Better Late Than Never

18

By the time he'd prayed Maghrib, Isha, and Witr, and poured his heart out for his Lord to listen, Ayman felt much better and way lighter.

From the mosque, he made a stop at his parents' place where he allowed Naila hug him for the longest minutes, allowed Omar tease him for letting his hair grow long, and allowed Aabidah force into his hands a big take out pack of creamy garlic pasta with teriyaki chicken she and Amna had made earlier to meet up with their restaurant's orders.

Holding the takeout pack to his chest as though his life depended on it, Ayman reminded her that he needed her and Amna at Ayneese the next day so they could finally have the promotional shoot as the brand needed the pictures and videos up and they were already running behind schedule. Aabidah promised to be there with Amna, and with a small smile on his face, Ayman kissed her cheeks, said goodnight, and did the same for his parents before he left the house.

The walk down to his own place was full of smiles and greetings with the other members of his family and he'd never been happier to walk into his compound, lock the gates, and activate the alarm system. From the front porch, he thought of Ayra. In the living room where he let the fireplace offer warmth, in the kitchen where he popped the takeout pack in the microwave, on the way upstairs, and even in his room, he thought of Ayra. Rather than forcing the thoughts away, he let his mind wander and he let himself feel all he had to.

He picked the first pyjama set in his sleepwear section; a crewneck T-shirt and relaxed-fit trousers in the navy peacoat blue shade, and made his way to the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and then stripped. Despite thinking he'd shower for a while just like he always did when his mind was a mess, he spent very little time in the shower cubicle and even shorter time in front of the mirror where he applied his every skincare product in the routine way he'd learned from Aabidah and their mother.

Leaving his hair damp to dry naturally, he left the room once everything was back in its place and returned downstairs to the kitchen. It was easy to transfer the pasta and chicken to one of his deep green ceramic plates and drop the takeout pack in the sink. He got out a bottle of tamarind juice from the fridge alongside a bottle of water, got his tablet and phone from the living room, and then made himself comfortable on one of the island chairs.

Powering the tablet, he pulled up his therapist-turned-friend's contact and sent a video call request. He helped himself with a forkful of pasta as it rang, savouring the burst of flavours on his tongue. Time and time again, Aabidah and Amna outdid themselves and he was always grateful for the fact that they were capitalising on the skills they never stopped honing. The call request was accepted and a minute later, Ayman was smiling at the familiar face who grinned back widely.

"Ayman Hakeem Bello!"

Ayman lowered his fork. "Richard Duke."

"Yo, don't start with that. It's Ricky. That hasn't changed in the time we've spent apart."

Ayman nodded, helping himself with some more pasta and a chunk of chicken. "Whatever you say, Ricky."

Ricky – a black-British with golden brown skin, cognac brown eyes, dreadlocks that were as long as Ayman's hair, and a smile that never ceased to be warm – leaned forward with slightly narrowed eyes. "Ayman, is that pasta and teriyaki?"

Ayman nodded again, picking his phone and making a few taps. "Yep."

"And are those from Amna and Aabidah?"

"Seeing how I can't make pasta and teriyaki this good, do you even have to ask?" Glad his request had been processed, Ayman put his phone to sleep, set it down on the island top, and then turned back to a glaring Ricky. He smiled innocently. "Yes, it's from Amna and Aabidah."