This wasn’t going to go well. As we waited in the plastic booth, I fiddled with the mini jukebox on our table so that Khabib wouldn’t see the fear on my face.

Although, it was probably obvious anyway—had been obvious from when I’d first proposed the plan: fake being a car manufacturer who was interested in meeting the owners of Samara Motors. It had been a long shot at best, but at this point, a few weeks unemployed with no contact or returned calls from Khabib’s parents, a long shot was as good as we had.

The location I’d chosen—good old Mel’s Drive-In, a diner—had been carefully selected so as to avoid a public scene. Khabib had told me every detail of the incident at the restaurant, and we’d both agreed that it would be best to avoid a similar scene this time. And yet, wasn’t choosing a lower-class, more casual place already assuming that things would go for the worst, before we’d even really tried?

Khabib took my hand and squeezed it.

“No matter what happens, I love you, and that’s the most important thing.”

I smiled valiantly. Khabib was right, of course, but it wasn’t his love that I was worried about. It was what we were going to do if this didn’t work.

The bin Samaras were on time to the minute. They looked around the diner for a few seconds, wandering right past our table, stopping a few feet away.

Khabib rose.

“Mother. Father.”

They turned around and gaped at us. His father’s eyebrows arched in rage, and his whole body turned around, just as Khabib said, “Wait.”

He froze.

“Please.”

No response.

“Please, Father. Just hear us out. Hear us out, and if you still don’t want anything to do with me, don’t want any contact with me, then I’ll respect your wishes.”

Still no response. Khabib’s mother put her hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Just give him a minute, Ra’id.”

So, with a blazing glare, Ra’id and his wife sat down across from us. They said nothing, so Khabib began.

“I know I haven’t been the son you’ve wanted. From the start, I’ve been unruly, challenged too many traditions, and coming here has made things worse. You haven’t approved of how I’ve been living my life, and you haven’t been wrong either.

“Despair and tragedy often come hand in hand with the kinds of extravagances I’d been enjoying: the late nights, the women, the partying—you were right to be worried. Because I was unhappy, so unhappy that I had had no choice but to plunge myself deeper into the very indulgences that were making me unhappy in the first place.

“For a long time, I was just going through the motions of living. I was desperately lonely and ashamed; I felt trapped, doomed. I have felt this way ever since boarding school, where I was made to feel like the worst kind of hybrid, a freak, raised in one culture and educated by another, straddling two worlds who didn’t have any sort of crossover or connection that I could see.

“When I was in one country, amidst one people, I felt as though I belonged in the other, but as soon as I went to the other, I longed for the first. There was no winning for me, no feeling of belonging, but not because of where I was. It was because of who I was. And who I was, was someone who felt perpetually alone, no matter the company.

“Yes, I adored you two and Mahir, and I will never be able to thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me. But love and understanding are two different things, and for the longest time, I’ve felt as though we have shared the first but not the second. No, I didn’t feel understood by you, or anyone, and I feared that I never would.

“Then, I met Lucy, and I realized, gradually, just how extraordinary this humble woman is. She was like me—a fish out of water, a woman in world she didn’t belong in. At first, I just took her for another jaded American girl. I tried pegging her with the rest and yet, she didn’t let me. No, she was kind beyond what was expected, vulnerable beyond what was smart. And, more than that, she understood me; she saw through my carefully-prepared veneer into my soul, my heart. Despite everything she heard, she trusted her heart and saw the good in me. And, no matter what I did, she kept on seeing it.

“So, Father, before, when you asked me to give her up, I think you misunderstood me. It was not a matter of choosing my heart over my family or even in honoring my promises to this remarkable woman, no. It was about preserving the best parts of me—parts that only Lucy brings out, parts I’d forgotten existed in me at all. To give Lucy up, would be to let the best part of me die.”

Silence, then Khabib said simply, “I love her, and she loves me, too.”

His parents’ faces didn’t look the same anymore. As he spoke, they went from angry, to sad, to unreadable. Now, his father’s gaze moved to me.

“Is this true?”

Under that quiet, fierce gaze, I found myself speechless, my throat constricted. I had to force the word out.

“Yes.”

The quiet rasp was like a kick to a back of their heads; their whole bodies drooped. My own body was weighed down with what Khabib had just said, and what I hadn’t. I didn’t know what to say, but, once again, I had to try.

“Khabib is right, but he’s wrong too.”

My words surprised everyone, myself included. Although I was nervous, I knew I had to continue, to explain my part.

“It isn’t just me who brings out the best in him—Khabib brings out the best in me, too. He’s right—how we fall into patterns, keep on doing the very things that are hurting us. For me, I hid myself away from the world so it couldn’t touch me. I used the excuse of taking care of my mother, but the truth is that I was afraid, terribly so.

“I avoided it, all of it: parties, bars, boyfriends, you name it. I avoided pain and yet, in that, I avoided joy. By losing one, I lost the other, though I hardly realized it. I threw myself into work and taking care of my mom with a vigor that allowed me to not notice that I wasn’t taking care of myself.

“And so, on I went, with my dog and my Mom, hardly living and hardly noticing. And then, along came Khabib. To say that he blew apart my attempts at closing myself off would be an understatement. Because I did resist him, my handsome boss who couldn’t stop himself from inviting me out for ice cream. All the while, I lied to myself about my feelings, that I could stop what had been inevitable since the first time we had laid eyes on each other.

“And, just as Khabib tentatively opened up to me, so did I to him. We pressed our broken hearts together until they were beating as one. I don’t know exactly what drew us together, what had him asking me out over and over again, even as I instinctively shrunk back from what I truly wanted. Because I did, even though he was my boss and I was spying on him, even though it was the riskiest thing I’d ever done, I wanted to be with him, and I want to be with him now.

“I can’t tell you exactly why I’m good for him. All I know is how good he is for me, how he accepts me yet challenges me, reassures me yet excites me. Khabib is everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I’ve ever needed.

“I did lie to you, and for that, I’m sorry. But the truth is that I didn’t want to admit to even myself what was happening—that instead of me drawing Khabib to my cautious ways, he drew me to his fun-loving ones. That Khabib drew me into his engagement with life, whole-heartedly—that once I’d realized I was right there, in the dance of it with him, that it was too late.

“So, Mr. and Mrs. bin Samara, if you ask me if I love your son, the answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

Now, Khabib’s parents were wearing different expressions, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I had said it, had said what had been building up in me while Khabib had been talking—since I’d met him, even.

Khabib and I had said our pieces; now, his parents would say theirs, whatever that would be.

The old Sheikh took his wife’s hand. Catching her eye, he nodded, then turned to Khabib.

“You are right, that we put Lucy in a difficult situation—” his gaze flicked to me, “And for that, we are sorry.”

As I opened my mouth to speak, he raised his hand.

“But you’re wrong if you think we are going to accept her.”

Another long silence. Under the table, Khabib grasped my hand. What we feared would happen was happening. Khabib’s father was shaking his head.

“No. We are not merely going to accept her—this woman who risked her job and her heart for you, this woman who somehow wrested you away from your self-destructive path. No, ‘accept’ would be an insult to such a woman.”

Khabib and I exchanged an excited glance. Could his father actually be saying what he seemed to be?

As if reading our thoughts, Ra’id nodded.

“No, we would not merely accept this woman for our son. We are honored.”

With one hand, Ra’id took Khabib’s; with his other, he took mine.

“Lucy, you may not have been what my wife and I at first envisaged for our son, but it’s clear that you care deeply for him. Despite your claims of being influenced by him, it’s clear you influence each other—one stabilizes, the other expands. Such is the way of well-matched couples. And I would be a fool to deny that I have noticed changes in my son these past few months—fewer negative tabloid articles, fewer frenzied calls from Mahir. You may not have meant to be a good influence on my son, but I think he and I can agree that you are.”

He squeezed our hands, then turned to Khabib.

“And, of course, I will return you and Lucy to your former positions, if you want them. Khabib, I don’t need to tell you how much of an asset you are— as a businessman, and as a son. I’m proud of you.”

Now, he took both of Khabib’s hands in his, his eyes full of tears.

“And, my son, I never apologized fully for your experience in the boarding school, for ignoring your concerns. For thinking I could craft a boy of my liking, without considering what you wanted for yourself. I believe many of your feelings of isolation are the result of my actions. I’m glad that you have found a woman that you can connect with, despite everything.”

Khabib’s mother took my hand, squeezing it. Her eyes were full too, happy.

“Welcome to the family, Lucy.”

I smiled and squeezed her hand back.

“Thank you. This is an honor. Thank you so much—for accepting me, for accepting us.”

She nodded.

“May you and my son stay as happy as you so clearly are.”

Then, all of us stood up and embraced. Khabib and I didn’t say it; we didn’t need to—that we knew we were going to be ridiculously, crazily happy.