Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

T he French toast was delicious—thick, eggy cinnamon-spiced bread covered with butter and warm maple syrup. But try as Jasmine might, she couldn't finish it. She was too full to eat, or perhaps just too nervous.

It hadn't been that long since she'd escaped her husband. Helping Basma and Rabie shouldn't be anything like that. They weren't in Iraq, after all. They didn't have to hide in crates and cross borders. All they had to do was get Basma and Rabie into their car and then get lost in the traffic on their way back to the airport. It should be easy. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, the fear wouldn't leave her alone.

The restaurant Derrick had chosen was large enough to seat a hundred or more at the booths and rectangular tables, most of which had people seated around them. More congregated near the doorway, waiting. There were men in business suits or sweaters, women in designer jeans or slacks, blazers or blouses. Some carried laptop bags. Others bounced babies.

The building was old, with its concrete floors and high ceilings that showed heating ducts overhead. The table she and Derrick shared was scuffed in places, the booth well-worn. Not dirty or dingy, just comfortably broken in. The atmosphere was clean and fresh and happy and…free.

"What are you thinking?" Derrick asked.

"I like your diner."

"Food's good, right?"

"Yes, very. Though I don't think I can finish it. I'm sorry for ordering so much."

His lips twisted into a smirk. "Why are you apologizing? I suggested the French toast, remember?" He nodded toward her plate. "You sure?"

She pushed it toward him, and he traded his empty platter—he'd ordered a bacon burger and fries—and dug in.

"Worked out for me."

"Where do you put all the food?"

Food halfway to his mouth, he said, "There's always room for more."

She turned her attention to a group at a nearby table. There were four women, a little redheaded girl of about three, and a baby boy in a high chair. The girl was moving from lap to lap while the women carried on a conversation, not at all bothered by the child's restlessness. The baby concentrated on what he was eating.

A lemon slice, Jasmine realized. He'd swallowed almost the whole thing when he shuddered as if he'd just discovered how sour it was.

The women at the table laughed, and Jasmine found herself chuckling as well.

"What's funny?" Derrick asked.

She explained, and he twisted to see.

When the little girl caught his eye, Derrick waved, and she giggled and hid behind one of the women.

He turned back to Jasmine. "Cuties."

She tried to imagine herself as one of those women. Sitting in a restaurant, enjoying a meal. Not looking over her shoulder. Not afraid.

The picture wouldn't come. No matter how far she ran, Khalid would never stop searching for her.

She would never be safe.

"What do you think?" Derrick asked. "Will Michael and Leila have kids right away?"

Jasmine tried to shake off the creeping fear. "Leila never spoke much of children when we were little. Now, I think she would discuss such things with Michael, not me. But I would guess they want children, and she is almost thirty, so perhaps it is wise not to wait."

"Women can have kids into their thirties, though, right?" By the way Derrick's brows lowered, he seemed worried.

"Yes." This was not something she wished to discuss.

"Do you want them?" He aimed his fork at the other table. "Kids?" As if she didn't know what he meant.

She nodded, sliding out of the booth. "I will find the restroom, if that's okay."

"You don't have to ask for permission." He smiled, perhaps to soften the words he'd spoken to her many times.

"Right. Sorry." She hurried away, breathing deeply to calm the sudden nausea.

She should tell him the truth. She should tell him everything. But…but how did one go about explaining her situation? What would Derrick say when he learned she was not only married but carrying a child? What would he think of a wife who'd run away from her husband? What would he think when he learned of the danger she'd put him and his family in? Because they sheltered her, and Khalid would pursue her as long as he had breath in his lungs.

How could she tell Derrick that she would never be safe ?

How could he comprehend all she'd gone through, all she'd done to survive?

Leila was about to get married and start a life with Michael. Yes, the Wright family counted Jasmine as one of their own, but only out of obligation. And family obligations went both ways. When Leila was married, what would being obligated to the Wrights cost Jasmine? What would they expect of her? Demand of her?

Only Derrick had chosen her, not out of obligation but because he liked her. When she told him the truth, would he still choose to be friends with her? Or would he judge her?

Would he hate her?

He was such a kind, gentle man, but even kindness had limits. Would Derrick reject her? The question sent fear to her middle and moisture to her eyes.

How would he react? She wasn't ready to find out. Soon enough, her pregnancy would show, and there would be no more hiding the truth.

Until then, she would keep it to herself. Until then, she would enjoy their protection. She would enjoy Derrick's friendship. Yes, the longer she put off telling him, the worse it would be. But she couldn't bear to lose them—to lose him—before she had to.

She used the bathroom, washed her hands, and checked her reflection. She looked better than she had in Iraq. Now that she was in the US, now that the terrible sickness from her early pregnancy had passed, she felt healthier and stronger. Her dark skin had lost its yellow pallor. Her eyes were bright again, her long, straight hair silky and shiny.

She was herself again, like the Jasmine she'd been before Khalid.

But she shouldn't, if she wanted to remain hidden. She should cut her hair. She couldn't bring herself to do it, but she should try to disguise herself. She dug a hijab from her purse and wrapped it over her head, careful to tuck her hair in. Though she hated wearing the Muslim headscarf, at least it hid her long hair. Maybe she wouldn't be as recognizable.

Not that she planned to run into anybody she knew. But it was possible Basma's uncle knew Jasmine's father. If he saw her and told Baba, then Baba would tell Khalid. And Khalid would know where to search for her.

Derrick had finished the French toast and was handing their waitress money when she slid into the booth across from him. He thanked the server, then looked at Jasmine—and frowned. "Why are you wearing that?"

"I do not want to be recognized. I wish to be…blending in."

His eyebrows hiked. "Do you see any other woman here wearing a head scarf?"

She scanned the room. "But I thought, in the city?—"

"Wearing that will make you stand out."

"But Michael says my hair is distinctive. And my height. I fear I will be recognized."

Derrick straightened, his brows lowering over his dark eyes. "Who are you afraid of? Is there a chance your father will be there?"

"No, but Basma's uncle probably knows him. They would have worked together for a time."

Derrick's expression turned to a scowl. "You didn't tell me that. Why didn't you…?" He blew out a breath. "Jasmine. What are we doing? This is too risky."

"I must help her. She is my friend."

"Yeah, but…" He pressed his lips together, then slid out of the booth and shrugged into his brown leather jacket—a bomber jacket, he called it. It was distinctively Derrick. "Come on."

She followed him to the exit and out into the gray day.

Halfway across the parking lot, he said, "We have a couple of hours before your friends'll be ready. There's a mall nearby. Let's get you a better disguise." He glared at her head scarf. "Please take that off."

"You do not like it?"

He stopped and faced her. "You're beautiful no matter what you wear."

Oh. The compliment warmed her despite the winter air.

"But you don't have to wear that. You don't have to hide or be ashamed or…cover your head like some sort of…of inferior creature. And maybe that's not what it represents. I'm sure I just don't understand, but…" He pushed back his hair. Unlike his brothers, he kept it on the long side, almost reaching to his shoulders. She liked it. It was soft and touchable, a little curly, a little messy. It was lighthearted and easygoing, like he was. Though the intense expression he wore now was anything but. "Do what you want. I'm not your boss." He continued to the car and opened the passenger door.

She slid in, and while he walked around to the driver's side, she pulled her head scarf off and shoved it back in her purse. She was checking her hair in the visor mirror when he sat beside her.

He started the car engine, then sighed. "I don't mean to be a jerk. You can wear the scarf if you want."

"I thought it would be good to hide my hair."

His lips tipped up in the tiniest grin. "We'll find a better option."

Jasmine studied her reflection in the department store mirror. She and Derrick had considered a few disguises. This one had been his idea. Aside from her still distinctive long hair, she did look different.

She'd never worn a sweatsuit in her life, certainly not one like this. If she were a normal height, the hoodie—it had the word Georgetown imprinted across the chest—would barely reach her belly button. Fortunately, Jasmine was petite enough that even the extra-small reached the waistband of the matching navy sweatpants.

Derrick believed that she could pass for a college-aged woman. Maybe, but she felt ridiculous.

"You okay in there?" Derrick was standing outside the dressing room. "Do we need to go to the children's section?"

She picked up the humor in his voice. "Haha."

He chuckled as she joined him at the dressing room entrance.

He took her in, head to toe. "That's perfect."

"I look foolish."

"You look like you're nineteen. You look nothing like yourself."

"But my hair?—"

"Easily solved." He held out a baseball cap and a fabric scrunchy.

She snatched both. "You think you are very clever."

"There's mountains of evidence."

"Silly man." Shaking her head, she turned to a triple mirror, pulled her hair through the hole in the back of the cap, and then twisted it into a bun, which she secured with the hair band.

"You look like a Georgetown coed," he said.

She met his eyes in the mirror. "What is this, a coed?"

"A female college student."

"That is a funny name." She angled this way and that, scrutinizing her reflection. This disguise would work.

"One more thing." He held out a pair of sunglasses with thick black rims.

"It is cloudy. "

"I thought we could pop out the lenses. From far away, nobody'll notice. Try 'em."

She did, though with the dark shades, it was hard to make out anything.

"Perfect," he said. "If you just pull off all the tags, I'll buy everything, and then you don't have to change again."

Fifteen minutes later, they were back in the car and headed to the city.

She'd been distracted when he'd made the purchases. Now, she opened the sack he'd handed her, searching for the sunglasses, and found, along with her denim dress, another baseball cap and a red jacket. "What are these for?"

He hit the blinker and angled onto the highway. "I didn't realize before that your friend's aunt and uncle knew you. If there's any chance they might see you, I don't want you anywhere near them. So, you need to email Basma and tell her that I'll meet her and her brother and bring them to you."

"She won't agree to that."

Derrick kept talking as if she hadn't spoken. "I wanted to wear something that she'd be able to easily pick out—and that no other man would have on. Tell her to be on the lookout for a tall guy wearing a white baseball cap and a bright red nylon jacket. Then, if I have to get lost in a crowd, I can take off the jacket and hat, which'll make it easier for me to blend in."

"She will not go with you."

"Then she can go back to Iraq and live with her half brother."

"Derrick." Jasmine's voice rose. "We cannot leave them. We must help."

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"I must come with you. Basma will be afraid, and Rabie as well."

Derrick hit the blinker and then angled back off the highway, though they couldn't be anywhere near their destination. He fought traffic until they turned into a gas station packed with cars. He pulled around to the back, put the car in park, and faced her. "This is nonnegotiable."

She worked out the meaning of the long word, then crossed her arms. "You do not own me. You tell me all the time that I am free and can do what I wish."

"If that's how you want to play it, fine." His tone was calm, his expression bland, but emotion hummed beneath his words. "You can do this by yourself. I'll just head back to the airport and fly home."

"You would leave me here?" Her heart slammed against her ribcage. "Alone?"

"If you insist on putting yourself in danger, yes."

"But you cannot… How could you…? What about Basma and Rabie? They are in danger."

"They can come with me, or they can find another way out of their situation. Or they can go back to Iraq."

"That is… You are not cruel. Why would you do this?"

"Because your safety?—"

"What of theirs? You would let them be harmed?"

"To protect you? In a New York minute."

"What is this? I do not understand."

He blew out a long breath, frustration showing for the first time, though she guessed it'd been there all along. "It just means…fast. Yes, I would let them be harmed if it meant keeping you safe. If it's between you and them… Maybe it's wrong. Maybe it's unfair. But…" He stared up at the ceiling, pushing his hair away from his face. "They're not my responsibility. I can't save everyone." He lowered his gaze and met her eyes. "I choose you. If it's either you or them, I choose you."

The strangest feeling spread through her chest, warmth and affection and tenderness, stinging her eyes and muddling her thoughts.

Foolishness. Likely, he was worried what Michael would say if any harm came to her. But…no. The way Derrick looked at her, as if she really and truly mattered, made her discard that idea.

Derrick was her friend. She'd had so few of those, almost none who'd chosen her, just for her and not because she was Leila's twin.

There'd been Basma.

And now Derrick.

And nobody else.

He reached across the console and took her hand. "Don't cry, Jazz. I'm trying to protect you. Can you understand that? I want to help your friends, but not if it means putting you in danger."

She used the arm of her sweatshirt to swipe away her tears. "I do not wish to be difficult. I only worry that Basma won't go with you."

"She'll have no choice. You can take a picture of me if you want, though I don't know that that's a great idea. I mean, God forbid somebody hacks her email, we wouldn't want them to figure out who I am."

"A photo is a bad idea."

He nodded at the jacket and cap on her lap. "They're distinctive. Email her. Tell her to watch for me in those and that you'll be waiting in the car."

"What was the point of this then?" She plucked at the sweatshirt he'd insisted she buy. "Why must I be in disguise?"

"In case they see you. In case somebody happens to walk by who might recognize you. Or we're caught on camera or something. Just a precaution. "

That word was new, though she understood caution. And pre usually meant before.

"Email your friend. If she refuses to come with me, tell her she'll have to find another way to her cousin's house." Derrick squeezed her hand. "You don't want your father finding you, right?"

It wasn't her father she feared. Jasmine could see Khalid's face twisted in fury. Her husband wouldn't hurt her, not until she gave birth to his heir, the only reason he'd taken her as a wife. After that, he'd kill her. Unless he wanted more children and thought she was worth the trouble of keeping around, in which case he'd lock her in a room and use her as a baby-making machine until she could no longer conceive.

And then he'd kill her.

"You're safe here, Jazz." Derrick's voice was gentle. "I just want to keep you that way, okay?"

Jasmine couldn't seem to make herself speak past the emotions jumbling inside—fear, gratitude, shame. She managed a nod.

Derrick reached into the bag for the sunglasses, popped out the plastic lenses, and handed the frames to her.

She put them on, lowered the visor, and checked her reflection in the mirror. The large, black rims distracted from her face. "It is different." She turned to him. "What do you think?"

His eyebrows hiked. He swallowed, his Adam's apple dipping in his throat. "Yeah, that's…you make those look good."

She checked her reflection again. "Smart, yes? Like a student?"

"You are smart, and yes, you'd fit right in on campus, no doubt. Email Basma, okay? I've got one more thing I forgot to do."

Derrick took the jacket and hat and climbed out of the car, and she emailed her friend .

Derrick went to the trunk. A moment later, he circled to the front and crouched down. She had no idea what he was doing, but the sedan moved the slightest bit.

After he'd closed the trunk, he climbed back into the car wearing the ugly jacket. He'd hidden his long hair inside the white hat. "You ready?"

"Basma must still be at lunch, but she will email back when she receives my message."

"Okay. Let's go." He shifted gears and started driving.

Soon enough, they'd be in the city. Though Jasmine had balked at the idea of staying in the car, she saw Derrick's point and appreciated his desire to protect her.

As long as Basma agreed to go with Derrick—and what options did she have?—this should be simple. Basma and Rabie would be delivered to their cousins, and then Jasmine and Derrick would be on their way home to Maine and safety.

But if Jasmine had learned anything in the last few years, she'd learned not to assume anything would be simple.

And that she was never truly safe.