Three weeks later, I was lying on my bed.
A low knock on the door woke me from my daze.
“Come in, Katia,” I said smiling. Katia was my favorite maid.
The door slowly opened, “Supper is ready, Miss Najela.”
“I’ll be right there.”
The door closed. I forced myself off the white silk sheets that veiled my bed and made my way out of my room. I peeked into the luxurious dining room, filled with my mother’s antiques, candles, and chandeliers, and instead of seeing three glass plates, three gold forks, and three wine glasses, I see saw six. I frowned; I was not in the mood to be too polite like the way you were required to be with company.
I caught a glimpse of the guests; a young man, a little older than me, and two adults that I guessed were his parents. They were obviously Arab, so I figured that they were visiting my parents from Afghanistan. My parents had grown up there and met in college, and we moved to Westchester when I was seven, due to the sudden millions of dollars we made because of my father’s successful hotel chain.
I walked in and took my seat silently. I straightened my skirt and sat up straight, avoiding the eyes of the young man on me. “Najela,” my mother said. “Meet Namir, Muna, and their son Morad. They are here from Afghanistan. We go way back. They will be staying with us for the next couple of days.” I looked up and smiled politely at the family. For whatever reason, knowing that they were from home made me feel better about having guests and gave me the excitement of having them here.
We conversed during our meal. The four adults exchanged stories that only adults find worth telling while Morad and I began awkwardly small talking, but in a matter of minutes, we were comfortable with each other and flew into endless conversation. Towards the end, I had learned that he was born in Afghanistan, but grew up in Connecticut, Greenwich. Like me, he did not speak much Pashtu, the Afghanistinian language. He was sweet and sociable and told me about his life growing up as I did with mine. We both came from money, so we related to how there is also a dark side to that, like the way Morads father bribed Harvard to accept him, so although he studied there then, he will never be sure if his work in medical school really impressed Harvard or if they just accepted him for the bribe.
I really enjoyed my time with Sebastian. I was excited to spend the next couple of days with him, you see, for besides Drew, I never really had a true friend. I had been invited to parties, I went out with groups of people, I have been to concerts and all of those things, but I never really told all these people my secrets or feelings. And anyways, I already know that most of the time I am used for my money which made me capable of throwing pool parties or getting VIP tickets to an event these people wanted to attend, so none of them actually bonded with me in depth. Except Drew, of course. God did I miss him.
When I told Morad that I looked forward to spending the next couple of days with him, he smiled. His smile ran chills down my spine. He smiled the way Drew smiled; his cheekbones flushed up and his full lips expanded to reveal his symmetric white teeth. I felt the tears come to my eyes the way they sometimes do when something reminds me of Drew. Of course, I did not break down crying. I got over that some time ago, and now it is just an exaggeration. I still cry sometimes, for I am lonely without him here. I miss his scent. I miss his eyes. I miss his smile.
I could tell that Sebastian noticed my insecurity as a shifted in my seat uncomfortably and bit my lip, staring blankly at the plate of fish and vegetables in front of me, but he respected it and did not ask.

After supper, everyone was escorted to his or her room. I walked into mine and sat at the giant white Mac to e-mail Drew, as I did every couple of nights. I logged on and opened his recent e-mail. After reading it, I wrote back telling him about Sebastian, that I am happy there is finally somebody I can relate to since he was gone. I reminded him that I missed him, loved him, and still dreamt of him every night. I checked off on my calendar another day survived without him and told him that we had only 216 more days to go before he turns 18, so he can legally move back to Westchester alone. Only 48 days after that will I be a legal adult and we would be able to go anywhere we’d like together, get married and live a life together, and fall into deeper love together. This countdown has been Drew’s idea and I thought it was brilliant.
I pressed Send as my father walked into my room. I hated my father. I did not care about the money, parties, or presents he frequently gave me, for those were given not to show me he was proud of me or loved me, but he to show off his money through me. Instead, I cared about whether he loved me or not, as a daughter, not as an excellent representative of the family. That is all he was proud of me for. I’ve always been told that I was beautiful, with my sharpened jaw and high cheekbones, my J-shaped nose, full red lips, perfectly placed freckles, my deep brown eyes, and bouncy black curls, so it wasn’t a major surprise when I was asked to model for brands from Abercrombie & Fitch to Chanel. Of course, my experiences in modeling were great, but I did not want to end up being an airheaded model. I want to do something much more than that, maybe become a great physician who will find a cure for cancer, a vet who creates a very successful animal care center, or even something like becoming the host of an incredibly funny reality TV show. Anything other than dieting for a lifetime, exposing my body, and walking in dresses that were too tight and heels that were too high. My father was simply proud that I looked good enough to represent his money, and when I was little, he had hit me for asking for a cookie, in fear that I would gain some weight. I had kept a thin figure since that night, hating my father and missing the days back at home when he was not a billionaire, when he was able to really love me, not love what good my modeling does to represent our family’s reputation.
“Hello, Najela.”
I did not look up.
“I hope you had a good time tonight.” He sat down on my couch and made himself comfortable. That was unusual.
“Sure you do.”
He ignored the comment, “How’d you like Morad?”
“We have a lot of things in common.” I replied, wondering why my father is talking to me, for we haven’t spoken by choice for years then, nor had he ever cared if I had a good time at dinner or not. Nor had he ever listened when I told him about someone, let alone ask about what I thought of him or her. Something was coming and it was making me anxious.
“You’re going to be seeing him a lot.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
I waited for him to say more. He didn’t.
“Why is that?”
“What do I love?” he asked suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“Answer my question. What do I love?” He was no longer lying down on the couch. He was now sitting up, looking me straight in the eye, his expression serious.
“You like money,” I spit out, not caring if that was the right answer or not. I just wanted him to get the message. “It’s all I can think of your liking. You don’t even like mother all that much.”
It was true. I knew about the several love affairs he’d had on his private boat. I think that was why he bought it in the first place. I had every right to hate him.
He clapped his hands, “You guessed corrected.”
“What?” I said shocked by the fact that my father was so calm and sincere of what I now know is true.
He smiled then got serious again, “You guessed correct. I love money. I have money. Lots of it. Morads father has money. Lots of it. So think like this; imagine my money and Morads fathers’ money together. That is a lot of money. With that kind of money, you will have plenty of these.” He pointed to the diamond necklace I was wearing. It was 24Karats.
“Where are you going with this?” I asked, scared of the answer and stunned by my father’s response.
“Well, Namir and I cannot legally share any money if we are not related. Marry Morad and you’ll have all the 24Karat diamond necklaces in the world.”
My eyes went bloodshot.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. He wanted me to marry Morad for his money. Marry Morad for his money.
Before I could think of doing anything else, I started screaming.
I screamed at my father and insulted every little thing he has ever done. I cursed the world and God. I screamed rejection into my father’s face. And once I let slip that there was nothing my father could do to draw me into an arranged marriage, I instantly felt an agonizing sting on my face before my father left the room. I shrieked in pain and burst out crying. I cried about Morad. I cried about my father. I cried about the women that had hurt my mother through my father. I cried about the blood on my face and the reason that caused its agonizing pain. I cried about Drew. I just cried.

Weeks later, after nights filled with screams and chaos and after the scar on my face had swollen, I decided to run away. I was not going to put up with this. I wanted to e-mail Drew and run away to him, to live a beautiful life in Italy with him filled with romance. Even though I knew that none of that was going to happen, I still intended to run away, so I did. I filled my biggest purse with stacks of money, all my credit cards, snacks that would last me enough time to get on a plane to nowhere in particular yet, and an extra change of clothes. I had my plan all figured out. I would turn off the security cameras and sneak out through the back gates, get a cab to the airport, buy a ticket to somewhere, most probably Italy, and after landing, I would figure out what to do next. My plan went perfectly. Nevertheless, something always goes wrong. Right before boarding the plane, I had to have my bag checked. When the guard saw all the money shoved in there, he got suspicious to the point I had to be consulted. He took me to an empty room where I was asked why I was carrying so much money and where I got it. I told them I was visiting a friend in Italy and showed them my ID card to prove I was a Kharzo Asmars daughter, which was the explanation of where I got my money since everyone knew how rich my father was. Since I was not a legal adult yet, they had to call my parents to make sure of their approval for me to carry so much loose money. After that call, I learned that the whole Westchester was on a search for me, and I received another agonizing sting and parade of tears from my father. I did not dare run away again.

A week later, I was married. I was married to a man I did not know well. I was married to a man who I did not want to marry, a man who did not want to marry me. Morad had tried to run away after the news, too. He was the one who gave me the idea. He wanted to run to his Scarlett, a woman he had described was so beautiful that there was no room for her in my imagination, a woman he truly loved, a woman he had talked endlessly about during the nights we were forced to spend in the same bedroom. I told him all about Drew, how we used to count the stars at night, how we used to dance around the garden while the sprinklers were on, how we used to kiss passionately. I told him that I was terrified if he had forgotten about how much I loved him, hence all the beautiful woman that were probably all over him in Italy. I described to him an infinite amount of times the first time he told me he loved me, the first time he’d kissed me, our last night under the stars, and the last words he’d said to me.
I had explained the whole situation to Drew before, but when he replied saying he never wanted anything to do with me again, I was miserable. Later on, he got on a plane, snuck into my room, begged for my apologies, kissed my lips and kissed the swollen scar my dad planted on my face, and told me he wanted one last night under the stars with me. One last dance in the sprinklers with me. One last night to love me. That is exactly what we did.
He was gone by the following morning and I was married by the following night.
After pleasing our fathers with the money they desired, Morad and I moved out as fast as we could. We went to Paris, as far away from our families as we could, and never spoke to our fathers again. My mother came to visit, with the news that she had divorced my father, and that the big day for her and her new fiancé, Brian, was in January. I loved Brian like an actual father after that, and not once had I ever caught him with another woman on a private boat.
Morad and I had a weird relationship. We always trusted each other, ever since our first dinner, the night that changed our lives. We trusted each other when we wanted to run away with our plans to get away from our fathers plans before the marriage. I trusted him with the clandestine last night with Drew, and he trusted me with his secret visits to Scarlett. With time, the long distances between our lovers gradually began to blank them from our memories, and we were not reminded of them until we received invitations to their weddings in our mailbox, but we have not kept in touch since. Eventually, Morad and I’s trust grew to like, and like grew to love, and though it was not the same strong romantic love we had shared with my Drew and his Scarlett, it was enough. It was enough that I loved the way he held me when I cried myself to sleep. It was enough that he loved the way my hair always smelled like sweet juicy plums. Most importantly, our love was enough to make me realize that no matter how hard things are, you are never alone. When you are going through a tough time, you should remember that there is somebody holding you when you cry, feeling the same way you do. You should remember that someone will always be there with you, going through the same things you are, because being alone is a terrible feeling, so neither one of you would want to let go of the only shoulder they have to cry on.