A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Five: LEILA

Aabo shuffles around the kitchen, searching for two mugs, before he pours himself and Hooyo a cup of tea. When he hands her the cup, she accepts with a simple, 'thank you', nothing about her behaviour screaming appreciation or love for the man she calls her husband. He doesn't seem so bothered as he takes a seat across from her at the table, sipping his tea as he watches the news play on the television in the living room across the dining room. Their life has become a business transaction, something done out of necessity by weighing the benefits for themselves and their children, rather than love.

At least, I think so. What do I really know about old people and marriage? Not that my parents are old...

I lower myself behind the stub wall, sliding down the staircase, so neither of them know I am leaving the house. Just as I'm about to make it to the front door, which is not in view of the dining room, Aabo calls, "Leila, can you pick up a pack of cigarettes for me?"

This is why I have to sneak out of the house. Otherwise, it just so happens that my family members suddenly end up needing someone to run quick errands for them every time I am about to leave the house. I'm such an obedient daughter and sister that I can't even refuse. And of course, if I did refuse, I wouldn't hear the end of it for the next three years, perhaps.

So, I walk over to the kitchen, grabbing a banana as I ask, "Is there anything else I should get you? Because I'm about to go meet a friend and I don't want to be late." I peel the banana, and shovel it down in three bites.

"No, just cigarettes. Benson and Hedges. King size."

"Oh and get two jugs of milk, and a pack of frozen spinach," Hooyo says.

I smile, feeling like someone has forced their fingers into my mouth and spread them wide. "Of course."

I text my friend before leaving that I'll be late. She's not Ariah, so she doesn't respond with something dramatic like I've abandoned her or am looking for excuses to not meet her on time.

Once I've grabbed the cigarettes, and my mother's grocery, with the addition of new items she requested on my way to the store, I head into my car. There's a car heading straight while I am trying to turn right, and because I don't want to wait, I accelerate, heading toward the stop sign where I have to do a hard brake.

I lurch forward in my car, along with the grocery bags, followed by a soft thud. I steady myself and glance through my rearview mirror. The car I tried to get ahead of is behind me. It hit me. The stupid car smashed into me!

I step out of the car, and immediately miss the heat blasting on high in the vehicle. There are no signs of my car being hit at the back and the distance between my car and the driver behind is a good meter. He looks at me through the windshield, his twisted hand in the air, asking what's wrong?

If he didn't hit my car, why did I hear a sound? I walk over to him, and he rolls down his window. "What happened?"

"You hit my car," I say.

He frowns. "No, I didn't."

I don't want to stand there and argue because there's a line of cars behind us, and plus, I can't see a dent, so I'm not sure where I'm hit. Still, I glare at the man. "There's no harm in admitting your mistake."

As I head back to my car, I glance through the backseat window, noticing that the two jugs of milk are on the ground.

Oh.

That was the sound I heard. My cheeks warm, and I'm so grateful that I can't blush, otherwise I'd be caught. I scurry back into my car, and drive away before I make a bigger fool out of myself.