Now:

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this call."

His voice is soft. It's deeper than I remember. His accent has changed too. I wonder what else has changed about him...

No. I don't wonder. Because, he is nothing to me; and it seems silly to  think about a Non-person in that way. 

"Hayat?" he prompts. 

"I'm here."

And I'm pissed off. Majorly. 

'You're fired.'  I mouth to Pareeshae. She just rolls her eyes. 

"Well. Then. When can I pick you up? for our dinner?"

"Are you insane? I hate your guts, you presumptuous ass! Why would I share a meal with you?" I snap back.

"Sweetheart. YOU called ME." He is smiling; the jerk. I can hear it through the airwaves. "I'm assuming you came to your senses about dinner..."

Ugh.

"Don't call me sw--You know what? screw this." I hang up before he can say another word.

"Oh. My. God. Layla. You're so damn selfish." Shay is glaring at me. 

What the WHAT?

"I'm selfish? ME? How dare you! You know what he is Shay! How can you approach him for funds? How can you ever force me to contact HIM? Do you realize how humiliated I feel, every time I even THINK about that man?" I don't mean to cry, but I do. Angry tears making their way down my cheeks, and I swipe them away. Shay looks guilty, and moves to placate me. Wrong move. "NO. DON'T COMFORT ME DAMMIT! I'M ANGRY!"

My anger is hot-wired to my tear ducts. The single most annoying thing a person can endure.

"Honey, I'm sorry. Kay? But honestly, you can't blame me for this. It was his idea, I swear! The entire project plan, and brand direction...everything. He told me to ask you about it-NO- he pestered me, and pestered Faris to pester me about it. There was a lot of pestering involved...."

I sniffle, ignoring the buzzing phone in my lap. It says, 'Azzy Calling' 

She is on nickname-terms with the guy who broke my heart. Go figure. 

"Pareeshae. I don't know whose side you're on here. But it sure as hell isn't mine. I'd appreciate it if you can leave me alone right now."

Shay sighs, moving towards me, "Lil. Do you remember that time I was mad at Faris and I wanted to leave him?"

I shrugged. I don't know where she's going with these theatrics. Yes, I do remember the night very clearly, because, Shay showed up at my doorstep at 3:30 in the morning. My security guards almost shot her dead, and Maria nearly strangled me in her attempt to wake me up.

"Do you remember how you cooled me down? and offered to be my rationality? because I was so distraught, I couldn't see straight..."

"I'm not distraught, woman. I'm furious! This isn't a domestic spat, this is a breach of trust. How can I do business with a guy who- with a guy whose face I can't stand. He is the reason I hate men!" I quell the urge to break the crystal paper weight on my desk, not even caring about the irrationality of my statement.  

"You're so emotionally unstable right now, Lil, that you can't possibly think objectively about it. Do you think I like seeing you upset? Do you think I don't care that you're hurting inside?" I open my mouth to Duh her, but she plows on; "At this point, I, as a bystander in your conflict, can better assess the situation. And my verdict is that, you don't have to love him...but you have to let him help you with this. For the girls, Lil. You have to be selfless for the girls."

As much as I hate to admit it, it will be very economically feasible for me to accept Azaan's investment. It's not like I'm rolling in money. My family may be rich, but I'm not. I dedicated my entire inheritance towards establishing and running this safe-house. It started as a senior year management project during IBSA, but then Shay came along, and I started getting calls from feminine-rights groups. My work was not only appreciated, it was downright life-saving for most of our residents. 

"I think we need to have a certain Talk with your assistant." She gritted firmly before buzzing in my PA, oblivious to my protests.

Fahad is robot-like when it comes to efficiency. He knows more about official stats than I ever would. Bringing him in, is like adding references to an argumentative essay. Bulleted, Harvard/APA style referencing-complete with a starched shirt. He dresses like he's coming in for a job interview everyday, even though I've told him to be casual. 

"Fahad? Will you tell us the annual number of Pakistani women suffering from some form of domestic abuse?" Shay fires at him once he appears. He doesn't even blink an eyebrow before rattling off.

"The reported cases? Or the number referenced by FIRs? Or the one reported by UNDP? Or the-" 

"Just gimme a number, googlehead. Any number!"

"The last reported figure was approximately, an averaged 85%....Approximately 5000 women die annually before they get help." 

"Ahaan. And what percent are NGO's currently able to help?"

"Around 3.5 Percent...If I round off."

"What percent are able to find employment and stability after leaving their homes?"

"I don't have official data, but my own calculations point towards a figure between 0.00045-0.00065%... I could be wrong." He waits expressionlessly for more commands.

"Thank you dear. You go back to your files." Pareeshae's sharp gaze is on me. I know she's only trying to make a point, but she doesn't realize that hearing these figures cause me actual physical pain. It's very close to the ear-splitting head-aches I get from my flashbacks. It's not as violent as it used to be, and I've learned to deal with them. I have a support system. These women don't...

I remember one of our earlier residents, Fareeza. She had barely survived an acid attack inflicted on her by her step-father. She had third-degree burns all over her face-neck and upper torso. Her face looked like someone had taken a potato peeler to her skin...almost subhuman. She said it happened when she refused impure advances towards her by her mother's evil husband. He threw acid on her face one day when she was working in the kitchen. "He said, if he couldn't have me, then he'd make sure nobody else ever would..." The seventeen-year-old's blood curdling confession had sent me into a crazed frenzy. I wanted to save Fareeza, and others like her, if it was the last thing I ever did. And there were others...so many others, that at times we had to turn women away when we couldn't shelter them anymore. 

I'm not professing to be a knight in shining armor, as that would be extremely overreaching, not to mention pompous as hell. But the fact remains, that these girls, who I have come to see as sisters, and friends, are now so close to my heart, that I can do a lot of selfless things for them. Even talk to Azzhole Malik...

"Layla? Do you realize what this project will mean for our girls?" Shay asks softly, "It would mean, employment. And Independence. And self-respect...You and I can only fathom how much this means to them."

The phone buzzes once again, and I gingerly pick it up. My eyes flash up to Shay's compassionate face. She gives an encouraging smile, and I finally gather enough courage to press 'answer'.

"I'll see you tomorrow at lunch. Two thirty at Pearl Continental." I say before he can utter a word, and wait breathlessly for his reply.

"I thought you'd never ask." he smiles back, he sounds...happy. Well, that makes one of us, because I am dying inside...

....................

I'm a people-watcher. Not a full fledged, CCTV camera substitute-creepy neighbor kind of watcher...I just find it fascinating, observing others at a distance. I like to wonder what is going on in that person's life. Is it as eventful as mine? Are they happy with their existence? what are their fears? 

You can notice all sorts of interesting things about a person, without ever talking to them. The hotel restaurant is bustling with interesting characters. For example, An old couple seated across from me seems to be babysitting a feisty two-year-old. The kid is wriggling to get out of his old man's arms, while the old lady laughs at their antics. Maybe his parents are taking a breather. Or maybe they are dead, and his cruel aunt and uncle dropped him off at the doorstep of a rich-old couple whose own little boy died 50 years ago....

Endless possibilities, countless variations of human stories, just waiting to be heard.

"Ma'am? are you ready to order?" A smartly dressed waiter asks me for the second time. I do a quick survey around the dining hall; he isn't here yet. Can't blame him, as I was early. I wanted to choose the table, and seat myself. My small, ineffective act of rebelliousness.

"I'm waiting for a frie- er-colleague." I smile politely back. Isn't it what we are now? Colleagues?

Ten minutes later, he strides in through the mahogany doors. My palms dampen at the prospect of being around him. My heart is beating so loudly, it's a wonder other patrons aren't sneering at me to keep it down.

He is wearing a long sleeved grey T-shirt, sleeves pushed back to show off his impressive forearms. Dark denim shouldn't go with the upscale, formal ambiance of the hotel, but it bloody does. This guy was never one to fit in with someone else's ambiance anyways. He grins when he spots me, striding up to me with a cheerful greeting.

"You look fantastic, Hayat! Like seriously hot." his grin still in place.

I ignore his comment, and the accompanying stomach droop. I dressed carefully today, in a mint-colored traditional shirt and trousers. My makeup is tasteful, and it adds a very put-together touch to my ordinary looks. I look decent; not hot.

"Can we talk business now? I want to discuss our deal ASAP." so I can run back home, and hyperventilate in front of my cat and sister.

"Nope. No business before food." He relaxes into his chair, long legs stretching under the table. I yank my feet back when I felt his loafers wandering near mine. His hair is slightly longer than the army buzz he used to keep, It has a tendency to stand up without hair gel. Like carpet fuzz...except softer.

Just one meal. I grit my teeth. I can remember countless dinners and lunches we shared. Each memory coming back to bite me, when I see all these familiar things about him. Such as the prompt, methodical attack he launches on our bread basket after signalling the waiter. 

"Ew. I hate breadsticks without butter." I sniff at Azaan chomping on one breadstick after another. The rest of our group is busy fighting over Deepika (glasses Vs. No glasses). We are waiting for our food to arrive, and Someone is unsurprisingly ravenous.

"I'm hungry, and this is the only edible thing here, besides the ketchup and barbecue sauce." He pours ketchup over one breadstick before pretending to brush his teeth with it. I laugh and throw garlic bread at him. 

I'm jerked out of my reverie by his voice. 

"You're not eating the bread? are you?" He is already on his third one. 

"No. You go nuts." I study my fingernails. Maria was experimenting with Neon nowadays, and I got a free nail-art regime. I have so many questions for him...What on earth does he do for a living? How are his mother and sisters? Is his grandmother still terrorizing the household? Did he miss me at all in the past years? Where is his ear stud? 

"How's Maria?" He asks me. 

I nod. "Good. She's good."

"She isn't married to some moron is he? I can make his life miserable y'know...." He smirks.

"Not yet. But I have a feeling she likes someone." I blurted out. Damn Layla! SHUTUP! "He's the supervisor at her school, and she can't stop talking about him. Even though he's like ten years older than her...." I'm hopeless...

"I'll whet him out. Don't worry." His jaw is set, going all protective. I want to scream that he doesn't owe me anything anymore. This isn't University, and we aren't best friends anymore. But I promised myself that I will no longer be selfish. Truth is, that I'm super worried about Maria's relationships. The last time she was in one, her fiance turned out to be a gold-digging douche-bag, and was only into her for the money. Azaan found out about it (back when I didn't want to scratch his eyes out) and he literally wiped the marble floor with his face.

I shouldn't want him to check out Sir Kamil (as she calls him)...but I want to. 

"How's Chum Chum?" He grins, "Does he still hate you?"

"Chum Chum never hated me...."

"He used to hiss and scratch at you. And urinated over your Macbook. Also...didn't he specifically break YOUR photo on that living room mantle you guys used to have?" He expertly swipes open a ketchup packet, which he proceeds to pour over a rusk. Ew. Thankfully, a female waiter arrives, and takes our food order. Or rather, visually eats up Azaan, and takes His food order. I expect him to flirt back, like he used to, but his attention is focused on his rusk, and me. Mostly his rusk.

"Okay, fine! YES my cat still hates my guts. He is literally the definition of Bites the hand that feeds him. I don't care though. I love him enough for both of us. Can you stop pouring ketchup on the rusk please? It's making me nauseous..." 

he laughs in that inhibited, schoolboy way of his. "Hayat! I've missed you. How've you been?"

Great. He asks about Chum Chum before he asks about me...

"I'm awesome."

"Lame. I need details. How. Are. You?" his expression sobers as he leans forward, his hand capturing mine across the table. "I missed you."

"Can you not pretend to care about me?" I yank my hand back. He is acting like we are long lost besties meeting after decades. As if he doesn't know exactly what he did to me, and how I feel about that.

"Can you atleast tell me what I did wrong? I must have called and emailed you a million times in the past years. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you only relented to meet me because of the money."

Aaand, here ladies and gentlemen, we find the commonly found species of Douchebag in his natural habitat...

"Actually, you don't know me at all. Because money is the only reason I agreed to meet you. Period." Take that.

He looks stunned for a bit. The silence is awkward when our food arrives. 

"Can I get you Anything at all?" Our server asks breathlessly, her gaze fixed on Azaan. I execute an eyeroll. 

"No thanks." He is staring expressionlessly at me. "You know, once upon a time, I didn't always have a lot of money on me, but I used to have my buddies. I used to have, you. You were with me when I was broke. I don't know what changed...But I know you're not here for the money."

"Don't patronize me, Azaan. You're the one who designed this project. You're the one who stepped back into my life with a multi-million bid on an oriental carpet! I'm not all that noble, and I refuse to feel guilty about taking your help..."

"I don't want you to feel guilty. I'm not an asshole...okay, I am. But, even then, is it too much to hope, that you'd meet me for old time's sake? Don't you remember anything?"

That's the problem isn't it? 

I do remember. 

I remember everything. 

Author's Note:

Most of the stated figures for domestic abuse are from a 2009 UNO survey. I'm sure the numbers have increased with time. 

It's horrifying how many women are suffering abuse silently in their own HOMES. A place where they are supposed to feel safe, and protected. I'm sure this isn't just a Pakistani problem, but that it exists all over the world. My own maid is living with an abusive, gambler husband, and there's nothing I can do about it. 

I guess this book is my way of venting out pent up, helplessness. 

Thank you for being with me! :)

XO

-E.  (AKA ShutUpAndCoffee)