Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
But he made himself look away, huffing softly. “There you go getting poetic on me again.”
“Maybe I’ve the soul of Thoreau.”
“And the mouth of an ass.”
Vic snorted. “I’m insulted.”
“No, you’re not.”
“A little.” But the touch that idly played down Amani’s arm was warm, fond, familiar. “Twenty questions continues. What’s your favorite childhood memory?”
Amani’s answer came to him immediately—like a dream he’d forgotten on waking, only for some small thing to bring it back in full color and life and sound, the heat of the sun baking down, the brightness that made the world waver at its edges. “Sitting on my father’s shoulders as he carried me through the souks of Tangier.”
“Souks.”
“Open markets. Bazaars.” Amani smiled faintly. “Everything smelled like oranges and nutmeg and saffron, and he’d lift me up so high I felt like I could embrace the sky.” He curled his fingers, where he could still feel the ghost of bristling, richly thick hair tangled in his touch. “He had the thickest beard, black as night, and when I started to feel dizzy I’d clutch my fingers in it and hold on.” His hand fell. “My mother always fussed at him for bringing home the wrong things, but he loved going to market and always wanted to, and always took me along. And he…he laughed, so much. He was the kind of man whose laugh could make you forget the worst day of your life.”
“You miss him, don’t you?” Vic asked gently.
Amani almost couldn’t answer. This wasn’t a conversation between strangers. This wasn’t an exchange between a customer and a service provider. This was intimacy, knowing, words and facts and memories and feelings that marked a path through the brambles of misunderstanding and distance that made two people strangers.
He glanced at Vic, darting his tongue over his lips, then said hesitantly, “I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even remember him. I was barely old enough to talk when he was killed. But…” He didn’t want to give in to emotion in front of Vic, but his throat was tight, making his voice rough, no matter how he tried to swallow back and hide it. “But I do. I remember the thick scar on his neck, and the way his djellaba flowed around him like water. I remember his laugh. I remember how he called me his little habibi. He’d buy every flower in the market and bundle them in my arms to bring them home to Mama, but I’d always get to pick one special one to keep for myself.” His breath hitched, his chest hurting. “Is it strange that I remember that? That it still hurts?”
“No. It’s not strange at all.” And then Vic was gathering him close, pulling Amani closer against him, and somehow now Vic was shelter and strength and protective warmth when Amani was supposed to be in control, and yet…and yet, he needed those soft words murmured against him, the rumble of that voice shivering through him as Vic continued, “Some things carve their way inside us and stay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I suppose not.” Amani’s heart beat far too hard—and he couldn’t. He couldn’t take this, and he forced his voice to calm, to steady, as he tossed back, “Your turn. Favorite childhood memory?”
“I don’t think I have one.” A touch of melancholy haunted Vic’s voice. “Beyond a certain point, my childhood was this…monotonous blank. Just these days of sameness, rolling into each other. Now and then something would explode, some scandal or another, usually my degenerate older brother, and everything would be bad for a while. The air would taste like sour breath.” His grip tightened against Amani, as if holding to him for solid ground. “So I suppose days when it didn’t were all I knew of ‘good.’”
“Your brother caused problems for your family?”
“More than you’ll ever know.” Vic’s mouth turned into a hard, bitter line, his eyes distant and elsewhere, before clearing with a forced smile. “What are your friends like?”
Amani parted his lips to ask, then stopped. He knew where the edges were, and if Amani could change the subject to avoid painful topics, so could Vic. And so he only shrugged, answering, “I don’t really have friends. I have people I’m friendly with, like the other employees at the parlor. Yadira and Brenden. They’re nice, but…” He made a face, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I started with cello lessons so young, and I wanted to just…live in that. I threw myself into it so much that I never had time to make friends, and then as I got older I just…seem to have lost the habit, so I never really connect with my classmates—and where do I have time, with work and school?”
“I know the feeling.” Vic squeezed his arm gently. “Hey. You have me.”
“I don’t even like you.”