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It wasn’t a question—it was a statement. An excited shiver ran down Birgitta’s spine, sending tingles shooting through her whole body as it went.
“We’ll talk,” Birgitta said.
Malik didn’t say anything else to her. He just opened the front door and walked away, down the gravel driveway. Birgitta listened to the sound of his boots crunching against the gravel, her heart aching. She wished that he could stay here forever but she knew there were several more hurdles for them to get past before they could be together.
The first thing she had to do was talk to Kent. A lump formed in her throat as she thought about it.
How the hell am I going to have that conversation? How the hell can I possibly ask him for a divorce? What will Julia say?
It was too much for her to handle, especially when she could still feel Malik’s lips on hers.
Another day,she told herself.I’ll do it another day . . .
Chapter eight
Please don't go
Itdidn’ttakemuchconvincing to get Kent back into the church. After his rude outbursts over dinner, he’d been eager to please Birgitta. Going to the church was the only thing she wanted. There, she could watch Malik from a distance. It was safe. He wouldn’t do anything there, too afraid of what his community would say about the unrelenting advances.
As much as Birgitta liked him, she wasn’t ready to be alone with him. She knew that as soon as they were alone in an empty house, they would be all over each other. Birgitta knew her marriage was effectively over but she wasn’t ready to bury it just yet. She had to think about how she would get out of the mess, how she would break the news to her family, how to even begin splitting everything up in their home. It was almost too much for her to think about.
Helpful citizens were darting around the church’s empty spaces. People flitted from side to side, looking at all the different pamphlets available. Somehow they’d managed to wrangle a translator to help with a lot of them, working for free to help those that didn’t speak English or Swedish yet. There were so many different languages displayed on the tables, on the walls, even on the faces around her.
Some women wore scarves around their heads, speaking harsh-sounding tongues. All different shades and colors of skin were there, coming together to support one another. It was a beautiful thing to Birgitta. She was doing her best to help the others, as was Kent.
She was standing a little ways away from a small group of children. They were gathered around her husband as he taught them the Swedish alphabet. The children there were very young—all of them under five, she’d guess—so they were soaking up the language easily. They hadn’t picked up the lilted tones of the language just yet but she knew they would be there within the blink of an eye. Children had minds like sponges. All you had to do was present them with information and they would absorb all of it.
With her back leaning against one of the rickety bookcases, she watched her husband teaching the children. Every time they got it right, he dished out plenty of praise and, really, made himself look like an idiot. They seemed to like it when he stomped his feet and raised his hands in the air, shaking them wildly. So that’s what he was doing, making a whole lot of noise in the process.
Instead of seeing disapproving frowns looking his way, Birgitta could only see smiles and laughter. It was so jarring to her. Most people would tut with disgust at the sight of Kent. And yet, here they were—in a church of all places—and people were laughing and joking about it. She wasn’t sure if it was because he was teaching children, or if it was because he was trying to help others. Regardless, there was no judgment.
Birgitta wanted to relax and enjoy herself but she couldn’t. Malik hadn’t shown his face yet. Every time someone walked through the front door, letting the hinges loudly squeak, she helplessly looked over. She knew she probably looked desperate and pathetic but she couldn’t help herself. He was the only reason she was here. Sure, it was nice to help other people, but he was her main focus.
It was like Malik was a disease, slowly forcing his way through her entire system. The only thing she wanted to see was his face. The only things she wanted in her hands were his strong arms or the sensation of his clothes running between her fingers. It consumed her, taking over her thoughts until there was nothing else in her mind.
There was nothing for her to do at the church. Attendance seemed to be sky-high today. All of the familiar faces were there, people that she had seen around the neighborhood before. She wondered how often they came here, or for how many years they had been noting her family’s absence. It didn’t matter, not really. She was there now and that was all that mattered.
She leaned her back against the bookshelf as she watched her husband teaching the children. He was good with them, she couldn’t deny it. There wasn’t a better man to have children with.
But why am I still with him?She thought.Our child has grown, so why are we still together? We have no interests aside from Julia. There is nothing keeping us together.
Still, there was something holding her back. Ending her marriage was a big deal. It wasn’t something to be taken lightly. She had to make sure that Malik was serious about her. She couldn’t throw away her entire life only to find out Malik wanted a fling.
Birgitta knew she was already more invested than he was. Not only was she spending every waking moment thinking about him, but she was also imagining his face in place of her husband’s. When they made love, she pretended that she was with Malik instead. It always made their sessions more interesting, at least for her. Picturing his brown skin, his mop of black hair, his bulging muscles . . . It turned her on just thinking about it.
She shifted uncomfortably, causing her back to rub against the shelves behind her. Being aroused in a church full of children wasn’t something she particularly wanted. Trying to shift her thoughts, Birgitta turned around to look at the bookshelf she’d been leaning on. There were dozens of old, ratty books there. Most of them looked like they’d been through wars. She could barely decipher the words printed along the spines, the printed layer peeling off to reveal the white paper beneath.
All of the books were relatively child-friendly, nothing that Birgitta was interested in reading. Still, she perused. There wasn’t much else for her to do aside from uselessly standing around. All of the tasks had been assigned to workers. She was there as an extra pair of hands, nothing more.
The double doors at the front of the church opened wildly, both of the handles slamming into the walls. All heads snapped to the sound, watching as a dark figure walked through the doors. Outside, the world was turning dark as the sun had started to set. Birgitta’s eyes weren’t drawn to the darkness, though. They were drawn to the person storming through the front of the church, swinging his arms as he walked.
As he stepped into the light, his mouth opened wide as he began to shout. The language was harsh and loud, filling the church with its angry tones. Malik stormed through the aisle as his eyes stared at the faces all around him. Everyone had stopped what they were doing, staring at the man making a scene.
Birgitta could feel the mood in the room change—almost everyone wanted him to stop and behave properly. Not Birgitta, though. She looked into his deep brown eyes and saw the pain in there. Her heart leaped into her throat as she watched him, shouting and cursing in his native tongue. Whatever was bothering him, she knew it was serious. Every time she’d seen him, he had always managed to compose himself, no matter what was going on. Seeing him ranting and raving, slapping his hands against leaflets to send them flying, concerned her.
Birgitta couldn’t have stopped herself from rushing over there if she’d wanted to. Her feet had a mind of their own, taking her to him with impressive speed. He needed a friendly face, a shoulder to cry on, and she was going to be that person.
“Malik,” Brigitta said, cementing her hands onto the top of his arms, gripping his shoulders.
