Drowning Doesnt Look Like Drowning

It's become a bit of a tradition for me to start my stories with a warning that they are both a slow burn and lacking in sex (more 'Lit' than 'Erotica'). Along with my usual warning, this story is a bit of an experiment and leans more towards contemporary fiction than traditional romance. There is a romantic relationship at the heart of the narrative, but I think of traditional romances as being more akin to fairy tales for adults, while this story is (a bit) more realistic.

Given these caveats, I won't be offended if this story isn't for you. I have a couple of other stories in progress, so you won't have to wait too long for something that might be more to your taste. Thanks, as always, to my wife for her fine editing skills.

Drowning Doesn't Look Like Drowning

PROLOGUE

My uncle Mirsad, or Uncle Mike, as he insisted on being called after he moved to the United States, was 'that guy'. I think we all know someone like him. The kind of person who, in 2024, still forwards weekly emails to his entire contact list with subject lines like "FWD: Too Funny!!!" or "Sexy Lady's Swimsuit Malfunction!!!"

For Uncle Mike, one exclamation point was never enough.

While most people stopped sending mass emails around the turn of the century when social media started to take off, Uncle Mike was never one to adapt to the times. Over the years, he was shockingly consistent in his choice of emails to forward. About one-third sexist jokes, one-third scantily clad women, and one-third Bosnian politics, with an occasional public service message thrown in just to keep you guessing.

There was, however, one email he sent every year, like clockwork. On Father's Day, he would share the article, "Drowning Doesn't Look Like Drowning," by Mario Vittone. This article, which should be required reading for all parents, explains that in real life, drowning doesn't look as dramatic as it does on TV. There's no thrashing about or calls for help--once the Instinctive Drowning Response takes over, all your body can do is try to keep your head above water as you sink. One minute, you're feeling tired, but you think you'll be okay. Next, your instincts take over, and you're struggling to survive.

The article was especially poignant for Uncle Mike. When I was five, our extended family celebrated Father's Day at the beach. Uncle Mike's son, Samir (Sam), who was only nine years old at the time, drowned in less than six feet of water, with six adults, including his father, within fifty feet of him.

Sam's death cast a long shadow over all our lives. He was so close to the people who could have saved him, who would have gladly traded their own lives for his. He must have known he was in trouble before the instinctive drowning response took hold. Why didn't he call out for help before it was too late?

CHAPTER 1

Adnan

"Your father would never have mixed boxwood with hydrangeas; he understood about balance and structure. I do miss him so."

I was confident that I missed my father more than Mrs. Stapleton did. But she was my most important client and not given to introspection, so I just nodded my head and kept working.

Mrs. Stapleton and I shared a painful connection. She'd been widowed nearly four years ago, shortly after my father died, and we bonded through our shared grief. Unfortunately for me, she fostered that bond by looking over my shoulder as I tended her gardens and second-guessing my decisions.

Her critiques didn't end with the garden, however. I was also subjected to judgments about my life and character. In Mrs. Stapleton's view, poverty wasn't caused by bad luck or unfortunate circumstances; rather, it was a sign of weak morals and poor character. Consequently, she dedicated herself to shaping my character through unsolicited advice and constant criticism.

"You know, your father used to be the head gardener at the National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina before he came to the United States. We were so fortunate to find him."

My father earned a Ph. D. in Plant Ecology from the University of Vienna, and he was the museum's Director of Conservation for Rare Fauna. However, he had spent much of his time in the botanical gardens attached to the museum, which, in Mrs. Stapleton's mind at least, made him a gardener, I guess.

When I was still a baby, he fled to the U. S. with my mother to escape the war that had engulfed the region at the time. He couldn't find work in his field, so he started a landscaping business, and we barely got by. We lived in a shabby three-bedroom apartment in a lower-class neighborhood, while he worked long, back-breaking hours just to put food on the table.

In contrast, my Uncle Mike and Aunt Mina lived a life of wealth and privilege, with new cars every two years and a spacious house in the suburbs. They were quick to donate whenever there was a call for help at the mosque, and the elders took note of their generosity. When I was younger, I resented the fact that my father worked so hard for so little when he could have joined Uncle Mike in running the family business.

I was too young to understand.

The only time I recall my father accepting help from Uncle Mike was when my mother was hospitalized with pneumonia. Even then, the assistance came in the form of a plain white envelope filled with cash that was left on the driver's seat of his truck after Friday prayers at the mosque.

My father loved my mother more than anything in this world or the next, even his pride.

"I think the boxwood will frame the hydrangeas perfectly, ma'am, but I can switch them out for something else if you'd prefer."

Mrs. Stapleton didn't insist that I call her ma'am, but it certainly thrilled her when I did. It made her feel like a Grand Dame while I played the role of an obedient manservant. She paused and pretended to consider my offer.

"They're not terrible, I suppose. If you move that one to the left, I think they will be fine."

If I had a penny for every plant I moved at Mrs. Stapleton's request, only to shift it back once she wasn't paying attention, I would be a wealthy man. But she was a lonely old woman whose kids lived far away, and she just wanted someone to talk to. Unfortunately, her preferred mode of speech was criticism.

Mrs. Stapleton's late husband, Melvin, had been a highly successful executive at a multinational electronics company, but had very little time for her. While he worked, she spent her time raising children (or, more accurately, overseeing the nannies who did most of the work), having lunch at the country club, and serving on the boards of charities that were avaricious for a share of her husband's wealth. Now, he was gone, and her children held more affection for their long-departed nannies than they did for their mother. The one constant in her life was those same charities. And me.

"You should go swim in the Pond to cool off before you head home."

That was the only helpful suggestion she'd given me all day.

******

In our town, where you went swimming was as much an indication of your social standing as the car you drove or the neighborhood you lived in. Poor families used the public beaches along the river, which were contaminated with industrial chemicals and fecal matter, among other less savory substances. Middle-class families, who wouldn't be caught dead at those beaches, had backyard pools to stay cool in the sweltering heat. Teenagers would gather around these pools all summer, while cannonballing into their chlorine-filled water with wild abandon. The wealthy, however, had the Pond.

Although our town had several ponds and even one small lake, there was only one "Pond." It was nestled in a grove of mature oaks, sugar maples, and white birches, and its shoreline was lined with ancient flagstones, polished smooth over time, with native grasses gently swaying in the breeze.

It was only about two hundred yards across at its widest point and perhaps twice that in length, with no beaches, lifeguards, or other facilities--they might have attracted the unwashed masses. Instead, there was a single, unmarked public access point leading down to an old wooden dock. The rest of its shoreline was protected by "No Trespassing" signs on the back lawns of the surrounding mansions.

I hadn't brought a swimsuit to work that day, and even if I had, there was nowhere to change, so I would be swimming in my work shorts. That was fine, though. With my farmer's tan, calluses, and dirty fingernails, it wasn't like I'd be welcomed by the locals anyway, and my lack of a designer swimsuit was just another reason for them to look down their noses at me. I'd only stay for a short time to swim a few laps and cool off. Even though I'm a strong swimmer, I'd never completely gotten over my fear of open water after what happened to my cousin.

The sun had already begun to set by the time I reached the Pond, and most families with young children had gone inside for the night. With high school nearly over for the year and college students back home for the summer, however, there were still groups of older teens hanging around near the water.

A group of particularly boisterous preteen girls had just started swimming across the Pond as I took off my work boots. Three of the girls were making good progress, while the fourth was clearly struggling but was too stubborn or proud to quit. I figured she'd give up once she reached the other side and then make the walk of shame around the shore while her friends swam back, but she gamely tried to follow them.

By the time I had taken off my shoes and T-shirt, the weaker girl had stopped making forward progress and was just bobbing in place, her head barely breaking the surface before slipping under again. Her friends, who were back on shore and hadn't noticed her struggle, were chatting and laughing as they toweled off after their swim.

A sharp rush of adrenaline shot through me as memories of the day Sam drowned flooded back. Without thinking, I sprinted to the end of the dock and launched myself into a shallow dive, fighting the urge to start my stroke until I had fully capitalized on my initial momentum.

Lifeguards are trained to use a heads-up front crawl during a rescue to keep their eyes on the victim at all times. However, I was far enough from the girl that I chose a heads-down freestyle as I tried to cover the nearly 200 yards between us. I could hear Mr. Melanson, my high school swimming coach, echoing in my mind as I swam.

"Don't let your adrenaline dictate the pace--you control the first fifty, or it'll control the rest. Long strokes and clean water, settle in and trust your rhythm."

It felt like it took forever to reach the spot where the young girl had been struggling to stay afloat, even though it actually took less than two and a half minutes. But a child can drown in under a minute, and I couldn't see any sign of her when I scanned the surface near where she had been. The distant sound of screams barely registered as I took a breath and dove underwater.

Luck was on my side as I saw the girl suspended just below the surface, no more than ten feet away, limp and drifting slowly downward. I couldn't risk approaching her from the front in case she panicked and grabbed me, so I moved behind her, wrapped my arms around her chest, and propelled us both upward with my legs.

Once her head broke the surface, she coughed violently, gasped for air, then started flailing wildly as her body realized it was no longer drowning. I knew she wouldn't be able to stop until we were out of the water, so I kept one arm wrapped around her chest and used a sidestroke to bring us toward the shore. I pulled her out of the water, and she started coughing and vomiting as she struggled to breathe. I turned her onto her side to help clear the water from her airways while keeping a hand on her back for support.

I pointed to one of her friends, who was frozen in panic nearby, and told her to get the girl's parents while I asked someone else to call 911. I knelt and talked to the girl, trying to keep her calm. Within minutes, however, I was pushed aside by a young woman who came running from one of the nearby mansions. She seemed to know what she was doing, so I just lay on my back, gasping for air, trying to bring my breathing back under control. I was soon forgotten in the noise and confusion as the paramedics arrived and took over.

Once the ambulance had left with the young girl, the crowd that had gathered began to disperse. By then, I was trembling from exhaustion, as the adrenaline that had carried me through the rescue was starting to fade. My shoulders ached from hours of working under the scorching sun, and my muscles burned from the 200-yard sprint and the raw force it took to drag her to safety. Even worse, now that the immediate crisis was over, the mind movies started.

The lifeguards were pulling Sam's limp body from the water, as the heartrending sound of my Aunt Mina's wailing filled the air, and the beachgoers gathered helplessly around while the lifeguards worked to revive him. It was all too much, and I knew I had to start moving or I'd be overwhelmed by the memories. I was too tired to swim back to the dock, so I carefully made my way along the shore to where I had left my clothes before heading home.

******

It was after seven by the time I arrived. I knew my mother was still at work and wouldn't be back until after eight, so I took it upon myself to check in on my brother, Adin--Aidan to his friends--and my sister, Emina--or Emmie--to make sure they were both doing their homework.

Aidan was studying hard. He was finishing his junior year of high school and knew that he'd need to earn top marks to secure a scholarship and attend college. Emmie, a high school freshman, was significantly less motivated, and although she sat at her desk with her textbook open in front of her, I couldn't help but notice the stream of notifications popping up on her phone, which was close at hand.

I started to make a simple dinner of sausages, flatbread, and sour cream, along with a tomato-cucumber salad, knowing my mother would be exhausted by the time she got home. She'd started working as a chambermaid after my father passed away, and it had taken a toll on her health. Her back and knees were always sore, and she'd begun to walk with a limp. She never complained, but I dreamed of earning enough money one day so that she could leave her job and retire.

When Emmie noticed what I was doing, she shut her textbook and hustled over.

"Let me do that, Adnan," she said as she took the cutting knife out of my hand. I watched as the uneven chunks of cucumber I had just laboriously cut were soon joined by a neat row of uniform slices.

"You're my brother, and I love you dearly, but you can't even cook water, let alone dinner."

She wasn't wrong.

Even though Emmie and Aidan were both born after we came to the U. S., Emmie was as traditional as my mother, at least when it came to cooking. Still, I couldn't resist teasing her.

"Thanks, Emmie. You'll make someone a fine snajka (daughter/sister-in-law) someday."

"Only if I survive your cooking!" she said with a laugh, as she shooed me out of the kitchen.

I tried to study while Emmie worked on dinner, but my mind kept drifting back to the events at the Pond. Instead of the girl I'd saved, I kept seeing my cousin in the water, slowly sinking downward. I wondered what Sam would have looked like as an adult. He was a handsome, athletic boy, and I tried to picture him as a tall, attractive man. But he was forever frozen in my mind as that tiny, limp, blue-lipped body on the sand.

The sound of a key turning in the front door broke my reverie.

"Evening, Mama."

My mother looked at me with an expression of bone-deep weariness and buried grief before hiding it behind a fragile smile.

"Evening, Adnan. How is my beautiful boy?"

Later, I found my mother asleep in my father's chair--an old leather recliner that still held pride of place in the living room. Her glasses were askew, and she clutched a small, framed picture of him to her chest. I wrapped a warm blanket around her, despite the late spring heat, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"I miss him too, Mamica."

CHAPTER 2

Charlotte

It was nice to have the house to myself for once. Earlier, Sasha had come home from school, dropped her bag by the patio door, and then texted to say she was going to our next-door neighbor Chantal's house. Like many preteen girls, my sister and her friends traveled in a loud and enthusiastic pack, so I was just as glad they chose to invade someone else's house instead of ours.

Our housekeeper, Luisa, had left early for the day to go to a doctor's appointment and pick up my dad's suits before the dry cleaner closed. Mom was at a showing she'd arranged for a new listing in the next town over, and Dad was rarely home before eight these days.

During my year living in the sorority house at college, I'd gotten used to relaxing at night with a beer or a cooler. Underage drinking was strictly prohibited at the Greek houses, of course, under penalty of expulsion, but that rule was enforced about as rigorously as the speed limit on the interstate. Sure, some sisters didn't drink until they were of age, but the rest of us sped past them without a care in the world. My father wasn't nearly as indulgent as my sorority sisters, but if he cared so much about my virtue, he should have come home early now and then to make sure it was still intact.

I was lounging on the sofa, drinking a cooler and checking my socials when Chantal burst through the patio door, looking pale as a ghost and babbling incoherently. As she caught her breath and calmed down, I realized something had happened to Sasha, and I ran toward the Pond.

As I got closer, I saw a small group of older teenagers gathered around my sister, who was lying on her side by the water. She was crying and coughing, her entire body trembling. Someone had covered her with some towels to keep her warm, and I could hear distant sirens approaching.

A young man knelt beside Sasha. Even in my panic, I noticed that he had a nice physique, with broad shoulders and a long, muscular torso, like a swimmer. But he also had a farmer's tan, and his buzz cut made him look like he'd just finished basic training. He wore a pair of discount store shorts that were soaked through. I didn't like how he was leaning over my little sister and stroking her back, so I pushed him aside.

"Sasha, what happened? Are you okay?"

She tried to speak, but between her sobs and chattering teeth, I couldn't understand what she was saying.

"She was trying to swim across the Pond, but ran out of steam and started struggling..."

The guy with the farmer's tan was trying to mansplain what happened, and I wasn't in the mood to hear it.

"I was asking her, jackass."

The young man wisely fell silent and rolled onto his back as I focused on Sasha. The next few minutes were chaotic as her friends explained what had happened while insisting it wasn't their fault. By the time the paramedics arrived, I realized I owed the man who'd saved Sasha an apology. However, I lost that thought when I was told that Sasha needed to go to the hospital for observation. Although she was breathing on her own, there was still a risk of secondary drowning even hours after the incident.

I couldn't reach either of my parents, so I rode in the ambulance to the hospital with Sasha. It wasn't until she was admitted that I thought of the young man who had saved her again. He wasn't from around here, and I realized, somewhat sheepishly, that I hadn't even asked his name.

Over the next few hours, I kept trying to contact my parents, but my mom must have turned off her phone, and Dad's office said he was closing a deal and had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed. By the time they arrived at the hospital, Sasha was sound asleep.

******

It was late in the evening when my parents and I finally got home. I planned to grab a quick bite, pick up a change of clothes, and then head back to spend the night with my sister. Since my parents weren't the type to wait around in a hospital room, even for their daughter, they left that task to me. We'd been home for less than five minutes when the fighting began.

My family was all about assigning blame. It wasn't enough that something bad happened; no one could rest until the person responsible was found and punished. Responsibility was decided through brutal emotional battles fought throughout our house, from the kitchen to the wine cellar and, more often than not, the master bedroom.

My father was an offense-first fighter. His philosophy was that if you got your hits in hard and fast, you could win the fight before your opponent even landed a blow. He directed his initial attack at me.

"You should've been watching your sister, Charlotte. She's your responsibility when we're not home. How could you let this happen to her?"

I knew it was a rhetorical question, but still felt obliged to reply, as disastrous as the results were likely to be.

"Sasha was at Chantal's house; I had no idea..."

Before I could finish, his attention shifted to my mother.

"If you hadn't booked an evening viewing, you'd have been here to keep an eye on Sasha and her friends. What kind of mother chooses her career over her kid's safety?"

His blows landed with brutal precision--I was crying, and Mom was pouring herself a stiff drink. However, while I was paralyzed by guilt and unable to continue, Mom was down but not out. Unlike my father, who tried to win fights through overwhelming force and cruelty, my mother was an emotional assassin. She bided her time until her opponent was at their most vulnerable and then delivered the killing blow.

"And what kind of deal were you closing, late on a Friday night? Or, more to the point, who were you closing it with?"

I had had about as much yelling as I could handle, so I made a tactical retreat to my bedroom, where I tried to calm down as I packed my overnight bag. The fight was still ongoing when I went back downstairs, but its terrain had shifted. Instead of screaming at each other, they were now working together to assign blame outside of the family.

"Really, this is Chantal's parents' fault. They should have been watching the kids while they were at their house."

"We should sue their asses; it would serve them right."

Chantal's mother's company was one of my dad's biggest clients, so I knew no lawsuits would be forthcoming. I was just grateful they weren't yelling at each other anymore--or at me, for that matter.

"I'm heading back to the hospital. I'll text in the morning to update you on Sasha's condition. And Dad, Luisa was going to pick up your suits from the dry cleaners on her way to her doctor's appointment. She'll make sure to be here early so you have them before you leave for work."

I had inadvertently sealed Luisa's fate. Someone had to be held accountable for what happened to Sasha, and once the other options were exhausted, Luisa was the only one left. Never mind that she'd been with us for nearly 20 years, starting as our nanny and then moving to housekeeper as Sasha got older. That mattered little when she had the gall to be at a doctor's appointment while tragedy was narrowly averted.

Someone had to pay the price, and today it was her.

******

I brought Sasha home the next day, and she recovered in our downstairs lounge, treating herself to endless ice cream and streamed movies. Once her friends got over their guilt for leaving her behind during the swim, they joined her for a two-day sleepover and gossip session. For a time, Sasha became a social media darling with her schoolmates, with countless retellings of her near-death experience.

Adding fuel to her social media fire was the high-definition security camera footage of her rescuer in action. Several years earlier, the Camerons, who lived across the Pond from us, had installed high-definition security cameras that covered the back of their property and most of the open water. They claimed it was to deter vandals and vagrants. Still, it seemed particularly active when attractive young college students were out swimming or sunbathing. It had caught the entire rescue from the start of the swim until after the paramedics left.

By the time I brought Sasha home from the hospital on Saturday, footage of the rescue had been uploaded to the neighborhood ladies' social media page. The initial comments were respectful and highlighted the young man's heroism and the tragedy that was narrowly avoided. However, they quickly devolved into increasingly lascivious remarks about his physique. The frenzy only grew when Mrs. Stapleton boasted that he was her gardener and that he would be working in her yard early Monday morning, if anyone felt the need to stop by.

I knew I owed him an apology and our thanks, so I decided to visit him on Monday to make things right.

CHAPTER 3

Adnan

I contemplated the edges of the rose bed as I cut them away. With each pass of the shovel, a curved segment of sod was severed and then lifted cleanly to the side; hundreds of imperfect cuts creating the illusion of perfect symmetry.

The structure of the proof began to take shape as I continued to edge the bed. Could the proof be extended to the entire garden? Or the town as a whole? What if the edge of the rose bed had no fixed endpoint? Or expanded at a constant rate? What if the soil were softer, causing the edge to decay over time? Could that decay be modeled?

"Well, you're quite the celebrity this morning!"

And it was gone.

Sometimes, when I finished my work without interruption, I would jot down my thoughts on a particularly interesting mathematical proof in an old notebook I kept in the glove compartment of my truck. Once Mrs. Stapleton disrupted my flow, however, it was futile to try to recapture my train of thought.

Not that it really mattered. My father's death had put my dreams of becoming a mathematician on indefinite hold. Now, the only time I spoke in the language of the universe was to avoid going crazy from boredom while I landscaped.

"I'm sure the interest will die down soon enough, ma'am."

Throughout the morning, women of all ages had been passing in front of Mrs. Stapleton's property, smiling and giggling. Mrs. Stapleton reveled in the attention like the owner of a prized stallion watching the fillies file past his stall. Given the choice, I would have avoided the attention by working in the back of her property, which sloped down a gentle hill before ending in a small stand of trees, but it wasn't to be.

By the end of the morning, I had gained newfound empathy for the animals at the zoo.

******

By mid-afternoon, the stream of onlookers had dwindled to a trickle, and Mrs. Stapleton had reluctantly agreed that I could work in the back. I was digging a trench to conceal the piping for an artificial waterfall feature in the hillside when I was interrupted.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I wanted to say a proper thank you for saving my sister."

I set my shovel down and turned to see the young woman who had pushed me aside while I cared for the girl I had rescued, standing in the shade of the ancient oak tree that dominated that part of Mrs. Stapleton's yard. Her sandy blonde hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she wore a sleeveless, collared top with high-waisted chino shorts. She was quite pretty, in a preppy-princess kind of way, although maybe a little too skinny for my taste.

She seemed a little hesitant or unsure of herself.

"It's no bother. But did you let Mrs. Stapleton know that you were coming back here to chat? She's quite particular about who she allows in her yard."

The woman blushed a little as she replied,

"My best friend from childhood lived just on the other side of these woods, and Old Man Stapleton used to yell at us when we snuck into his yard, so I decided just to come find you. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, and all that."

"How's she doing?"

"My sister? She's okay. It was quite a scare for her, but thanks to you, that's all it was. And I'm sorry for being such a bitch afterward. I didn't know what you'd done, and I was so scared for Sasha."

"I get it, I probably looked pretty sketchy, with my discount-store shorts and cheap haircut..."

"That's not it; it's just that I... well, I don't know. Maybe that's part of it, which makes how I behaved ten times worse."

"So, are you ten times as sorry, then?" I asked her with a grin. Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink at my comment, and she looked away.

"She needs to be more careful. It was just luck that I happened to be there that day."

"Oh, she'll definitely be more careful, especially after my father fired Luisa."

"This Luisa was supposed to be watching your sister?"

There was an awkward pause before she responded.

"Not exactly. She was our housekeeper, and she'd already left for the day when the accident occurred, so it can't have been her fault. But in my family, someone is always to blame, and she was the easiest scapegoat for what happened. God knows it couldn't be my parents' fault."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"My family motto might as well be 'Better You Than Me.'"

I'd run into more than one family like that during my years as a gardener, but it still set my teeth on edge. I was sure Luisa had a family relying on her paycheck for their survival. I fell silent, hoping the woman would leave now that she had said her piece, but she didn't take the hint.

"I'm Charlotte, by the way, but my friends call me Char," she said as she offered me her hand.

"I'm Adnan," I replied, shaking her proffered hand. Her skin felt soft and smooth against my calluses.

"That's an unusual name, where's it from?"

"It's Bosnian. My family came to the U. S. when I was young."

"What does it mean?"

"My parents told me it means 'one whose roots go deep,' but I don't know if that's true. It's a family name."

"So, your father's an Adnan too?"

"My father... my father was an Adnan. He died a few years ago, now."

"I'm sorry."

We slipped back into the awkward silence.

"I should get back to it. Thanks for coming by."

Before I could turn away, Charlotte took a step forward and said in a rush, "Can we offer you a reward of some kind? You know, for saving Sasha."

I paused for a moment, but I honestly couldn't think of anything she could give me that I wanted... except maybe one thing.

"Ask your father to rehire Luisa."

"What?" she asked, a look of alarm, bordering on fear, crossing her face. "He'd never do that. His word is his bond."

I wasn't surprised by the answer, but I still had to ask.

"Maybe you should leave before Mrs. Stapleton sees us talking. She'll dock my pay for an unsanctioned break if she finds out."

Charlotte turned and left without another word.

******

It was past five when I called it a day, and I knocked on Mrs. Stapleton's back door to let her know I was leaving. When I didn't hear a reply, I peeked further inside and called out again. Growing increasingly concerned, I went as far as the kitchen and called out a third time.

I was relieved when I heard a muffled reply from upstairs and started to leave. As I did, I couldn't help but notice the haphazard piles of bills and receipts scattered across the dining room table. I remembered from one of her endless monologues that Mrs. Stapleton had been named the Chair of the Audit and Finance Committee of the Board of Directors for our local orchestra.

Mrs. Stapleton had no real qualifications for the job, other than being the orchestra's most generous benefactor. As she grew older and more paranoid, however, she insisted on being named to the position so she could "make sure my money is being spent the way it's supposed to."

Typically, the chair would only review summary financials from management, but Mrs. Stapleton insisted on examining expenses in much more detail. Considering how long it took her to calculate my wages each week with a calculator and years of experience, I could only imagine how disastrous she was at overseeing the orchestra's finances.

"I don't remember inviting you into the house."

It seemed that Mrs. Stapleton had come downstairs while I was pondering the bookkeeping disaster on the table.

"My apologies, ma'am. I called out to let you know I was leaving, and was concerned when I didn't get an answer. I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

"Well, I'm not dead yet, if that's what you're waiting for," she replied, sounding for all the world like a petulant teen. As challenging as she was to deal with most of the time, Mrs. Stapleton was downright unbearable when she felt wronged, so I looked for a way to change the subject.

"You know, I'm most of the way through my online accounting degree, and I could really use some hands-on experience if you ever need help reviewing the orchestra's books."

"What makes you think I need your help with that? I'm doing just fine on my own, thank you very much."

"I know, ma'am. But, I'm sure I'd learn a great deal watching an expert like yourself in action."

It would be downright painful to work with Mrs. Stapleton on those books, but I thought she'd be too proud to accept my offer of help.

"I suppose that would be acceptable, but I won't pay you for your time."

"Of course, ma'am. It will be reward enough just to watch and learn."

CHAPTER 4

Charlotte

"Where in the name of all that is good and holy are my suits?"

If I were braver, I might have answered, "At the dry cleaners where you left them." But I wasn't brave at all, and my father didn't come factory-equipped with a sense of humor, especially when he was angry. I was also pretty sure the question was rhetorical, but you could never be sure with him.

To date, Operation "Fire Luisa Because Someone has to Take the Blame" had been less than a rousing success. We'd already cycled through three temporary replacements (and two temp agencies), and it was becoming abundantly clear that few, if any, people (let alone housekeepers) had both the temperament and willingness to go the extra mile to meet my parents' unreasonable demands.

Unfortunately, my father wasn't the kind of man to revisit a decision once he'd made it, no matter how disastrous the consequences. But I thought that maybe I could save him from himself.

"Dad, do you remember the guy who rescued Sasha from the Pond a few weeks ago?"

"What about him?"

"I stopped by Mrs. Stapleton's last week to say, 'Thank you,' and to see what we could do to show our appreciation, but he wouldn't accept a reward. While we were talking, I happened to mention Luisa, and he said that the best way to recognize what he had done would be for Luisa not to lose her job."

"Why would he do that? Is he related to her or something?"

"I don't think so. He just felt bad for her."

"You see, that's why poor people stay poor. He could have asked us for anything--for money, for a better job, for a car--but instead, he wastes our goodwill on someone he doesn't even know."

"I told him that you're a man of principle who never goes back on his word, and that you wouldn't change your mind. But I also told him that we were very grateful to him, and the least I could do was ask. And Luisa always remembered to pick up your dry cleaning on time."

I held my breath as his obstinacy and blatant self-interest battled for dominance. Blatant self-interest must have triumphed in the end, since he responded in that patronizing tone he uses when granting one of his employees (or family members) an indulgence.

"We can hire her back, but only if she gives me a formal letter of apology."

I was already composing that letter in my head. It wasn't a perfect solution, and heaven knows Luisa shouldn't have been the one to apologize, but it was the best I could expect from my father.

As I turned to head back to my room, my mother passed me on her way to the kitchen. I could already smell the vodka on her breath, and it wasn't even eight thirty in the morning. She whispered under her breath, "Give her a two-dollar-an-hour raise if she'll come back, god knows she's earned it."

******

Later that week, I made a return visit to Adnan. I told myself he'd want to hear the good news about Luisa, but I knew that was just an excuse. For some reason, I felt compelled to show him that my family wasn't all like my father. Seeing his smile (and his broad shoulders) again wouldn't be the worst thing in the world either.

When I arrived, he was installing the pipes for the waterfall feature he'd been working on the previous week. It took a surprising amount of effort to create a closed system that pumped water fifty feet up the hillside, only to have it splash back down into a pool. It was the Sisyphus of water features, but at least Mrs. Stapleton's back garden wasn't the underworld.

I couldn't help but gawk at Adnan's hard, muscular body as he lifted rocks into the faux streambed. I figured he must have earbuds in because he didn't seem to hear me approach, but he jumped half out of his skin when I broke the silence to say, "Hi."

"You shouldn't sneak up on a guy like that; you could have given me a heart attack."

"I wasn't exactly sneaking, so I figured you must have earbuds in."

"Mrs. Stapleton doesn't let me wear headphones while I work. It's part of what gives this job its unique charm."

"That must make for long and boring days."

"Yes and no. I spend my time thinking up and solving math problems. It's a good discipline to work on them in my head before writing them out."

I briefly wondered what someone who could do complex math in their head was doing working as a gardener for Mrs. Stapleton, before forging ahead with the original purpose of my visit.

"I just wanted to let you know that we rehired Luisa this morning. It took a week, but you got what you asked for."

Adnan leaned on the handle of the shovel as he smiled at me.

"Let me guess, no one else could stand working for your family?"

"That's not true! It's my father that no one can work with; the rest of us aren't that bad. Except for my mother when she's been drinking, but we all get obnoxious when we're drunk."

"You know that being drunk isn't an excuse to treat people poorly, right?"

"Listen to you, Mr. High-and-Mighty. I guess you've never done anything stupid while under the influence."

Adnan got a distant look on his face.

"No. I've done plenty of stupid things when I was drunk--inexcusable things even. Things I can never take back or undo."

I didn't know what to make of his confession.

"No offense, but you don't really look old enough to have done inexcusable things."

"I'm twenty-one this year, and I haven't had a drink in over four years. Not since my father's funeral."

"My condolences again on your loss."

Adnan's mouth quirked upwards into a thin, pained smile.

"It's more your loss than mine. My dad was... he was an exceptional man. He was a poet. I thought everyone loved their partner like he loved my mother because that was all I ever saw while growing up, and she returned his love tenfold. As I got older, though, I realized how rare and beautiful what they shared truly was."

"He sounds like a great man."

"Looking back, I know he was. When I was a teenager, though, I fought with him constantly and stayed out all night drinking and carrying on. I was sure I had the world all figured out, and that he just didn't understand. You've got to love the narcissism of youth."

"But now you're old and mature?"

"Something like that. Or maybe it's just that my family is relying on me now, so I skipped directly from the narcissism of youth to the cynicism of the elderly."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"You're hardly an old man."

He smiled and then hunched over his shovel like a walking stick.

"Run along now, you young whippersnapper. Your elders need to get back to work. And I'm glad that Luisa got her job back. That's a good thing you did."

I felt a strange warmth at Adnan's compliment, a feeling which I hardly recognized since I had only a passing acquaintance with pride at that time. I heard the rumble of the garage door from the house, signaling Mrs. Stapleton's return, which was my cue to leave.

"It's been nice talking with you. Maybe we could meet up for a coffee sometime?"

"I drink coffee every morning at seven, sitting on the tailgate of my truck, before I start work. I wouldn't be opposed to some company now and then. If it would make you happy."

I smiled as I turned to walk away. It just might make me happy at that.

******

Over the coming weeks, I made a point to stop by Mrs. Stapleton's just before seven each morning to share a coffee with Adnan. He was very different from the guys I hung out with in high school or college. He was less than two years older than me, but there was a maturity and calmness about him that I found comforting. It might sound trite to those of you who grew up in happy families, but he made me feel safe, like I could share my thoughts without fear of mockery or anger. And that was a gift.

By the start of August, I was comfortable enough with Adnan to let my guard down and ask the question that had been on my mind for weeks.

"As much as I enjoy our morning coffees, what does a girl have to do to get asked out on a proper date?"

I expected Adnan to smile or make a joke, but instead, he went quiet. After pausing long enough for me to start worrying, he finally responded.

"You know I'm Muslim, right?"

It was a statement, not a question. Over the past weeks, we'd talked about the challenges of growing up as a Muslim in the Midwest, even for someone as white-presenting as him.

"When my dad was still alive, I thought once I grew up, I'd live the American dream. You know, go to college, study mathematics, meet a swimsuit model, fall in love, get married... it wasn't what my mother wanted for me, but Dad was always more laid-back, so I figured there might be a chance. Things changed when he died, and I became the head of our family."

Seeing my brow furrow, he hurriedly continued.

"You might think that's unfair to my mother and that we should look to her as the head of our family now that my father is gone. But it was my mother who first made that pronouncement, with support from my Aunt Mina.

"My mother is very traditional, and in her eyes, the oldest male is the head of the household with no room for debate. So, I became the head of the family and took over my father's business instead of attending college, as I'd planned. It's what was needed and expected of me."

"That hardly seems fair. You were still just a kid."

"Fair or not, it's the way in our culture. It wasn't my choice, but it's my duty to honor my parents and family. My choice doesn't really factor into it one way or the other."

"But what does all this have to do with your not asking me out on a date?"

"It wouldn't be right. I'm promised to someone else. My mother and the elders at the mosque have chosen a match for me."

"What the hell? They can't do that, can they?"

"They can't force us to marry, no, but there's a lot of pressure for us to do it. It would bring dishonor to both our families if I were to reject the match. Since Dad died, my mother's been really struggling. I'm not sure she'd survive the shame if I refused the match."

"What about the girl? Doesn't she have any say in all this?"

"The girl's name is Lejla, and she's one of my closest friends. She's been desperately in love with a boy named Thomas since we were all in grade school together. So, our parents suggested I might be a good match for her because we're friends and because I'm a good Muslim boy. They don't want her to marry a non-believer."

"That sounds terrible."

"It's not great, for sure. She spends a lot of her time crying, and Thomas is equally heartbroken. I'd always pictured my fiancée crying when I proposed to her, but I thought they'd be tears of joy. I've postponed our engagement as long as I can, until I finish my associate's degree in accounting from the community college. Still, I'll be done by the end of December, and then I'll be out of excuses."

"So, I guess going on a date with the dumb blonde girl who gets up at stupid o'clock every morning to drink coffee with you is probably not on the table."

"You're not dumb, Char. Don't run yourself down like that, not even as a joke. And I wish I could ask you out on a real date. Talking with you each morning is the best part of my day."

My cheeks grew warm at the compliment, and I felt a bit light-headed.

"Well, if it's not inappropriate, I'm having a party at my house this weekend while my parents are out of town with my little sister. You'd be welcome to come by if you'd like, you know, just as friends. You could bring Lejla, if you'd like."

He thought for a long moment before replying.

"I'll ask, but I imagine she'll want to spend that time with Thomas. In either case, I'll try to show up after work."

******

One thing you can count on in our neighborhood is that gossip spreads faster than a spray tan in a rainstorm. Although Adnan's stint as a local celebrity was brief, our morning coffees together were still salacious enough to set the housewives' tongues a wagging. I wasn't worried about the rumors until my father sat me down one morning with a serious look on his face.

"Your mother's been hearing rumors that you're spending time with Mrs. Stapleton's gardener. Is that true?"

I tried to stay calm, but inside I was frozen with fear. He clearly knew the answer to his question, and he wasn't pleased at all.

"I've been having coffee with him most mornings before he starts work, but that's all. And he's not a gardener, or at least he won't be one for long. He's finishing up an associate's degree in accounting and will start looking for internships in the fall."

I don't know why I included that last part--there was nothing wrong with being a gardener. At least, I didn't think so. But to my father, gardeners were a different species altogether--part of the genus known as the help. And if you weren't careful, representatives of that genus would start creeping into your house, or worse, your life--and once they took root, they were hard to exterminate. Better, in his view, to make sure they never got established in the first place.

Even Adnan's degree didn't do much to change my father's views of him. For my father, the worth of a degree depended on the institution that awarded it, not on the person who earned it. Degrees from a community college were at the very bottom of his list.

"You need to be smarter about who you choose to spend your time with. What's the point of sending you to a prestigious college if you end up dating a boy like Adnan? Do you think fraternity brothers will still be interested in you once they find out you've been fucking the help?"

"I haven't been 'fucking' anyone, thank you very much! And what do you mean, 'a boy like Adnan'? That man saved Sasha's life!"

My father had the decency to look sheepish for a moment before he looked away.

CHAPTER 5

Adnan

The differences between my one-man company and Uncle Mike's business were too numerous to count. While I worked out of my truck, he operated from a large warehouse near the river, which he owned. His office was on the third floor, with a commanding view of the surrounding industrial park. Once a month, I'd stop by on my way home from work to pay my respects, and it was one of those days. I parked in my usual spot beside the delivery trucks at the back and walked up the rear stairs to his office.

As I entered the small waiting room outside his office, I heard loud voices from inside. After a few minutes, the argument seemed to have run its course, and a red-faced man in a tailored three-piece suit stormed out. He glanced at me as he headed for the door, and his expression was a mix of fear and rage.

"What the fuck are you looking at, punk?"

After a minute, I knocked quietly on my uncle's door, and he told me to come in. An imposing desk, made from dark Bosnian walnut, dominated his office. Its natural grain was polished to a soft shine that shimmered in the late-afternoon sunlight. What had once been a symbol of authority for a magistrate in Sarajevo now served as a reminder for my uncle of a different time and place.

"What was that about?" I asked as my uncle slowly rose from his chair and stepped out from behind his desk.

"Some assholes just don't know when to quit," he said shaking his head. "That man had everything he could ever want or need, but he gambled it all away. He's already lost everything, but he's delusional enough to think that he's just one hot streak away from turning it all around."

"Why is that your problem?"

"It's not. He wanted to borrow money from me 'for his business,' but I know he'd lose it all before the first payment was due. Even if he didn't, I wouldn't want to do business with the men he owes money to already; they are not good people. You know that some of what I do isn't entirely... above board, but the kind of men who lend money to folks like that are something else entirely. They're violent and have no principles.

"For years, they've wanted me to join with them, but I've managed to stay independent so far. But it gets harder every year. And once you join with them, there's no going back."

I didn't know the full scope of my uncle's business holdings, but I knew they were a mixed bag, like his emails. Some, like the warehouse, were completely legitimate. Others operated in what could best be described as legal gray areas. Still others worked in zones considerably darker than gray, but I never asked for details. I didn't really want to know.

Back home, many businesses skirted the law, and our family had done so for generations, going back to the end of the Ottoman Empire. My uncle chose to follow that well-worn path in his new country, but my father did not. On his deathbed, my father made me vow never to work for Uncle Mike or the family business. I knew he'd asked Uncle Mike to make a similar vow. How do you argue with a dying man's last wish?

"What's going to happen to him now?"

"He owes those people a substantial amount of money, and they're beginning to grow impatient. Very impatient. By the time a man like that starts talking to someone like me, he's in desperate trouble. What's worse is that he's put his entire family in jeopardy as well. If he can't pay his debt, it'll be passed on to them.

"But let's not waste any more time on that lost cause. How's my favorite nephew?"

"It's mountaintop to mountaintop for me, Uncle Mike."

"Good to hear it. And tell me about the important stuff. Did you have coffee with your young lady friend this morning?" he asked, a sly smile on his face.

"Yes, Uncle. But nothing will come of it. I'll marry Lejla once I've completed my degree, like I promised."

Uncle Mike waved his hand in the air dismissively.

"Don't listen to the old busybodies who want to arrange your future for you. They don't understand what it is to be young and in love."

"Those old busybodies are your wife and my mother," I replied with a laugh. "Are you going to be the one to tell them that the engagement is off?"

"Me?" Uncle Mike replied with a comically exaggerated look of horror on his face. "I value my life more than that."

"Speaking of those busybodies, it's about time for us to be heading home. Why don't you grab that newspaper from my desk? There's an article in it that might interest your brother."

I knew what I would find inside the paper. After my father died, we were on the verge of losing our apartment. I never mentioned it to my uncle, but I found a plain white envelope filled with ten crisp hundred-dollar bills on the seat of my truck the following Friday after prayers at the mosque. I took my vow to my father seriously, however, and I wasn't going to accept the money until Uncle Mike convinced me otherwise.

"It would have been Sam's birthday last week, Adnan. I believe he would have grown into a fine man, but who can really know? Like my father, I taught him to be strong and self-reliant--that a man must solve his own problems and never depend on others. If I had taught him differently, would he have called out for help before it was too late?

"My son's dead because of my stubbornness. I know that we both made vows to your father, but he also made a vow to me. He promised to watch over my Samir until I can join them in the next life. And I will look after you and your family in this one.

"You're an honorable boy, Adnan. I understand it's important for you to keep your vow to your father. But let me set mine aside, just for a little while, until you're back on solid ground. I'll beg forgiveness when I see my little brother again in the next life."

******

Despite my misgivings, my mind kept returning to Charlotte's party. I knew I'd be desperately out of place among her wealthy friends, but in the end, I couldn't stay away. While honor and duty demanded that I ignore my growing feelings for her, my heart wouldn't be swayed. I'd spent most of the early evening helping Mrs. Stapleton sort through the orchestra's financials, however, so I arrived at Charlotte's place later than I would have liked.

Most of the people at the party were in their late teens or early twenties. They seemed very young, even though I was only a year or two older than most of them. I recognized a couple of faces from around the neighborhood and nodded to them. Not that I thought they'd remember me--the help just blended into the background of their day-to-day lives--but it seemed like the polite thing to do.

After wandering through the crowd for a few minutes, I found Charlotte in a family room at the back of the house. She was wearing a sunflower-yellow sundress and was leaning against the wall, talking to a preppy-looking guy who seemed like he'd just spent the day on his yacht. In this crowd, maybe he had.

A pang of jealousy made me flinch and look away. I chided myself for being a hypocrite. In a few months, I'd be engaged to a childhood friend, and here I was, jealous of Charlotte having a conversation. Hypocrite or not, I had a sudden strong urge to be anywhere but in that room. I didn't want to just turn around and leave, though, so I leaned back against the wall and looked anywhere except at Charlotte.

Wealthy people seemed to go one of two ways when decorating their homes. Some, like my Aunt Mina, purchased simple but high-quality furniture, ensuring that each piece was both comfortable and functional. Charlotte's parents had taken the opposite approach, however. Their furniture looked like works of art, made from expensive leathers paired with exotic woods. Comfort was not a key consideration.

The centerpiece of the room was an austere portrait of a middle-aged man, proudly displayed above the mantelpiece. Carefully ensconced lighting ensured that every nuance of the painting was illuminated. The man in the picture looked familiar, but I couldn't place him.

After another minute spent awkwardly scanning the crowd, I slipped out to the back patio for some fresh air. I walked past several high-end patio sets and an outdoor dining area before reaching a fire pit surrounded by logs and low benches. I sat down and picked up an old guitar that someone had left propped against one of the benches and tuned it while I looked out over the Pond. My mind wandered while I plucked a few chords. The guitar's mellow tone reminded me of my father.

When I was a child, my father had explained to me that music and math were the twin languages in which the world was written. Math was the language of the earth, while music was the language of the stars. He would sing sevdalinka--love ballads from the old country--to my mother at night, after my brother and sister were in bed. Her favorite was "Emina," and I started to play it softly as I remembered his voice.

The narrator in the song is a young man who sees a beautiful girl named Emina as she waters her roses. He is captivated by her beauty and grace, but is too shy to approach her, so he longs for her in silence. Later that night, he can't sleep because her image is burned into his memory.

"That's beautiful."

I glanced behind me and saw Charlotte standing alone, seeming almost to glow in the last rays of the setting sun.

"Thank you. My father used to sing that song to my mother when I was young. I haven't sung it since he passed away. It just didn't seem right somehow."

Charlotte took a seat beside me on the low bench. I was painfully aware of her arm, just inches from my own.

"It sounds like your father was a romantic."

"I don't know if he was romantic or just deeply in love with my mom. When he worked at the museum back home, he would name flowers he discovered after her. He called a rare fruit he discovered, jagodica or 'little strawberry,' one of his pet names for her."

"If it's not too personal, how did your father die?"

"He died from pleural mesothelioma, a cancer caused by asbestos exposure that affects the lining of the lungs. The insulation in the greenhouse at the museum where my father worked was very old, and we later learned it was made from asbestos. He lasted less than six months after his diagnosis. He must have been in agony for months, if not years, before he went to the doctor, but for the men in my family, showing pain is a sign of weakness."

"I'm very sorry."

"So am I. I have many regrets. I disrespected and fought with him throughout my teens, staying out late and coming home drunk or stoned. I was such a disappointment to him."

"I'm sure he would be proud of you now."

"How does that expression go, 'There's no use closing the barn door after the horse has bolted'? It doesn't matter what I do now; my father will never see it."

We sat in silence for a while longer before Charlotte put her arm around me and rested her head on my shoulder.

"What other songs did your father teach you?"

CHAPTER 6

Charlotte

Despite what you see in the movies, life in a sorority is not all fun and games. The week before Rush, for example, is spent cleaning and decorating our sorority house, as well as reviewing Potential New Member (PNM) profiles. As one of the oldest and most prestigious sororities in the country, we often had ten PNMs for each available spot, so we could afford to be very selective.

Our preparation week was less strenuous than many, however, because most of the menial tasks were assigned to girls I didn't recognize, who wore highly unflattering brown uniforms. Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me, and I asked our Membership Chair, Cindy Chalmers, about them.

Those are the 'Try-Hards.' Every year, we receive dozens of inquiries from girls who would do almost anything to join our sorority. Some come from wealthy and well-connected families. They get a little extra attention before Rush Week begins. We also invite a few girls who aren't ideal candidates to join our voluntary pre-recruitment program. We give them those ugly brown uniforms and then assign them to all our toughest jobs.

"That hardly seems fair."

"Did you want to spit-polish the toilets to get ready for Rush Week? I didn't think so. It's not all work--they also participate in a few fun games and competitions, where they try to impress us. It gives us a chance to continue some of our more risqué Rush Week traditions without offending any of the PNMs we're really interested in."

"Do any of them actually make it into the sorority?"

Cindy gave a condescending laugh.

If we didn't accept at least one Try-Hard every year, word would spread, and no one would want to be a Try-Hard the next year. Also, letting one in each year means that if any girls who aren't accepted try to cause trouble, it just looks like sour grapes because they weren't chosen.

"But don't worry. If any of the Try-Hards don't like what they're doing, they're free to leave at any time."

******

Maybe my time spent with Adnan over the summer had changed me more than I thought, because I was very uncomfortable with the way that the rest of my sisters treated the Try-Hards. Some of the games they played were fun, but others seemed needlessly cruel and mean-spirited. I'm embarrassed to admit that I went along with most of the week's activities, despite my misgivings.

That changed, however, on Thursday evening.

It had been a long day, and I knew the sisters had taken the Try-Hards to the basement for their latest game, so I was surprised to hear someone sobbing as I passed by the showers. I went to investigate and found one of the Try-Hards on her hands and knees, scrubbing the tiles with a toothbrush.

"What are you doing up here? Aren't you supposed to be downstairs with the others?"

The girl looked up at me and began sobbing in earnest. I pulled her close and did my best to comfort her. Once she'd calmed down enough to speak, she told me what was going on.

"Cindy and the other upper-year sisters came to collect us for the games this evening, and told us that the theme of the night was 'how low can you go?'"

I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"I thought we might play some of those silly games like we used to at birthday parties when we were kids. That would have been embarrassing enough, but this was worse. Most of the games had to do with... sex, and how far you could... well..."

She couldn't finish and looked away in embarrassment.

"I've never done any of that stuff, and I want my first time to be with someone special, not... They said that if I didn't play the games, I had to clean the showers... with my toothbrush."

I didn't really know what to say. I hadn't been asked to do anything like that when I applied the previous year.

"What's your name?"

"It's Robyn."

"Well, Robyn. I don't know why Cindy made you do this, but I'm not letting you do it alone. I'll be back in a minute."

I came back with a mop, bucket, and a more appropriately sized scrub brush.

"I'm not senior enough to overrule Cindy, but she didn't say anything about your having to clean this place alone. So, let's get this shit done and get out of here."

Even with two of us working, it still took us the better part of an hour to finish, but Robyn's spirits seemed to have improved immeasurably. I learned more about Robyn as we cleaned.

"I grew up not far from campus. My parents own a maker's market and an art gallery downtown. I'm going to be a double major in Data Science and Informatics.

"Jesus, I'm cleaning the showers with a nerd!" I said, my smile taking the sting out of my words. "But seriously, that's impressive. Not to knock my sisters, but with that kind of brainpower, why do you want to join our sorority so badly? Academics isn't really our thing."

Robyn blushed so hard that her hair follicles seemed to turn red before she mumbled a reply.

"Sorry, I didn't hear that," I said, although I was pretty sure she'd said a guy's name. She mumbled the name a little louder, and I shook my head.

"Of course, it's because of a guy. What else could make a practical and responsible girl like you agree to scrub a disgusting shower with a toothbrush? But at least you've got good taste. Danny Simpson is fine as fuck, and from what I saw of him last year, he's a good guy too. But why him, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I've known Danny since fourth grade. He was in fifth grade, an older boy, and I thought he was very handsome. One day, the mean girls in my class decided it was 'pick on the new girl' day at recess, and I was about to cry. Danny stepped in and put those girls in their place, and I've been crushing on him ever since.

"I don't think he even knew I existed in high school, but now he's at this college and in our brother fraternity. I... I know it's silly, but I thought that if I could get into this sorority, I'd get to spend some time with him at mixers and events."

"Or, and I know this might sound crazy, you could just look him up on social media and ask him out. Doing our stupid volunteer week seems like a lot of effort for a guy that you barely even know."

"I know. My mom thinks I should just focus on my academics, but I just can't seem to let it go. I don't want to be the weird stalker girl who just happens to show up wherever Danny is, so I thought this would be a harmless way to try to get him out of my system. Instead, I'm humiliating myself in front of a bunch of rich girls for the privilege of being told my family's not good enough and I'm not pretty enough for your sorority."

We worked silently together until we finished cleaning the room. I tried to think of something positive to say to Robyn to lift her spirits, but nothing came to mind. She seemed to have a pretty clear view of reality.

"Well, you'll get at least one chance to socialize with Danny. We're going to an unofficial mixer with our brother fraternity tomorrow night, before Rush Week officially starts. I'm pretty sure he'll be there."

Robyn looked both terrified and exhilarated as I left her outside her room. I hoped she wasn't setting herself up for disappointment.

******

Friday night marked the end of our prep week, and the Try-Hards were finally allowed to change out of their ugly brown uniforms and into outfits that the sisters had chosen for them, which were as revealing as possible. Most of the Try-Hards looked ready for a night out at a club, except for Robyn. Even though they dressed her in the most revealing clothes she'd brought with her, she still would have passed muster at a church social.

Although underage drinking was strictly forbidden on campus, everyone was encouraged to try the 'funtastic' punch at the pre-party. Even Robyn had a glass or two of the spiked punch, and her cheeks were flushed by the time she got on the bus to the mixer, which was being held off campus at a cottage. I made sure to sit beside her to see how she was holding up.

"I don't feel so good, Char."

Frankly, she didn't look so good either.

"How many glasses of the 'funtastic' punch did you have before we left?"

She looked sheepish.

"Only two, but... I've never had anything to drink before. Whatever's in there is hitting me hard."

That was worrisome. I knew my sisters had spiked the punch to within an inch of its life, so I imagined that Robyn was feeling no pain.

"Okay, make sure you only drink water when we get there. Some of the older sisters have built up quite a tolerance, so don't try to drink like they do."

Robyn closed her eyes and leaned her head against my shoulder. I woke her up when we arrived at what was more like a mansion with river access than a cottage. My house was large, but this place had actual wings and the saltwater pool in back was damn near Olympic-sized.

Some of the frat brothers came out to meet us and led everyone through to the back deck, where the music was loud and the drinks were flowing. There were several kegs of beer and ice tubs filled with coolers, along with some warm flats of water and soft drinks, tucked away against one of the walls.

I kept an eye on Robyn as the party really got going. She spent most of her time hanging out near Danny, who was only drinking soft drinks, but the other brothers kept trying to ply her with alcohol. Eventually, she gave in to the pressure and accepted a cooler, which she drank much too quickly. I decided that she needed a good wing-woman more than she needed liquid courage, so I took her by the hand and made our move.

"Hi, you must be Danny. I'm Charlotte, and this is Robyn. She was just saying that the two of you went to the same high school. What a coincidence for you to meet up again at a party like this. Robyn is a potential new member of our sorority, and she's been helping us around the house all week."

Danny seemed to remember Robyn from high school, and they spent the next few minutes reminiscing about teachers they had in common. Danny had a smile on his face and seemed genuinely interested in Robyn. Figuring that my work was done, I wandered down towards the river to escape the noise. I was reminded of the evening I spent with Adnan in my backyard, listening to him sing love songs in a language I didn't understand. I made my way onto the dock, took off my shoes, and dangled my feet in the river.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing sitting all by yourself?"

I looked up to see Robyn's friend Danny standing over me, holding a couple of soft drinks.

"I noticed you weren't drinking, so I thought I would bring you a pop," he said as he sat down beside me. "Are you having a good time tonight?"

I could see why Robyn was so infatuated; he really was a very handsome man.

"Sure, this is an amazing house, and it's always fun to let my hair down for a night. But if I'm honest, the whole party lifestyle isn't that appealing to me anymore. I think I grew up a bit over the summer."

"I hear you; this isn't really my scene either. That's one of the reasons I was surprised to see your friend Robyn here. I wouldn't have pegged her as a party girl, but I guess the smart ones need to unwind just as much as us lesser mortals."

As Robyn's self-declared wing-woman, this seemed like the time to put in a good word for her.

"Truth? She isn't really into this stuff at all. But there is one boy she liked back in high school, who is a member of this fraternity, whom she's been into for a long time. She worked all week at the sorority on the off chance that she might get to see him."

Danny broke into a smile before slowly shifting to an expression of concern.

"I'm flattered, and she seems like a sweet girl, but I wish I had met her someplace else; anywhere else, really."

"Why is that?"

"Maybe your sisters didn't tell you, but this mixer is kind of... notorious. Every year, some PNMs from good families won't make it into the fraternity. The brothers try to give them at least a taste of Greek life, so they host this mixer each year. The Try-Hards are part of that package. No one is forced to do anything they don't want to, of course, but with the alcohol, dancing, and pressures of Rush Week coming up, most end up hooking up before the night is over."

I couldn't hide my revulsion. To his credit, Danny looked equally disgusted.

"And you just let this happen? You're okay with this?"

"And you're so much better, getting the Try-Hards all tarted up before throwing them into the lion's den? How many drinks did you have to give Robyn before she was willing to come here with you tonight?"

He was right. I felt like shit, and I realized I should never have left Robyn alone. Then it hit me, if Danny was here, where was she?

CHAPTER 7

Adnan

I leaned back and stretched my arms behind me until I heard a satisfying crack. Earlier in the evening, I had said Isha, the night prayer, with my mother, and then I had spent the last hour trying to catch up on the readings for my Strategic Cost Management course.

I wasn't particularly devout, but since my father passed away, I joined my mother in prayer as often as I could. As the head of the family, it was expected that I would lead our prayers, and I did my best to be a dutiful son. I hoped it brought my mother some comfort, even if the words sometimes rang hollow to me.

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Seeing that the call was from Charlotte, I answered.

"Adnan, thank goodness," Charlotte said, sounding out of breath.

"I'm sorry I haven't called in a while, I... I don't have an excuse, but I really need your help. One of the girls in my sorority has had way too much to drink, and I'm worried she might have alcohol poisoning. Is there any way you could pick us up?"

"If she has alcohol poisoning, you need to call an ambulance and get her to a hospital."

"I know I should, but it's complicated. It would be better for everyone if we could get her out of here quietly without the attention that an ambulance would attract."

"Better for whom, Char? Better for your sorority, so you don't get in trouble for underage drinking? Better for you? Or better for her? Why don't you call a cab or a rideshare then, if it's really for the best?"

"We're at a cottage by the river, so there aren't any taxis or ride-shares, and we took a bus so no one would have to drive home. Please, Adnan."

Thirty-five minutes later, I was turning off a side road and driving through a wrought-iron archway onto a long, circular driveway. Just before I got to the mansion at the end, I saw three figures by the side of the road. Charlotte and a tall, preppy-looking guy were supporting a shorter girl between them, and they staggered over to my truck.

"Thanks for coming, Adnan. I really appreciate it. This is my friend Robyn, and this is Danny. She's had too much to drink and isn't looking too good. Could you please take us back to the sorority house so she can sleep it off?"

Charlotte was helping Robyn into the truck while the fellow looked on with what appeared to be genuine concern.

"Can you please let me know if she's alright?"

"I can do that," Charlotte replied. "Can you let my sisters know I've taken Robyn home and that we won't be back?"

"They won't like that very much, but I'll do my best to smooth things over."

"Well, they'd like it even less if she died of alcohol poisoning now, wouldn't they?" Charlotte said as she pulled the passenger door closed.

I had decidedly mixed emotions. Jealousy toward this guy, who clearly knew Charlotte and had spent time with her, anger that these people would waste their chance to go to college on drinking and partying, and impatience to get away from there. It was late, and unlike Charlotte and her friends, I had spent most of the day working in the late-August heat.

As I drove, I took a closer look at Robyn, who had passed out and was leaning against Charlotte's shoulder. I didn't like what I saw: her skin was pallid, but her cheeks were flushed, and I worried she might vomit all over the truck, or worse. As we pulled back onto the side road, I made a decision.

"We're taking her to the emergency room," I said as I picked up speed.

"I'm not sure she's that bad. Couldn't we take her back to the sorority instead? I'll wait up with her to make sure she's alright."

I understood why Charlotte might not want to take Robyn to the emergency room. Depending on the severity of the situation, the hospital would almost certainly try to contact Robyn's parents, even though at 18, she was considered an adult. If they did, it could have serious consequences for the sorority.

"I don't think so, Charlotte," I said as gently as I could.

"Think about the risks. If we bring Robyn back to the sorority and she needs medical help, it could have serious consequences for everyone involved. If we take her to the hospital, we know she'll be safe, and I think her right to medical privacy should outweigh the obligation to report what happened to the police.

"I know firsthand what tragedy can do to a person and a family. Trust me, it's not worth it."

******

By my mid-morning break the next day, I was really dragging. It was well past 2 AM when I left the hospital, and I got less than three hours of sleep before heading to Mrs. Stapleton's for work. I leaned against a tree to escape the sun and called Charlotte to see how things went at the hospital.

"Things went about as expected. The hospital didn't call Charlotte's parents when she arrived, but she called them herself after waking up this morning. After their reaction when they saw her, I don't think she'll be joining the sorority, but that's just as well; she's way too smart to waste her time partying with us."

"It seems like a shame that she wasted a week on the sorority, with nothing to show for it."

Charlotte let out a small laugh as she replied.

"I wouldn't say she has nothing to show for it. The whole reason she was trying to get into the sorority was to spend time with Danny Simpson, and who should show up at the hospital this morning with some flowers? None other than Danny himself. They were chatting and laughing together when her parents left."

There was a pause before Charlotte continued.

"I wanted to say thank you for last night. Rescuing my family and friends seems to be a habit for you."

Despite my exhaustion, that made me smile.

"I'm glad you called me, too. I'd do almost anything to keep the people I care about safe."

"Ah, you care about me," Charlotte teased. I was going to return her teasing in kind, but a large German SUV pulled into Mrs. Stapleton's driveway.

"I've gotta go. Have a good first week of classes."

As I disconnected, a tall, older man got out of the SUV and started towards the front door. He was wearing a conservative, navy-blue suit and a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on his patrician nose. Partway there, he stopped and looked over at me.

"Are you the young man who's been 'learning' from Mrs. Stapleton about the orchestra's finances?"

I immediately wondered what she might have said to this man about my work. While I wasn't yet an accountant, the last thing I wanted was for her to be criticizing my efforts to folks who might be future clients or employers.

"Yes, I'm the one who's been working with. Between the two of us, I think that they are now in decent shape."

The man's mouth quirked into a ghost of a smile, and he walked towards the flower bed I'd been working on.

"They are in better than decent shape for the first time since she took over as chair of the Finance and Audit Committee, which is quite an achievement. I've had a roster of junior accountants from my firm trying to work with her on them, without any luck. I'd love to know the secret of your success."

I had to laugh as I replied.

"The secret is that I don't have a secret. I'm not helping her; she's helping me learn from her wisdom and experience. But I'm a little slow, so sometimes things don't get done the way she might have done them herself. Sometimes she notices, but most of the time she just pushes right on ahead."

The man looked thoughtful and then extended his hand. The polite thing would have been to shake it, but I'd just been spreading manure, so I figured hygiene might take precedence over manners.

"My apologies, but I'm not sure you want to get what's on my hands right now on yours."

The man laughed but let his hand drop.

"I'm William Shuster, managing partner of Shuster and Associates. We offer accounting and tax planning services to a select group of high-net-worth individuals and families. Your ability to gently steer clients, such as Mrs. Stapleton, away from some of their more unusual accounting practices would be very valuable to our firm. She mentioned you are working on an accounting degree?"

"I'm finishing my last three credits this term and will be done by the end of December."

"I'm guessing your gardening workload will lighten in the fall. Would you be interested in interning with us and then starting as a full-time junior associate in the new year?"

CHAPTER 8

Charlotte

The beginning of my sophomore year was a testament to Murphy's Law--anything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

Although Robyn and her parents decided not to file an official report about what happened at the cottage party, the news still reached the college's administration, prompting an investigation. This investigation, in turn, resulted in our sorority and brother fraternity being put on probation, and we were warned that further violations could lead to the suspension of our charters for the rest of the year. The threat of additional disciplinary action discouraged many PNMs from joining, and our recruiting class ended up being the weakest in years.

I was surprised not to see Robyn during Rush Week, so I reached out to her and we met for coffee.

"I learned my lesson, Charlotte. I don't think that sororities are for me. And my mother would lose her mind if I tried to join one after what happened."

"Selfishly, I'm sorry to hear that. I would have liked the opportunity to get to know you better. But we can still be friends. I just feel bad that you wasted your time helping around the sorority house last week, when you could've been enjoying your last week of summer. At least you and Danny seemed to be getting along well when I left you at the hospital."

She blushed self-consciously before replying.

"Danny offered to drive me back to campus once I was discharged. That drive turned into coffee, which became lunch, then dinner, and eventually midnight snacks and breakfast."

"Good for you! That's what I like to hear. I expect to get an invitation to the wedding."

That bit of good news was the only bright spot during some otherwise bleak weeks. Like my family back home, the sorority needed a scapegoat to blame for its fall from grace. During Rush Week, there were whispers that Robyn hadn't been that drunk and that I should have just taken her back to the sorority house to sleep it off instead of taking her to the hospital.

By the end of Rush Week, I'd become a pariah among my sisters. They didn't have an excuse to force me out of the sorority; in fact, my decision to take Robyn to the hospital was praised in the investigation report, and it was part of the reason why our charter wasn't revoked. Still, my sisters made it clear that I was no longer needed or welcome. I knew the situation wasn't sustainable in the long term, but I decided to try to get through the semester before making any changes.

I lasted until mid-October, before things fell apart.

******

It started with a phone call, late on a Sunday night. I answered on the fourth ring, still groggy with sleep, and heard my sister sobbing.

"What's wrong, Sasha?"

"It's Dad. He's gone. He took everything and just left."

"What do you mean he just left? Did you call the police? Maybe something happened to him?"

I didn't want to consider that possibility, but I knew it was an option.

"I'm pretty sure he wasn't kidnapped if that's what you're thinking, because his stupid portrait is missing from the family room. Is there anyone else on the planet who would want that ugly-ass painting?"

She had a good point; I couldn't see there being much demand for 'Portrait of a Self-Important Mid-Westerner' in the market for stolen art.

"Have you tried calling him?"

"Of course I have, but his number's been disconnected."

"Shit. How's Mom?"

"How do you think? We just got home an hour ago, and she's already drunk and getting drunker. I'm really worried about her. Can you come home?"

I was coming up to midterms, but family came first.

"Let me pack my things, and I'll be home in a couple of hours. Try to keep Mom away from her pills until I get there, if you can."

******

The next few weeks unfolded like a slow-motion car crash. The initial impact was bad enough, but it was clear that worse was still to come.

When I first got home, I was overwhelmed with fear and indecision. My father had always managed our family's finances, and I had no idea how to start untangling the mess he left behind. I couldn't eat or sleep; I just paced and stared at the ceiling. My mother was no help. I was pretty sure she was having a nervous breakdown, but it wasn't easy to tell with how much she was self-medicating.

Life moves forward, though, even when you're utterly unprepared to deal with it.

Less than 48 hours after my sister's call, notices started arriving at the house. Our mortgage was overdue, and our car loan payments were several months behind. When I finally persuaded Mom to go with me to the bank, we discovered that my father had emptied the joint account and cashed in his investments. The only money left was in my mother's retirement account, and if not for a suspicious teller, he would have taken that too.

We were so far underwater financially that we could barely see the light from the surface. I took an emergency leave of absence from college to try to sort things out, but I didn't even know where to begin. It all just seemed so overwhelming. So, I called the only person I could think of who knew anything about finances.

Adnan quickly assessed our situation and then gave us the grim news.

"I still don't know everything, and there might be more landmines out there waiting to be stepped on, but what I've found so far is bad enough. Your father took everything when he left, including your college funds, and there's almost no equity left in the house, so you will almost certainly have to sell it before the banks force a sale. The cars will be repossessed after the next missed payment, so you'll have a decision to make there as well.

"His company isn't going to be any help either. He drained their cash reserves, and if I'm not mistaken, they'll have to file for bankruptcy. He even raided their 401(k) plan before leaving. Anything you get from selling its remaining assets will be claimed by its many creditors."

"Jesus, his poor employees. Is there any good news at all?"

"A little bit? I don't see how things can get any worse than they are already."

******

After that initial wave of bad news, my life became an exercise in crisis management. Brutal decisions needed to be made about our finances, and Mom was in no shape to make them. Sasha was too young to be of any help, so it all came down to me, with Adnan's advice.

We voluntarily surrendered our cars before they could be repossessed. We found out there was a second mortgage on the house, and both mortgages were nearly in default. We used some of our remaining funds to catch up on them before listing our home for sale.

In better days, my mother would have handled the sale of the house herself, but she was paralyzed with grief and shame, which drove her further into her addictions. It all came to a head for her when she was hospitalized twice in early December. With support from the brokerage where she worked, we used most of our remaining funds to get her into an inpatient treatment program. I prayed that it would work, since we wouldn't be able to afford a second attempt if it didn't succeed the first time.

Since my father had drained my college fund, I wouldn't be able to return to school after my leave of absence, and my former sorority revoked my membership as quickly as decorum allowed. I knew we couldn't cover the monthly tuition for my sister at her private school either, so she had to transfer to the public school to finish the year.

With the house up for sale, Sasha and I moved into a small two-bedroom apartment that Adnan helped us find, and we used most of our remaining funds to pay for the first and last months' rent.

Sasha was struggling with all the changes in her life. Not three months earlier, she'd been living a life of luxury, and her biggest worry was how to coax more shopping money from our father. Now, she was living paycheck to paycheck with her sister in an apartment smaller than her old bedroom. I knew she needed professional help, but we couldn't afford it while Mom was in treatment.

It was only my friendship with Robyn that kept us afloat, as she persuaded her parents to hire me as a sales associate at their maker's market and art gallery. The irony wasn't lost on me: before my father left, I would've looked down on people who worked retail for a living, but now Robyn's family's kindness was the only thing stopping my sister and me from ending up on the streets.

******

The final indignity arrived right before Christmas when two clean-shaven, businesslike men knocked on our door. I was afraid to answer, but they said they had information about my father that we would want to hear, so I opened the door a crack, with the chain still on.

"Your father owes a lot of money to our employer, and now that he's left town, you and your family are responsible for paying his debt. To be clear, this isn't something that can be dealt with through bankruptcy."

My stomach clenched as they told me how much he owed and that it was due before the end of the year. I searched for any sign of sympathy or kindness in the two men but found none. Outwardly, they seemed calm and professional, but a hardness in their expressions and the lines around their eyes hinted at the violence lurking just beneath the surface.

CHAPTER 9

Adnan

It was strange, sitting in the coffee shop waiting for Lejla to arrive. Over the past few months, my life had been slowly getting easier, while everything around me seemed to be falling apart. I'd graduated with my associate's degree in accounting, and my work with Shuster and Associates was going well. They'd already offered me a full-time position starting in the new year. At the same time, the completion of my degree meant that I was honor-bound to ask Lejla to marry me, and over the past few months, she'd become increasingly despondent at the prospect.

Things were even more complicated for Charlotte and Sasha. Their father was gone, and their mother was in treatment until sometime in the new year. I'd helped them find an affordable apartment, but for now, they were surviving on Charlotte's salary alone. Things would improve if her mother recovered and could return to work at the real estate brokerage, but that wasn't guaranteed.

What was even more terrifying was the six-figure gambling debt their father had left behind. There was no way they could pay it off, and I was terrified of what would happen if they defaulted. I could only think of one person who might be able to help with the debt, and that was Uncle Mike. I decided to talk to him after I finished with Lejla.

Lejla arrived a few minutes later. As always, she looked stylish but reserved in a long-sleeved blouse paired with a matching hijab and loose trousers. She wore minimal makeup and no visible jewelry but still looked lovely. She smiled at me as I stood and pulled out her chair, but her eyes were bloodshot, and it looked like she'd been crying.

"Selam alejkum (peace be upon you), Adnan. How is your mother? I hope she is well."

"Alejkum selam (peace be upon you too), Lejla. She is well, and how are your mother and father?"

She took a deep breath.

"They're well, Adnan... but they'll be disappointed in me. I can't marry you. I love Thomas. I know how it will look--how much shame it will bring--and I'm sorry. I didn't choose to fall in love, but I did. You are a good man from a good family, and you don't deserve this."

I think Lejla was expecting me to respond with anger or threats. Most men would see her rejection of our engagement as a sign of disrespect to her family, her elders, and herself. But I wasn't blind, and I'd known for a while how Lejla felt about Thomas, so I understood the sacrifice she was willing to make.

"When did you plan to tell your parents?"

"Before the end of the year. They will be devastated."

I closed my eyes. I knew I should focus on Lejla and her decision, but instead, all I could think about was Charlotte. Deep down, I understood that Lejla was making the right choice and that she was braver than I was.

"Will you give me a week before you tell your parents?"

"My feelings aren't going to change in a week. I'm sorry, Adnan. My mind is made up."

I couldn't help but smile.

"I know, Lejla, but maybe I can find a way to do this so that you won't lose your family. Trust me. Give me a week. Please."

Lejla seemed to be wavering between hope and despair, so I shared a story I hoped would calm her heart.

My father met my mother when they were both very young. The first time he saw her, she captured his heart, and he knew she was the one for him. But she was not so easily swayed. My family had a well-earned reputation for skirting close to, if not over, the line in our business dealings. My mother loved my father, but she could not be with a man who wasn't righteous in his heart and honest in his dealings with the world.

"My father courted her for three years, but she wouldn't give in. Finally, he went to his father and older brother and told them that he could no longer be part of the family business; instead, he was going to university. That decision could have torn our family apart; in fact, it nearly did. However, my uncle Mirsad spoke with their father on his behalf, and eventually, our family was made whole again.

"It is difficult, Lejla, but it can be done. Please, let me try."

******

The minutes ticked by as I waited outside Uncle Mike's office. I hadn't told him I was coming, so it was over an hour before he called me in. Eventually, though, he summoned me, and I sat across from him, separated by a vow to my father and a sea of polished walnut.

"Thank you for taking the time to see me, Uncle Mike. I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't important."

He furrowed his brow, but remained silent, allowing me to continue.

"I have a good friend, Charlotte, whose father abandoned her and her family. He drained their accounts and sold all their investments before disappearing, leaving them with nothing but his debts."

"That's awful, but what does that have to do with me?"

"A few days ago, Charlotte and her sister were visited by a couple of men in suits. They explained that their father owed a significant amount of money to their employer, and that the family was now responsible for his debt.

"The men looked very serious, Uncle Mike. I'm worried about what they'll do when Charlotte and Sasha default on the loan. They've got nothing in the bank, and there is nothing left to sell. Their mother is in a substance abuse program, and they don't have any close family they can turn to."

"Again, that is a terrible situation they find themselves in, but how is that relevant to us?"

I had never spoken to Uncle Mike about the family business, but now it was time.

"At the end of summer, I saw Charlotte's father as he was leaving your office. I thought you might have an idea of where he went or how I can protect Charlotte from the men in suits."

Uncle Mike sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

"If her father is Frank Gerson, he isn't a good man. I don't know where he is right now, and if I did, it wouldn't end well for him."

He paused for a moment, as if hesitant to continue.

"The kind of debt that Frank took on isn't just his; it's the responsibility of his entire family. He knew that when he borrowed it. He was a coward to leave his family behind to face the consequences of his foolishness. Unfortunately, repayment of the debt won't be enough anymore. The men he owes will want to discourage others from running from their debts in the future. I'm sorry, Adnan, but you might be best to tell them to leave town as quickly as they can."

"But they're just kids! They don't even have a car. Where would they go?"

"Wherever they go, it will be better for them than staying here. I can try to buy them some time, maybe a day or two, but that's all I can do."

In planning for this meeting, I took stock of everything valuable I owned that I could use to settle the debt. I realized that the only thing close was the value of my future services--that is, myself. Unbidden, I pictured my father's face as he lay dying. I thought of the vow I had sworn to him, that he'd made Uncle Mike swear as well. Then I thought of Charlotte and her sister, so scared and alone in the world.

I looked out over the dark waters and prepared myself to dive in.

"What if I assumed his debt? If they allowed me to pay it back gradually, I could work for you, ensuring they receive their money."

He paused, and his eyes took on a distant look.

"Those girls mean that much to you, Adi? You would break your vow to your father to save them?"

"I would, Amidja (Uncle) Mirsad. I saved Charlotte's sister's life, so you know I am bound by honor, culture, and tradition to protect her. Her family is now my family, and she is my sister by fate. My father was a man of honor. He would have understood."

Uncle Mike sat quietly, watching the light as it danced across his walnut desktop, making it ripple like water. He had no children to carry on the family legacy, but I knew that, for him, family would be almost as good. I made peace with my decision -- for Charlotte and Sasha's sake, I would leave my father's shore, never to return.

"I loved your father, Adi. He was a gentle man, but this world isn't kind to gentle men. When he passed, I vowed to protect you because of my love for him and my love for you. Go home. I'll take care of this debt, and we won't speak of it again."

"This is my debt and my responsibility to..."

Uncle Mike held up his hand, and I fell silent.

"I gave my word to your father. Now go."

******

After leaving Uncle Mike, I drove straight to Lejla's parents' house. I rang the doorbell, and after a brief wait, her mother answered and invited me inside.

"It's nice to see you, Adnan, but Lejla is out right now. Can you come by later? Maybe join us for dinner and prayers?"

"With my apologies, I'm here to speak with you and your husband. If you have the time."

I could see the concern on her face as she called for her husband. When he arrived, I braced myself and then spoke.

"Daidža (uncle), Tetka (aunt), I want to begin by thanking you for the trust you've shown me in considering me for Lejla's future. It means more than I can put into words. That's why I feel I must speak honestly with you both, even if it's difficult.

"I don't feel that I'm ready to be the kind of husband Lejla deserves. I have too much uncertainty in my life right now, and I don't want to dishonor her or your family with a half-hearted commitment. I cannot give her my full heart, and it would be wrong to offer her less than that."

When I finished, Lejla's father replied in a tight, clipped voice.

"Adnan, we respect that you came to us directly with this news. That takes courage, and it demonstrates your respect. But you must understand our disappointment. We welcomed you into our home because we trusted your elders and believed you were ready. If you had doubts, you should have spoken sooner.

"This will bring shame to you both, and to both our families. But you know that Lejla will face the worst of it. Who will want to be with her now that you have rejected her?"

This was now getting at the heart of the matter, but I knew how I had to respond.

"I will go to the mosque on Friday and tell the elders what I have done. I will say to them that the dishonor is all mine, that I'm not worthy of a match like Lejla."

The hard lines in their faces softened, but they still seemed concerned.

"But what about your mother and your aunt? Surely you will bring them great shame as well?"

"Since my father died, I have dedicated my life to my family and to honoring his memory. However, my father loved my mother very deeply. His love for her was written in poetry and the language of the stars. Rarely have I seen a love like theirs. Rarely, but not never.

"Honored Daidza and Tetka, I see that same love in your daughter and Thomas. She would never dishonor you by disobeying your wishes, but she is distraught at the thought of losing him. Her respect and honor for you are so great that she would consider marrying me, despite her love for Thomas, but how would that honor my father's memory?

"Lejla is an impressive and honorable woman, and I believe she would come to love me over time. However, with the utmost humility, I suggest that your family's honor would be better served through a match rooted in the deep love they share."

After a time, Lejla's father sighed.

"Adnan, your father was a humble yet wise man. I had hoped to see some of his wisdom reflected in my grandchildren, but perhaps it will be just as well to see Thomas's love reflected in its place."

CHAPTER 10

Charlotte

"How are you holding up?"

I looked up from the display to see that Robyn had arrived while I was focused on my work. She still lived on campus, but spent part of most weekends helping at her parents' store.

"You know, from mountain top to mountain top. My sister is still upset that she has to go to public school, but she's starting to come around. My mom was released from rehab and has moved in with us. She's working on getting her real estate license reinstated now that she's finished her treatment."

I hadn't told Robyn about the men who had threatened Sasha and me. We had lived in fear for weeks after their visit, waiting for them to come back, but somehow, it seemed like they had backed off from their threat.

It was depressing but hardly surprising how most of my friends disappeared after my family's fall from grace. My former sorority sisters treated me like my tragedy was an infectious disease, and they kept as far away from me as possible. I'm sure my story would become a cautionary tale for them, told around campfires at night, "... and after her father disappeared, they were so broke that they had to buy store-brand shoes!"

Oh, the horror.

Strangely, though, I found that I really enjoyed my job. I particularly liked working with local artisans and artists, spending hours learning about their products so I could pitch them to our customers. I was just grateful for the opportunity Robyn's parents gave me, and I did my best to repay their kindness with hard work. I was the first to volunteer to work on weekends or help with inventory, and I was also the last to leave most nights.

"Mom and Dad told me that you're doing great. They were a little worried at first, but now they're glad that they gave you a chance."

We worked together in companionable silence until it was almost time to open the store. Before she went to the back, Robyn flashed a sly little grin and asked, "So, how are things going with Adnan?"

"We chat now and then, but his family and new job at the accounting firm take up most of his time. I don't think his fiancée is my biggest fan, either."

"That's too bad. He was a real cutie, and even as drunk as I was when I met him, I would have sworn he was in love with you."

"Maybe. But he's now engaged to a woman from his mosque, and he is loyal to a fault."

******

"I think you've got an admirer."

I sighed at my co-worker Sheila's teasing. Of the last three 'admirers' she flagged for me, one turned out to be a stalker, another was old enough to be my father, and the third was a shy husband looking for an anniversary gift for his wife. I looked up and almost didn't recognize Adnan, who was wearing an off-the-rack but very flattering suit, to go with his shy smile.

"Hi, Char. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd drop by to see how you're doing. Hope that's okay."

"You're looking very well put together," I responded. Realizing it was a bit of a non-sequitur, I quickly added, "And of course it's alright, it's always nice to see you."

Adnan took a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I started full-time at the accounting firm last month. They aren't so big on jeans or T-shirts, so I'm slowly trying to build out my wardrobe."

"Lejla must be thrilled," I said, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice.

"Lejla and I are no longer together. In our tradition, we don't have fairy tales about beautiful princesses falling in love and being swept off their feet. Instead, our stories tell of obedient children who submit to their parents' will. But life isn't a fairy tale. Lejla loves someone else, and if I'm honest, so do I."

"But what will happen with you and Lejla? I'm assuming her old boyfriend isn't any more Muslim or less liberal than he was six months ago."

"There was no way for Lejla to end our engagement without bringing shame to her family and ruining her reputation. But I could. Her family was rightfully angry, but not with her. The engagement was over, and their reputation stayed intact, which was about as much as I could hope for. Of course, there was gossip at the mosque, but most of it blamed me, which was how I wanted it."

"And how are you doing?"

"My mom was disappointed, but it ended okay, I guess. If anything, the other women at the mosque feel sorry for my mom for being cursed with such an unreliable son, but they have high hopes for my brother, the soccer prodigy."

"Will Lejla be alright?"

Adnan let out another soft chuckle.

"From what I understand, she's already engaged to Thomas. Her family couldn't risk the embarrassment of another failed engagement, so they were willing to settle for the bird in the hand, even if that bird is far too liberal for their liking. It certainly helped that he is willing to convert to Islam. Apparently, his love for Lejla is stronger than his disbelief in God."

"So where does that leave you?"

"It leaves me with a lot of time to focus on my new job and to think about what I really want in life. It also leaves me here in this store, wondering if I could take you out for a coffee sometime?"

My heart began to race, but I was careful not to let it show.

"I get a coffee every morning around eight, at a little shop around the corner. I wouldn't be opposed to some company now and then. If it would make you happy."

EPILOGUE

There are moments in our lives when we find ourselves in dark waters. Some, like Charlotte's father, will do anything, even climb over the bodies of their drowning children, so that they can breathe for another minute. Others, like my Uncle Mike, will dive into those waters without hesitation, even at the cost of their own lives.

Uncle Mike was as brave a man as I have ever known. He was a man of faith. He kept faith with my father, and he kept faith with me.

I never found out how he dealt with that debt, but less than two years after that day in his office, he was found dead outside his warehouse. The broken bodies of two men lay beside him, and his knuckles were raw and bloodied. After his funeral prayers, he was washed, shrouded in white linen, and buried next to his beloved Samir.

Following his death, Aunt Mina went back to the old country, where she spent the rest of her days. I was worried that my mother would follow soon after, but then Charlotte became pregnant with our first child, and at last, my mother found her way back from her grief to our shore.

Mirsad Samir Mehic, or Baby Mike as we call him, weighed more than nine and a half pounds when he passed from the warmth of his mother's waters into this cold and uncertain world. Born without shame, he cried out for help until I took him in my arms.

Well, there you have it--my first attempt at contemporary fiction, with a romantic theme. If you've made it this far, thank you, and I hope you feel your time was well spent. As always, I look forward to your comments and feedback (even if that feedback is to go back to writing traditional romances).

Cheers,

CGN