Tommy’s reminded me of a place I’d gone as a child, a diner in our small town where my mom and I had swapped stories—some fiction, some real—and eaten onion rings.

One time, snow had fallen in massive clumps while we were seated inside, and we’d had to rush back home before the storm caught up with us. I still remembered being filled with greasy food and love, racing back toward the car and clinging to my mother’s hand. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

Now, the smells, the sight of the television, and even Tommy himself were pulling me back to the memory. I compared my carefree past with my current predicament: the date with Rami and our impending marriage, my mother’s illness, the money. As he began to banter beside me, speaking in that confident manner, I tried my best to act interested. This—this entire charade—it was for the woman in my memory at that diner. It was for my mother. And I would fight to keep her alive.

When there was a pause, I cleared my throat, sensing it was my turn to speak. “Hey,” I began, shrugging. “Sorry I didn’t want you to pick me up today. I know that we need to keep with this kind of, erm, romantic theme. I’m just so out of practice. It’s going to take me a second to get in character, as it were.”

Rami nodded, his eyes burning with a kind of validation. “I wondered about that,” he said. “But just know that I’m not trying to rush your inner feelings. It’s not like I’m trying to force your love.”

“Not anymore, at least,” I told him, giving him a sneaky smile. God, he was handsome. This feeling pulsed through me, a constant reminder of his firm jawline, his thick black hair, and his honest eyes.

“Right. Again, I’m sorry about that.” He swallowed sharply, looking anxious. “I’m just glad we can help one another, in the end.”

Tommy arrived with the burgers. The smell wafted into my nose, making me close my eyes. Rich, vibrant, salty and alive—the meat was just the right level of pink, and the side of French fries was massive, like a haystack. Rami poured some ketchup onto the side of his plate. A bit of it got on the edge of his finger, and he licked at it, meeting my gaze.

“So anyway, I was thinking I would update you on my family, now that you know who I am…” Rami began. “Especially since you’ll be lucky enough to be a part of it.”

“Oh?” I asked, feeling a punch in the gut. Lucky enough? Who did this guy think he was, a billionaire Sheikh? Oh. Yep.

“Sure. My father, of course, is the ruling sheikh. His name is Ammar, and he’s one of the wisest men in the country.”

“Was he a playboy once, like you?” I heard myself ask, chuckling.

“He was certainly just as handsome,” Rami said, making my cheeks burn. Yes, he was handsome, but God, did he really have to go on about it like that?

“And my mother is a class act. Always dressed to the nines. I’ve never seen her without makeup on, and she’s always sitting properly, her posture perfect.”

“Like this?” I asked, slumping forward in my chair. I watched as he chuckled slightly, his eyes glittering.

“And she certainly wouldn’t be caught eating a burger,” he grinned.

“Sounds like a rough life,” I said, wiping a napkin across my lips.

“It has its benefits, sure,” Rami said, raising his eyebrows, “but when you meet her, you might need to, erm, advance your manners a bit.”

I felt my stomach fill with rage. But I forced myself to keep my mouth closed, to hold everything in. My mother’s next appointment with the doctor, happening in the next few hours, made my mind grow heavy. I had to remain focused on the date, nodding along. I had to listen. I had to obey.

Rami continued to blather on, telling me more about his older brother, Adil, who lived abroad; about his mother, and his father, their family traditions, and what I would have to wear and do and say when I inevitably met them.

He spoke about it all in such a detached way, as if these were just steps on a career path. I almost asked him several times if he thought I should draw up my resume, but held my tongue. The world around me had begun to spin. I allowed my chin to fall to my chest, and dropped my burger to the table, half-eaten.

Out of nowhere, my eyes started filling with tears. I tried to hold them back, but they overflowed, streaming silently down my cheeks. I grabbed the bar top in an attempt to steady myself.

Beside me, Rami was sipping at his beer, still focused on his own story, his own words, but I had lost them almost completely. After a long, horrible moment, I lifted myself from my bar stool, gazing at Rami.

Finally, Rami saw me. His lips parted, taking in the vision of this woman he hardly knew, crying in front of him. Tilting his head, he said, “Darling, why are you crying?”

I couldn’t think of an answer beyond the truth. I stuttered slightly, waiting for the words to come.

“You want to call it off, don’t you?” Rami said, his voice growing solemn. “You don’t want to go through with it. Even when this could be the single greatest event of your life, Angie. I mean, knowing my family, being a part of it—it’s beyond most people’s wildest dreams.”

I gripped the stool in front of me, trying to stay upright. I inhaled deeply, willing myself to stay calm. “This isn’t about your family. It isn’t even really about you,” I told him, my voice shaking. “I don’t want to call off the deal, no. It’s just… It’s a lot for me to handle right now, is all.”

“Why?” Rami demanded, his voice softening slightly.

To the side, Tommy had begun to ease into the front of the restaurant, before spotting our altercation. He drew back, lifting a cigarette from his pocket. He flipped it into his mouth and lit it, his eyes on me. I wondered how much he could possibly understand.

“My mother’s sick,” I told Rami suddenly, my voice low. “She needs surgery soon, but we don’t have the money to pay for it. Since she got her diagnosis, I’ve sent paycheck after paycheck home, for the radiation and the chemotherapy and whatever else, but whatever I make will never be enough for the surgery. Not without your…input.”

Rami didn’t speak. When I finally forced myself to look into his eyes, they were gleaming, filled with a surprising amount of compassion. I felt a flicker of understanding within him, for perhaps the first time.

As the tears continued to flow down my cheeks, I waited, watching, as he brought his hands over mine on the stool. He eased his thumb over my palm, over and over and over again, trying to calm me down. And after a moment, it worked. I felt my thoughts begin to slow. I felt my heart stop its hammering.

“I know there’s nothing I can say to make you feel better,” Rami said softly.

He was right. And yet, just the fact that he understood this unique thing about heartache endeared him to me. I blinked several times, finding a small smile forming on my lips. For the first time since meeting Rami, I saw something beyond his incredible, handsome looks—something deeper.

Suddenly, with a flourish, Rami turned his left hand to his pocket and drew out a small, black box. He tapped it on the counter, beside my half-eaten burger. I looked at it for a long moment, feeling my heart begin to flutter.

“Is that…?” I asked, cocking my head.

“You don’t have to open it now if you don’t want to,” Rami said, his voice low. “But just know that I’m here for you to help with this. I know that this silly marriage is much, much smaller than your real problems. But if you help me with this…” He reached to the side, tapping a long finger on the top of the engagement ring box, “then I think both of our problems will go away. Like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Reaching to the side, feeling somehow lighter, fresher, without the weight of my mother’s illness on my shoulders, I drew the black box toward me. I opened it, watching as the ring glittered in the soft light of the grungy bar. It was a strange mix, the ring and Tommy’s.

“It was my grandmother’s,” Rami said, taking the ring from my hands and slipping it over my finger. “And now, it belongs to you.”

I gave him a soft smile, unsure of this wave of genuine energy. But after seconds of silence, I felt strength enough to reach toward him and give him a hug. I placed my cheek against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne.

Again, my heart fluttered. But I ignored it, knowing that nothing true could ever grow between us. We were orchestrating a plan, each of us, separately—but together. That was all.

At the end of the night, I agreed to let Rami take me home in his convertible. With the top down, the breeze blasted through my hair, bringing my head back against the seat. Rami played music I didn’t recognize, with a quick beat and vibrant vocals, and I allowed my brain to fall away from thoughts of my mother—at least, for a few minutes. It was freeing.

“So, do you want to do this again sometime?” Rami asked me, after following me up to my apartment door. He scratched at the back of his neck, giving me heavy eye contact. Again, my stomach lurched with sudden—strange—desire.

“We are engaged, aren’t we?” I asked him, giving a sneaky smile.

“I don’t think we should announce it for another week,” Rami told me. “The timeline is a bit fast, even for how alluring and irresistible I am…” At this, he gave me a wink, proving he was in on the joke. He knew that I sensed his arrogance.

“That’s fine with me,” I told him. I slipped off the ring and put it back in the box, feeling my finger grow lighter without it. “It’s better this way. Less explaining to my coworkers.”

Again, Rita’s face flashed through my mind. Her judgmental, watchful eye. At this rate, she was the only friend I had in this area of Al-Jarra. The only one who cared if I lived or died. Beyond Rami, I supposed. As I was intrinsic to his plan.

“All right. I’ll pick you up for dinner in a few days,” he told me. “You can pick the restaurant this time.”

“You picked perfectly,” I told him, feeling the truth of it fill me. “Seriously. It brought me right back home. Thank you for that.”

* * *

A few nights later, Rami’s convertible pulled up out front of my apartment building, gleaming in the last orange light of the evening. Surprising even myself, I’d dressed in a glittering golden dress, and applied lipstick—making myself out to be a much more luxurious and worldly person than my South Dakotan identity should have allowed. When I reached his car, Rami ran around the back, opening the door for me.

“Wow,” he said. “You clean up good.”

“How eloquent of you to say,” I said, teasing him. “But I did request we go to a higher-end restaurant this time. I figured I should look the part.”

“You’re learning,” Rami said, chuckling.

I’d chosen an Indian restaurant owned by chef Julien Pierre, a man who’d been born to French parents living in India. This allowed for a strange fusion of Indian and French food, and the results were delightful.

Our starters, miniature tartlets flavored with a mix of Indian spices, made me close my eyes with pleasure. It had been a long time since I’d tasted anything so luxurious. Maybe I never had.

“So tell me about your job,” Rami said, sipping his wine.

Surprised at the question, my face grew blank. I blinked twice, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because, silly. I need to know about you, if we’re going to pull this off. And honestly, I’m surprised and impressed with anyone who makes teaching their career. It takes a certain level of patience to be with kids all day. Especially, what, seven-year-olds?”

“They’re seven and eight,” I said, feeling my lips curve with pleasure. Why did this man make me smile, as if on cue? “And honestly, I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else. Every day, they teach me something new. They give me an understanding of this world, and about what it means to learn a new language. And beyond that, they’re whip-smart at math and endlessly creative…” I trailed off, sensing that I was blathering on.

But Rami’s eyes seemed bright, genuinely curious. “I can’t imagine many are smart enough to see the small, beautiful details of teaching life…” he said.

The compliment seemed like it slipped out of his mouth. I felt my cheeks grow red with a heavy blush. My eyes danced around the room, looking at anything and anyone but him. A wave of desire washed over me, forcing me to swallow sharply, to root myself back in reality again. No. The Sheikh wasn’t someone I could fall for.

As our conversation progressed, another French-inspired Indian dish arrived. The wine flowed freely, and we ordered another bottle.

Around us, cameras flashed, potentially from paparazzi. But I didn’t care at all. In the past half hour, Rami hadn’t bragged once about his good looks, nor had he gone on about the intelligence, abilities and incredible wealth of his family members. Rather, he’d met me where I was—giving me empathy, in a world that had felt void and cold.

I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with my feelings, so after Rami had dropped me off that night, I tried to stamp them out as best as I could—tossing a bit more wine down my throat and staring at the ceiling in my bedroom, counting to ten.

When I finally felt my eyelids close and drifted off to sleep, it was long after midnight, but my heart still fluttered with excitement, as if it knew something I didn’t.

* * *