The Easiest Target

My Hadeel

Athan drives by school and parks outside of the soccer field on our way back to his place. He sits there and watches for a while, a wistful smile on his lips. I follow his gaze to a single player darting across the field dribbling the ball between her feet like it's a third leg that doesn't miss a beat.

Kate.

He swears when it gets snatched from her and grin when she snatches it back. We sit there in silence and watch the game — or I watch the game through a glaze of tears while he watches Kate. He never once notices that I'm crying with the realization that he dumped my bleeding, unconscious body on the living room couch without even sparing me a blanket, and spent the night with Carla in his room. Our supposed room. I don't know how to feel other than used in such an indirect way.

He's in a totally different mood when Kate gets the winning kick and her teammates heave her up and cheer her on. He grips the wheel tight, like he can barely contain himself.

"You really like her, don't you?" I ask, my voice emptier than I expected it to be.

"She's ... cool."

"Do you like her? Or is she just sexy like Carla?"

He laughs. "Both."

"Then why didn't you marry her?"

He gives me a tired smirk and turns the car on. "She's not Yemeni, Yemenia."

"Meaning her family would've never let your bullshit slide because you're rich?" I deadpan.

He doesn't respond.

When we're back at his house he gets me a change of clothes, ties up my arm, and tells me to shower. I don't know how bad the hit to my head is until I see the amount of blood seeping out of my hair.

Athan ruffles my long hair carefully when I get out dripping wet. I watch his heavy-lidded eyes, as calm as I've ever been in his presence. I don't know why but something about the way he cares about his mother calms me.

"Don't look at me like that. I'll want to kiss you," he says without meeting my gaze.

I avert my gaze, confused by the butterflies his words send fluttering in my stomach. Why the hell would he want to kiss me? I squeeze my eyes shut tight and change the subject. "So if Carla's for sex, does that mean you really won't touch me?"

"Not unless you want me to," he smirks. "I'll show you what it feels like to get dru—" I grimace and elbow him in the crotch — not hard enough unfortunately. "Alright. Relax."

I try to process what he's saying. It still doesn't make any sense to me. "I feel like ... you're doing something wrong," I say hesitantly.

He cocks his eyebrows up. "The way you had it made it look ratty."

"I meant about marriage," I frown.

"Oh," he hangs the towel up. "We'll figure it out. There's no right and wrong anymore. Couples are divorcing all the time, cheating when they're not — I've never met a happy, healthy couple, anyway. They're more mythical than dragons."

I stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he quietly organizes a mess Carla must have made out of his mother's makeup. "Right and wrong has always been right and wrong," I slowly get up. "Men twist it around when they want their way but it's never changed."

"Yeah? Wha'd men do this time?"

Not for the first time, I feel sorry for him. "I know this is gonna sound weird coming from me but ... I don't think ... you've ever had sex."