The Ineligible

Chapter 11; Perplexity

Now!

Zayed

I watch Baba glance at his wristwatch, the flick of his eyes at the time becoming more frequent, his patience wearing thin. I know he's fully aware that I'm the last person on earth he should ask about Malika's whereabouts, but he asks me anyway.

"Zayed?"

"Yes, Baba?"

"Could you—by any chance—know where Malika is?"

"Malika?" I ask, feigning confusion.

"Yes!" he replies, his frustration clear.

"What Malika?"

"Zayed!" he warns, his voice sharp.

I raise an eyebrow, half smirking. "Oh, you mean Cinderella, right? Yes?" I tease him.

He frowns, not understanding my reference.

"Well, it's not midnight yet, is it? So, we'll have to wait for the clock to strike before she graces us with her timely presence."

Baba scoffs, then commands me, "Get up and go look for her."

Why me? Why do I have to go after her? Hafidh is here, and Frank is around somewhere, but no, it's me. The obedient son, raised to fulfill his father's every request, even when it doesn't make sense.

Sighing inwardly, I stand up and exit the conference room, knowing there's no way I can refuse without making a scene.

I make my way to her office on the second floor, my footsteps slow, each one feeling heavier. Standing at her door, I hesitate, unsure whether to knock or just barge in. She's probably watching me from the inside, wondering if I'm spying. I hate this. I hate it here.

I raise my hand and knock three times, as our Prophet (peace be upon him) advised. No answer. I begin to turn, but something stops me. I can't go back to Baba and say I didn't find her. No. I'll have to face the music somehow. I turn back, grip the doorknob, and gently push it open.

"Miss Adam?" I call softly.

Silence.

I wait for a response. None comes. I push the door open further. "I'm coming in," I announce, my voice firm, but inside I feel unsure. I step in completely.

And then I see her.

She's in sujood, facing the qibla, her back to me. I stand frozen in place, watching her, as she finishes her prayer and recites the shahada, offering tasleem. She doesn't rush to stand, though I know she must be aware of my presence. She stays on the ground, quietly glorifying Allah, enumerating with her fingers. I wait patiently, though impatience bubbles inside me.

When she finally stands, she folds her prayer rug with slow precision and turns to face me.

About time.

I don't know why, but I can't help but feel...something. Even though she frustrates me beyond belief, something about her presence gets to me every single time.

I shake off the feeling and move to address her. "Miss Adam, maybe next time, you should consider praying on time. Mr. Ganem was clear—he wanted the meeting after Asr prayers, and punctuality was important. It's 5:11 now."

She looks at me then, her voice barely above a whisper. "Salaam aleykum," she says, not meeting my eyes. It's strange, too soft, too unlike her usual demeanor. Something shifts in me, and before I realize it, I've stepped a little closer to her.

"Waaleykum salaam," I reply quickly, almost too quickly. "Are you okay, Miss Adam?"

She pauses before responding, her eyes still not meeting mine. "Yes, sir. I'm fine."

I don't believe her, but I let it go. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir. Never been better," she says, her voice soft, almost unrecognizable, as she walks to the corner of the room to place her prayer rug in a small cupboard.

I turn to face her, trying to break through her strange mood. "You know we have a prayer area in the building, right?"

She turns slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground. She shakes her head, as if uncomfortable with the suggestion. "No."

"Well, we do," I tell her, my voice firm but not unkind. "All Muslims here normally pray in congregation there. It's better than this."

She looks up briefly, our eyes locking for a split second before she quickly lowers them again. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again. I'll be there in a minute."

Sorry? Who is this girl? What's happening here? I don't understand why, but her apology is the last thing I wanted to hear.

My frustration builds, but I'm not sure where it's coming from. This shouldn't bother me. It shouldn't even matter. Why does it feel like it does?

I rake a hand through my hair, trying to calm myself. I don't want to feel this way.

Why does this girl even matter? I barely met her three days ago. She's difficult, and I can barely tolerate her attitude. No woman is supposed to matter to me at all.

I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to maintain my usual, expressionless facade. "Yes, you should be sorry. Very sorry. You're supposed to know that things like this won't be taken lightly."

Her lips curl inward slightly, biting her bottom lip, and she whispers again, "Very sorry, sir."

What?

No. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't what I expected.

I don't want her to apologize. Not like this. I don't want her to be sorry for anything.

I don't want any of this.

I stand there, torn between frustration and something else, something I don't understand.

I clear my throat loudly, forcing the thoughts away. I turn to leave, my heart heavy for reasons I can't explain. "Well, hurry. We don't have all day."

I open the door and leave her office, but as I walk back to the conference room, the weight in my chest doesn't lift. I feel.. unsettled with my heart heavy that I couldn't carry it back to the conference room with me.

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