made him want to share his secrets.
"To an extent, I am what I appear," she tried to explain. "I am a good Muslim girl from a protective, loving family, and I try to abide by their expectations. I think I'm hard working and ambitious, to the bane of my older brother. But, I'm also considerate, and I do my best not to shame them. I'm—"
"Telling me who your family wants you to be. I'm more interested in who you are. What music you like, what movies you like, the minutiae of what you do in your free time, the mundane details that add up to Afia."
"I thought we were talking about you," she paused, smiling. Their drinks arrived. He studied her over the rim of his wineglass as he took a sip. She felt herself coloring at his scrutiny. The tables had turned fast.
He replied casually, "I was raised by a single mother. I grew up in a trailer. I'm the end result of a raw deal I leveraged to my advantage. We were poor, and that made me determined to not remain that way, so I worked my ass off, but it also made me grow up with a chip on my shoulder. I got in a lot of fights and got kicked out of a couple of schools. I tried drugs and alcohol, the normal shit that teenagers sample, because I wanted an escape. There wasn't any nirvana in that stuff for me."
"I was a model student. I excelled at my studies. I've never been in a fight in my life—although my big brother fought for me more times than I can count. I never even thought about trying drugs, and I don't drink excessively. Moderation in all things."
He smiled. "You sound like you had it easy."
"I've been bullied, poked fun at, and downright abused in this country. People see me now and they think terrorist, an extremist. If you call that easy, you're crazy."
"My apologies, I didn't mean to devalue your experiences," he said lightly.
"You're a white male in a white male dominated world," she pushed a little. "Not that I have anything against you. It's just easy for a man like you to ignore what it's like to not be the majority."
He pushed up his sleeve and flashed his tattoos. "It all depends on which aspect people see first. Few things in life are as simple as they seem. For instance, when you're poor, you're considered inferior. When you're different, you're considered a threat. I've been both. I don't want to compare battle stripes, but—suffice it to say—I'm not oblivious to what it's like to be labeled. But, we aren't our scars, and we aren't defined by what other people call us. I see you, and I see a beautiful girl with eyes like an unfamiliar song I want to learn the words to."
"What if there aren't any words?" she asked. Her hooded eyes were seductive, even though she didn't intend them to be. The waiter appeared with their food, which broke the mood. Afia snatched her gaze away and gave her attention to the meal placed before her. "This looks delicious."
"I was thinking the same thing." She looked up, and his eyes were still on her.
She cleared her throat. "You were telling me about your childhood."
"There isn't much to tell," he replied. "At some point in a courtroom for some random juvenile offense, I realized that I was following a well-traveled path to a hell I wasn't interested in visiting. I was locked away in a group home for six months and had to do community service, but when I got out, I had a whole new perspective on what it meant to have street cred. I looked at the neighborhood guys who seemed to be the hardest, most respected gangsters, and they didn't hold the same kind of weight around town as the doctors and the lawyers."
"Scared straight," she interjected. He nodded, smiling. It was easy to smile with her. Talking to her was easy. He didn't see judgment in her eyes at the mention of being raised by a single mom or his earlier criminal behavior. He had dated some chicks who looked at his past like a mark against him.
"I got my GED. I dedicated myself to getting into