirt and
black joggers. Ever since I resumed my visits to his apartment – mainly
because the Wi-Fi at the Residence started going haywire – I noticed that he
went to the gym a lot. A part of me believed he went there to give me
privacy and not to be a distraction since I was studying for my exams.
I looked up at him. There was a damp patch of sweat on his shirt that
highlighted his biceps. “Yeah, I finished it this morning.” We were talking
about a book Ahmad had given me earlier in the week. It was called The
Five Love Languages. The author of the book said that everyone had a
language they would prefer partners to express their love to them.
“And..?” he asked, removing his shirt and throwing it in the laundry
basket with his socks. “What are your top two love languages?”
I took my eyes off his six-packs. “According to the book, Acts of
Service and Gift giving.” According to the quiz, I would like my partner to
do things for me without my asking and to buy me gifts. Looking back at
times I’d appreciated people, it usually had to do with their thoughtfulness,
the little things they did to help out like Ahmad finding Inn From the Cold
and buying that Brandon Sanderson book I’d been looking for.
“Guessed as much,” he said. “But do you think it’s accurate?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I looked up at him. “What are yours?”
He went into the bathroom and called out, “can you guess?”
“Don’t do that,” I warned jokingly.
“Do what?” he poked his head around the door. He was smiling.
“Try to see what I’ve learnt about you.”
“Okay,” he said, and I heard him turn on the shower. This was the
second time he was doing that – taking a shower with the door half-open. If
I craned my neck hard enough, I would be able to see him in the shower –
naked. I didn’t, of course, although a part of me started wondering what he
looked like in the shower. I focused my attention back on the ten questions I
had left and had just finished calculating my final score when he came back
to the room wearing a white T-shirt and grey slacks.
“Can you pass my phone?” he asked. I took the phone from under the
pillow next to him and passed it to him. He quickly replied to his messages
and moved two square pillows to the opposite side of the bed, and propped
himself on them, putting as much space between us as possible.
“Mine are Physical Touch and Quality Time,” he clasped both hands
behind his head as he looked at me. An interesting combination, I thought to
myself, wondering if gender played a role in Love languages. Are there
certain things that more men than women gravitate towards? Physical
touch, maybe?
“No comment?” he asked, ignoring the new notification on his phone.
“So, do you think it’s accurate?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Physical intimacy is a big thing for me, and
spending time with the woman I love is a priority,” he paused as he watched
me take it in. “That’s why I always make plans for us to hang out.”
“So, you would appreciate it if I would do that for you as well? Plan
things for us to do, I mean,” I offered, echoing some sentiments from the
book as I closed my laptop.
“Exactly,” he said. “How important do you think sex is in a
relationship? Or in our case, after marriage?”
“Um, maybe a seven,” I answered. Seven just sounded like a safe
number. I started closing my books and putting them in my bag. He didn’t
know this, but I timed my visits; it has helped us so far.
“Out of ten?” He watched as I folded my charger. I nodded as I got off
the bed.
“Interesting,” he reluctantly got up, stretching as he did.
“What’s your biggest fear about marriage?” I had mine, but I wanted to
see where his head was at.
He exhaled as we left the room and made our way to the front door,
thinking about it. “It’s gotta be watching the one I love lose herself in being
society’s expectation of a wife, or losing herself in motherhood.” As I wore
my shoes, I thought about how our conversations revolved around marriage
and kids these days. Three days prior he’d asked if I would prefer to live in
Nigeria or Canada after marriage.
On the way back to the rez that day, we stopped at Tim Hortons for iced
cappuccinos and I asked him about his conversation with his mum the night
I came back from the hospital. He looked at me with a slight smile on his
lips. “What do you wanna know?”
Everything. I shrugged.
“I think when it comes to you, she forgets that I’m her son,” he took a
sip from his cup. “She asked what my intentions were with you. I would
expect that question from my prospective in-laws, not my mother,” he
paused. “Have you told your mum about us?”
I shook my head.
“So, when she asks what’s going on between us, what would you say?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. I couldn’t imagine the answer I
would give Umma.
We got to the rez, he parked the car, laid back in his chair and turned to
give me his full attention. “I told my mom that I’m in love with you,” he
paused, “but you don’t have a word for us for when your mom asks?”
“It’s not the same.” I wish I could explain it to him.
“What isn’t?”
Our families, I wanted to say. Mine was more traditional, so things were
done according to the culture and tradition. I tried to explain: “You and your
mom are super close –” and Westernized, compared them to my family.
They kissed, he took her out for brunches, and she met him for coffee at her
favorite café. “Babe, it’s just different.”
“Then make me understand,” he genuinely did not understand.
“Wait, did you really say you were in love?” I couldn’t stop the grin that
had formed on my face.
He shook his head like he was wondering why I would even question it.
“I fast with you on Mondays and Thursdays; I resist the urge to hold you
every time I see you; I respect your boundaries, even though it’s the hardest
thing I’ve ever had to do… How haven’t you figured it out already?”
I smiled at him. I could kiss him. “Us not making out is the hardest
thing you’ve done?” I teased coyly. I took a sip of my drink as his eyes
narrowed.
“You don’t even wanna know. On some nights, I can’t sleep until I rub
one out,” he laughed.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I really don’t know what you mean,” I answered, and his face
collapsed into a laugh.
“Goodness, I’m such a bad influence on you.” He watched me bring out
my phone and google the phrase. Understanding dawned on my face, highly
evident with the glow of light from my phone.
“Masturbation?” I asked as I awkwardly tucked my phone back into my
pocket.
“Are you gonna tell me that it’s haram?”
I opened my mouth, but before I could say yes, he cut me short: “Pretty
sure I’m not going to hell because I chose to masturbate instead of having
sex.”
I
laptop propped open on a pillow. My textbook and study notes were
sprawled open on the sheets as I answered multiple-choice review
questions. My last exam for the semester was in less than 24 hours, and I
was preparing for it by going over questions from previous exams.
“Did you do the quiz at the end of the book?” his voice broke into my
thoughts. I looked up to see him taking off his black workout gloves. He
was still in his gym clothes – a sleeveless black Under Armour shirt and
black joggers. Ever since I resumed my visits to his apartment – mainly
because the Wi-Fi at the Residence started going haywire – I noticed that he
went to the gym a lot. A part of me believed he went there to give me
privacy and not to be a distraction since I was studying for my exams.
I looked up at him. There was a damp patch of sweat on his shirt that
highlighted his biceps. “Yeah, I finished it this morning.” We were talking
about a book Ahmad had given me earlier in the week. It was called The
Five Love Languages. The author of the book said that everyone had a
language they would prefer partners to express their love to them.
“And..?” he asked, removing his shirt and throwing it in the laundry
basket with his socks. “What are your top two love languages?”
I took my eyes off his six-packs. “According to the book, Acts of
Service and Gift giving.” According to the quiz, I would like my partner to
do things for me without my asking and to buy me gifts. Looking back at
times I’d appreciated people, it usually had to do with their thoughtfulness,
the little things they did to help out like Ahmad finding Inn From the Cold
and buying that Brandon Sanderson book I’d been looking for.
“Guessed as much,” he said. “But do you think it’s accurate?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I looked up at him. “What are yours?”
He went into the bathroom and called out, “can you guess?”
“Don’t do that,” I warned jokingly.
“Do what?” he poked his head around the door. He was smiling.
“Try to see what I’ve learnt about you.”
“Okay,” he said, and I heard him turn on the shower. This was the
second time he was doing that – taking a shower with the door half-open. If
I craned my neck hard enough, I would be able to see him in the shower –
naked. I didn’t, of course, although a part of me started wondering what he
looked like in the shower. I focused my attention back on the ten questions I
had left and had just finished calculating my final score when he came back
to the room wearing a white T-shirt and grey slacks.
“Can you pass my phone?” he asked. I took the phone from under the
pillow next to him and passed it to him. He quickly replied to his messages
and moved two square pillows to the opposite side of the bed, and propped
himself on them, putting as much space between us as possible.
“Mine are Physical Touch and Quality Time,” he clasped both hands
behind his head as he looked at me. An interesting combination, I thought to
myself, wondering if gender played a role in Love languages. Are there
certain things that more men than women gravitate towards? Physical
touch, maybe?
“No comment?” he asked, ignoring the new notification on his phone.
“So, do you think it’s accurate?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Physical intimacy is a big thing for me, and
spending time with the woman I love is a priority,” he paused as he watched
me take it in. “That’s why I always make plans for us to hang out.”
“So, you would appreciate it if I would do that for you as well? Plan
things for us to do, I mean,” I offered, echoing some sentiments from the
book as I closed my laptop.
“Exactly,” he said. “How important do you think sex is in a
relationship? Or in our case, after marriage?”
“Um, maybe a seven,” I answered. Seven just sounded like a safe
number. I started closing my books and putting them in my bag. He didn’t
know this, but I timed my visits; it has helped us so far.
“Out of ten?” He watched as I folded my charger. I nodded as I got off
the bed.
“Interesting,” he reluctantly got up, stretching as he did.
“What’s your biggest fear about marriage?” I had mine, but I wanted to
see where his head was at.
He exhaled as we left the room and made our way to the front door,
thinking about it. “It’s gotta be watching the one I love lose herself in being
society’s expectation of a wife, or losing herself in motherhood.” As I wore
my shoes, I thought about how our conversations revolved around marriage
and kids these days. Three days prior he’d asked if I would prefer to live in
Nigeria or Canada after marriage.
On the way back to the rez that day, we stopped at Tim Hortons for iced
cappuccinos and I asked him about his conversation with his mum the night
I came back from the hospital. He looked at me with a slight smile on his
lips. “What do you wanna know?”
Everything. I shrugged.
“I think when it comes to you, she forgets that I’m her son,” he took a
sip from his cup. “She asked what my intentions were with you. I would
expect that question from my prospective in-laws, not my mother,” he
paused. “Have you told your mum about us?”
I shook my head.
“So, when she asks what’s going on between us, what would you say?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. I couldn’t imagine the answer I
would give Umma.
We got to the rez, he parked the car, laid back in his chair and turned to
give me his full attention. “I told my mom that I’m in love with you,” he
paused, “but you don’t have a word for us for when your mom asks?”
“It’s not the same.” I wish I could explain it to him.
“What isn’t?”
Our families, I wanted to say. Mine was more traditional, so things were
done according to the culture and tradition. I tried to explain: “You and your
mom are super close –” and Westernized, compared them to my family.
They kissed, he took her out for brunches, and she met him for coffee at her
favorite café. “Babe, it’s just different.”
“Then make me understand,” he genuinely did not understand.
“Wait, did you really say you were in love?” I couldn’t stop the grin that
had formed on my face.
He shook his head like he was wondering why I would even question it.
“I fast with you on Mondays and Thursdays; I resist the urge to hold you
every time I see you; I respect your boundaries, even though it’s the hardest
thing I’ve ever had to do… How haven’t you figured it out already?”
I smiled at him. I could kiss him. “Us not making out is the hardest
thing you’ve done?” I teased coyly. I took a sip of my drink as his eyes
narrowed.
“You don’t even wanna know. On some nights, I can’t sleep until I rub
one out,” he laughed.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I really don’t know what you mean,” I answered, and his face
collapsed into a laugh.
“Goodness, I’m such a bad influence on you.” He watched me bring out
my phone and google the phrase. Understanding dawned on my face, highly
evident with the glow of light from my phone.
“Masturbation?” I asked as I awkwardly tucked my phone back into my
pocket.
“Are you gonna tell me that it’s haram?”
I opened my mouth, but before I could say yes, he cut me short: “Pretty
sure I’m not going to hell because I chose to masturbate instead of having
sex.”
I