(Rewritten: 30 Aug 20)
Chapter Three: Two-Faced
A'isha spared another glance at the photo on her bedside table. That was a mistake. She knew it the moment a new wave of tears pooled in her eyes, fuelled by grief and guilt and who knows what else. She buried her reddened face in her pillow, probably smearing the thing with mascara, but well past the point of giving a damn. God, she hated her life.
"Ahad and Elissa wouldn't understand, but I"—a sob hiccupped in her throat—"I hoped Amara would. At least enough to help me forget." Her lips quivered. "But no one understands. I'm just… so alone—"
Faint footfalls sounded beyond her bedroom door. They were soft, concise and so very familiar. She stilled, listening intently, and the hum of the water pump confirmed what she already knew.
He'd been listening.
"MARIK!"
Fury burned in her chest as she stormed to her door and swung the thing aside. She was met by an unsettlingly empty hallway. Her eyes darted about as she descended the nearby steps, searching for a vexing head of blond hair.
Instead, a pleasant aroma warmed her nose as she reached the foot of the stairs. It was savoury, rich and rife with spices. Her curry?
A'isha squinted, picking her brain for when she'd heard the doorbell go off.
She hadn't.
Half a dozen strides found her in the sleek kitchen, where the source of the scent sat in wait on the marble bench, beside the burnt lasagne. A handwritten note lay nearby, transcribed in fine, cursive script:
A'isha,
Before you consume your meal, know that you owe me eighteen pounds exactly. I imagine you were too immersed in your thoughts to hear the doorbell.
Yours truly,
M.I.
A'isha's face soured, paper crunching beneath her tightening grip. He'd definitely heard her talking. And she had a sneaking suspicion curry wasn't the only thing she'd pay for later.
A'isha awoke to a soft piano solo, the familiar tune floating through her Bluetooth speakers. For a few minutes, she simply existed, wrapped in her sheets like a groggy spring roll, savouring the sleepy, scattered haze of subconsciousness.
But eventually, she ripped the sheets from her body like a Band-Aid and sought the warmth of her black dressing robe.
One step into the hallway—
A dull pain in her ribs.
"Move!"
Amara stomped by with the subtly of a Jumanji stampede. Five pounds said she was upset about A'isha's less than stellar treatment of Marik. She thumped down the stairs without a word. Apparently, ignoring her was Amara's new schtick. Well, when she wasn't hitting her.
With a roll of her eyes, A'isha swept a hand through her mussed hair, knots loosening as she did. Yup. Nothing says "Happy Sunday" like an elbow to the ribs.
As she entered the kitchen, A'isha was greeted by the rich, sweet scent of melted butter and maple syrup. She slipped into a stool at the island bench, watching Elissa's back as the woman worked the stove. "Those pancakes smell delish."
"Why thank you, A'isha." Elissa flipped a pancake with finesse. "There are some fresh ones on that plate over there. Whipped cream's in the fridge. Bananas are already sliced and there's syrup on the bench"—she offered an over-the-shoulder smile—"so help yourself."
Aunt Elissa was an established pastry chef at one of the city's more upper-class restaurants. Uncle Ahad, on the other hand, was a long-serving detective for the police. All in all, they had a pretty generous income, and the Dahar family were apparently quite well-known in the neighbourhood.
A'isha's face fell at the thought of her own parents. Her mother, Hani'ah, had been an Egyptologist, following the path of her parents. Her parents had been Caucasian, but their love of Egypt had inspired the name. It meant happiness and bliss—two qualities that had captured the heart of her father, Almahdi, who'd been the curator of Cairo Museum at the time. Her mum had quickly realised her artifacts weren't the only thing catching her dad's eye, and his goofy sense of humour had ultimately won her over.
Minutes later, A'isha merrily munched away at her perfectly fluffy pancakes—
Until the slam of a door almost shook the house, and she bit back a groan along with her breakfast.
Elissa glanced at the archway to the stairwell, her brow quirked. "What has Amara so upset?"
"Pretty sure she's just salty that Marik and I aren't soul sisters."
Elissa flashed a wry smile. "Just how much of an understatement is that?"
"It'll never happen." A'isha stabbed her pancake. "He was rude from the moment we met and even before that, he gave off creeper vibes in spades."
"He's had a lot of hardship in his life." Elissa's words came delicately, not matter-of-factly. "What with his father dying when he was ten. And his mother during his birth." She frowned, flipping a pancake with a little less pizzazz than last time. "Honestly, I'm surprised he's turned out to be such a smart, young man. His brother and sister must be doing something right."
A'isha shrunk into her chair. "Did you say… his mother died giving birth to him?"
"Terrible, isn't it?"
A'isha's elbows hit the bench, her hands gripping her head. "Oh gosh," she breathed, her insides twisting in knots.
"Maybe you should give Marik another chance?" Elissa placed a pancake atop a three-high stack on a metal rack. "He really is a lovely, young man."
"I'm sure he is," A'isha lied, but she was sure she hadn't just stuck her foot in her mouth last night. No, she'd shoved her whole damn leg down her throat. She had to correct that pronto.
A'isha lumbered across the quiet street, toying with the rattling change in her jacket pocket. Yup, she was doing this. Really, truly doing this. Oh boy.
She came to a standstill before the Ishtar's front door, and swallowed like some dramatic cartoon character. Her eyes stared down the doorbell. And it totally shouldn't have taken a full five seconds to press it.
A calming, Egyptian melody floated through the air, muffled through the wall. Not your generic ding-dong. I guess Marik's already got that role covered under the Ishtar's roof. She rocked on her feet, her ears on high-alert.
A few light steps somewhere beyond the door.
The twist of the silver knob.
The door spread wide to reveal a woman with caramel skin and black hair, her kohl-lined eyes a dark shade of blue. She looked stunning. And scarily like Marik, if he smiled like a normal person.
"Good day." Like her voice, the air about this woman was gentle and calming. "You're A'isha, correct?" She gave a little half-bow. "I'm Ishizu. It's lovely to meet you."
"You too, Ishizu." And while it was, a small part of her still insisted she fiddle with the coins in her pocket. "I'm guessing my aunt and uncle mentioned I was moving here?"
"They did." Ishizu's smile faded. "I'm sorry to hear of your circumstances."
"Thank you." For a second, A'isha's eyes flicked to her feet. "You must be Marik's sister, right?"
"Indeed."
A'isha chewed at her lower lip. "Is he, uh— Is he home, by any chance?" She almost hoped for a no.
"Actually, he's retrieving his bike from the repair shop."
Scratch that.
A'isha wished she'd said yes. That way, she'd at least get this over and done with sooner.
"He shouldn't be long, though." Ishizu stepped aside, still holding the door. "You're welcome to join me and Odion until he returns."
A'isha assumed Odion was that brother Elissa had mentioned. As much as she wanted to say no, she'd probably never see this through if she claimed she'd come back later. With that in mind, A'isha gave a gracious nod and allowed Ishizu to guide her past some stairs, into what was clearly a living room.
Every piece of furniture was carved from dark, polished wood. Candles and timeworn artifacts adorned tall shelves and end tables, while elaborate paintings in thick golden frames lined the beige walls. Their home was cosy and warm, but with an odd, mystical sort of air about it.
A burly man lounged on the three-seater sofa, his skin darker than Ishizu's and his eyes olive green. His head was shiny, save for a ponytail of black hair. Almost everything about him screamed intimidating, but there was a gentleness in his gaze that whispered "Giant Teddy Bear". He was the one Marik had been shooting hoops with yesterday.
"You must be Odion." She showed a smile, one he returned in kind.
"And you must be A'isha. It's lovely to make your acquaintance."
"And yours." She lingered near the living room entrance, unsure of just how comfortable she should make herself.
Ishizu must've notice, for she flourished a hand toward an empty spot on the sofa. "Make yourself at home, A'isha."
So she did. Sort of. By sliding onto the sofa with a smile she hoped looked less sheepish than she felt.
"Would you perhaps like a drink?"
A'isha held up a hand. "I'm fine, but thank you—"
The distant growl of an engine gave her pause.
Ishizu smiled. "That must be Marik," she said, peering past the beige curtain of a nearby window.
A'isha's fingers drummed against her thighs. Oh God. Was it too late to make herself scarce? To give up on this whole endeavour and race her sorry butt back home?
She already knew the answer.
But now she wished it wasn't so.
That low growl soon exploded into an all-out roar, reminding her of some ravenous beast, fast approaching and eager to feast upon the misfortune that was her sorry life. Then, the commotion came to a sudden stop just outside. The garage door didn't hum. He must've parked on the driveway.
A'isha looked to Ishizu, then Odion, but they both averted their eyes the second hers fell upon them. Despite their smiles, she swore they looked… troubled? Or perhaps, err… intrigued?
The tap of familiar steps stole her focus. They were concise, calculated, and quickly nearing the top of her "Most Infuriating Sound Ever" list. His stupid, jerk voice already made top three, right after nails on a chalkboard or the chirp of a single, hidden cricket in her bedroom—
Click!
A'isha couldn't see the front door from where she sat, but she could tell when it opened by the way light flooded the hallway. A lean shadow trailed along the wall.
"Ishizuuu! Odiooon!"
A'isha's eyes flew wide. So wide, in fact, she was sure the white of her eyes completely encircled her irises. Because how the actual frick did he sound so… different?
Marik emerged beyond the archway. "I'm"—his eyes hissed her way—"home."
Ishizu offered a smile. "Welcome home, brother."
Marik's eyes remained on A'isha. "Thanks, sis." He sounded distracted, and to A'isha's confusion, a creepily convincing and so very warm smile slid across his lips. "Ish! What a pleasant surprise!" Had he been in a motorbike accident on his way home? Maybe underwent a bout of trauma-induced amnesia?
Ishizu bet her to form words. Not much of a feat, considering A'isha was speechless. "Yes, she dropped by to visit you, Marik."
"I see." He strode into the living room, casual as anything, and planted his conniving butt on the armrest of the sofa A'isha sat on. "It's nice to see you again so soon, Ish."
The creep was totally using her nickname just to bait her. She couldn't exactly tell him to quit it without making a scene. The crafty, little—
"So," he continued, his smile sickeningly warm, "how's your Sunday been?"
A muscle in her jaw twitched. "Fine."
"That's great!" He flashed a smile, his teeth unfairly white against his caramel skin. "What were you wanting to talk about?"
This time, A'isha was certain the intrigue on Ishizu's and Odion's faces were very much there. "Well, uh—"
"Oh! Were you hoping for a little privacy?" Marik's hand looped around her wrist, dragging her from the sofa. "All right! Let's talk in my bedroom!"
Before A'isha could protest, he'd dragged her half way up the stairs.
"Hold up!"
They were heading down a short hallway, past several wooden doors.
"I only wanted a quick word—"
Marik sent her stumbling through the last door in the hallway and after nearly nosediving the floor, she whipped around just as he clicked his door shut. Oh great. Alone with a sociopath. Just the way she liked her Sundays.
"You jerk! I almost sprained my ankle thanks to your stupid manhandling."
"Why are you here?" All warmth was gone from his voice, replaced by a far more familiar grate.
"Of course! As soon as your family's outta earshot, you're back to being an asshat." He rolled his eyes, only making her scoff. "Well, am I wrong?"
"You've yet to answer my question. Why should I answer yours?"
A'isha drew in a deep breath, hoping to settle her riled, racing nerves. An apology should never come from a place of anger—something her dad had once said.
…
Okay, she definitely needed a moment.
…
Or three.
…
A'isha spun on her heel, scanning his spacious bedroom. At a glance, it was tidy, but upon closer inspection, it was disturbingly well-organized. Two bookshelves stood to her left, the titles alphabetised, the spines perfectly aligned, and the wood free of dust. Past them, a double-doored closet concealed what was probably a rather effeminate wardrobe, if his current, girly shirt – half hidden by an unzipped, leather jacket – was any indication. His bed was big, covered by creaseless, satin sheets in a rich shade of purple, and beyond it, light spilled through a large window, catching the polished surface of a sturdy desk. To her distaste, anyone at that desk would have a perfect view into her own room across the street.
She dwelled on that fact for maybe three seconds.
Until something else caught her eye.
A'isha stepped toward his desk, her boots muted by the plush carpet.
Marik's eyes followed her every step. "What are you doing?" Somehow, he sounded bothered and bemused at once.
Resting on his desk was a golden photo frame. A reminder of the one on her bedside table. This one, however, bore a picture of a smiling woman, her body framed by white sand, rolling waves and a cloudless sky. Her belly was incredibly swollen.
That fact made A'isha's veins turn cold. A line formed between her brow, but she didn't dare reach for the photo. It was personal, just like her own one.
There was a warm weight on her shoulder. One glance back and she realised it was Marik's hand.
"My mother," he breathed, the faintest quiver to his voice.
A'isha turned back to the picture, pursing her lips. "When was it taken?"
For a moment, Marik said nothing. The same couldn't be said for his body language. No, his breaths had turned shaky and shallow, like he was biting back the waterworks. Had she gone too far—
"December twenty third," came his quiet answer. "My birthday."
A'isha offered a slow nod of understanding. It was all she could think to do with her own eyes suddenly stinging. She wished her parents were still here. God, how she wished it.
But at least she'd met them, grown up with them, known them.
Some weren't so lucky.
A'isha was reminded of the warm hand on her shoulder only as it coaxed her to face him. "I take it someone told you?"
"Actually, that's why I'm here."