The Secret Life of My Husband, The Professor ✔️

49| Her Honest Man

Ibrahim's POV 

I'm more than a bit early to the restaurant, but Wahaj is late. It's a good thing because I'm just about going crazy at this point. I'm pretty sure I pulled out about half of my head of hair yesterday.

I watch Wahaj closely as the hostess leads her to the table where I'm waiting. Every single time that Wahaj has approached me in those past weeks, she's appeared so in control, so confident and so...distrustful. I snort to myself as I observe her. Had I not been so blinded by equal parts bliss and disbelief a couple of weeks ago in that restroom, I would've seen it then; the resentment shining bright in her dark eyes, instead of seeing what I wanted to see: longing; need as acute as what I felt.

Today, she looks simply...tired; dark circles ring her eyes. She's wearing jeans and an over-sized sweater just like yesterday. With the same white hijab, she looks young and so innocent, instead of like the angry, worldly woman that roared back into my life a couple of weeks ago. And I know I caused it all; I'm only now beginning to realize how thoroughly I created it.

I stole her innocence...but she took my breath away - in every single way imaginable. Now I need to figure out what else she's kept from me.

I told her about her father to see if there was any possible way we could get past it all and start over, to see if she could ever forgive me for hurting her in the first place. Instead, I've found that I'm a father to my own childen.

How do we get past this?

Regardless, as I stand next to her, barely able to breathe, I know one thing: she still takes my breath away, and she will always take my breath away. I pull her seat out for her. She sits stiffly; her expression wary, refusing quite to meet my gaze.

"Would you like to order-"

"I'm not hungry." She draws in a deep breath and pulls something out of her purse, placing it before me.

It's a small, black flash drive. I frown down at it.

"I completed the first draft of the research study. Here's your courtesy copy, as promised. Camila will continue here and give you as soon as she finishes in a couple of days."

I flash my eyes up to hers. She holds my gaze, hesitantly; cautious.

"Do you really think that's what I wanted to meet with you about? Do you think I give a damn about that right now?"

"I don't know what you give a damn about, Ibrahim; that's the problem. Unless you're speaking in your lecture or explaining to your colleagues, you hide behind an impenetrable mask of indifference that no one can read."

"I hide behind a mask?" I snap challengingly, leaning forward.

Her wary eyes flash, ready for a fight.

I realize something right then and there, we both have a habit of snapping; of merely letting the words pour out. And though these particular words sting to hear, they are the only words consistent with her.