iii

It took me twenty-two minutes to reach Astor&Johnson, but it takes me over an hour to make it back to the flat; most of which is spent trying to wind down my excitable heart to a rate at which I can think. Formulate a plan.

Secret: I don't think I know Yashar well enough to know what makes him boil over.

Doubt: maybe this is it. Maybe my well-intentioned but just short-of-the-mark present, if it is a present and not an interrogation tool, is the thing that makes him look at me with that vacant look. As if he's already left without leaving.

Nobody ever tells you the man of your dreams, as happy as he makes you, will also be the biggest source of your anxiety. Nobody, I suppose, wants to burst the comfortable bubble-wrap of romanticism that some days is the only thing keeping us here—or that love will feel like a tide coming in while you're shackled to the bottom of the ocean. They don't tell you the moment he says he loves you will feel like gasping for air between submersions. Like you'll keep on drowning until the day he says he doesn't anymore.

My fears aren't unfounded. I've unearthed enough of Yashar's past to know he has loved generously. That he stops and they never do. I've seen the prints that are still proclaimed the best his ex has ever produced. That are still bought and hung in tacky, Russian multi-millionaire mansions. I see all the copy-cat models he's tried to replace Yashar with. Forever trying to recreate a moment with a man who's never so much as spoken his name since they broke up five years ago. I'm afraid I'll become like him, another piece in the puzzle that Yashar's next one will try to put together.

I've worked too hard at digging for clues for my efforts to be rendered useless now. I know too much, and yet not enough. Never enough because I love and hoard every single nugget of information. How he stays silent in the car, not because of motion sickness or boredom, but because the sound of the engine calms him. He's been all over the world, probably seen everything there is to see, but put him on the road and he'll never miss a moment to gaze out the window as if he's seeing everything for the first time again. How he dresses and speaks and wears the bustling city like a medal around his neck, but really is a country boy at heart.

I wish someone would've told me to relax, that my fear of scaring him off by bringing him to the barren Isle of Grain on our first date is unfounded. That his intimidatingly beautiful exterior is just a facade for the man he is on the inside. The one who's outdoorsy and has a rapturous appreciation for the wilderness. He who will tell me quietly as we look out over the North Sea: I've always lived near the water. Everywhere I go, it's followed me. It only feels natural that I should find myself in a place like this again, that feels like home. His eyes will be two magnets when he asks: Do you believe in fate? And you will fall harder than you've ever fallen in love before.

I've worked too hard for a stupid perfume to ruin everything. Thankfully, it doesn't have to. At least not right away because I come home to him sleeping soundlessly on the sofa. Somewhere inside the flat, the whirling white noise machine is doing its thing. One look at the state of the place reveals he skipped his lunch with Tara to pack and didn't get very far before he decked out on the couch. His clothes are all over the place. The dishes still in the sink. The floor unswept.

I place a hand on his neck, regretful that I have to wake him up. He squirms away, not surprised. "You're cold," he mumbles.

"That's what you get for not sleeping properly and then passing out out here." I look at the adjacent sofa. "Sleep. I'll get you the throw-over."

He pulls back my hand as I'm about to rise. "No, I'm up. I'm up. Don't go." Squinting, he groans, "You're early."

"Easy." I run my hand over his stubble. "Rest. I get it. You've been performing six days a week for two weeks. Sleep. We don't have to hurry anywhere. We can stay."

"No." He's wide awake. "I promised we'd go. I kept you here last week and this one too, I—"

"It's okay."

"No, you hate it here. You hate this flat. And I've already told everyone."

I chuckle. "That you're leaving?"

He hooks his arms around my neck and drags me closer. Half my body is on the sofa, the other half on the floor. "Yes. Last night as I was hugging everyone goodbye. I even warned them not to call in case of an emergency because there wasn't going to be any reception."

"Where did they think you were going?"

"I don't know. Probably Siberia. Emma cried," he chuckles, "it probably had more to do with us not seeing each other in months though."

"No, listen—" he interjects at my open-jawed response. "They were planning all these outings and I know they're just going to blow up my phone, and you would hate that."

"Well, now they'll think I'm some Siberian farmer stealing you away from civilisation."

"Babe, have you seen yourself? You couldn't keep a house plant alive to save your life. Also, they think you're too much of a fancy-pants, if that helps."

"Now, you're just taking the piss." I push him away, but he clings to me, subverting any effort at mock-indignation.

"They're so jealous of us. I'm spending all my time with a posh, tortured artist in the beautiful English countryside. They're gagging. Bask in it."

"Right," I grunt, evading his kisses that are more like bites at this point. "Thanks, thank you for confirming my suspicion that your friends hate me. Really solid work there."

"Oh, shut up. Is it called the Cotswolds?" He asks once I've extricated myself from his octopus grip and taken several strides away from the sofa.

"What is?"

"The English countryside."

"Only a specific part of it."

"Is it where you live because that's where I told them I was going."

I don't know if I should laugh or sigh. I suppress both. "Go to sleep, Yashar. I mean it. If we're leaving, we can't leave this place like this."

He looks around. "Sure we can." He yawns, proving my point.

"You can because you had no intention of cleaning it in the first place. Honestly, if you're always going to deprive yourself of sleep before we go, can you at least be a bit considerate?"

"I'm sorry. I wanted to. I will." Even as he says that he slowly eases back into the sofa and rests his head back on the decorative pillow. "I love you so so so so much," he murmurs around a sheepish smile. "I'm just going to..."

He never finishes the sentence.

I play his father's most played songs on Spotify as revenge. Part of me hoping it'll make him startle awake and start helping me clean up; another, gentler part, hoping it'll be more effective than the white-noise machine.

I sometimes like to think Hussain Alizadeh and I have a secret connection. An understanding negotiated through the sorrowful tones of the ney which, ever since I've discovered him, has become a comforting soundscape to get lost in. In my daydreams, I dress him up as Good Father. Calm Father. Better Father Than My Father. I befriend him and later send long messages to him on Facebook, to which he always replies. In my daydreams, he plays the ney at our wedding. He dresses me in traditional attire and teaches me how to perform the sema and says he's proud of me and loves me for loving his son.

Normally I would never let Yashar know how deeply invested I've become, but something about knowing that the perfume lies in wait for me in the boot of the car emboldens me to disconnect the playlist from my AirPods. I deliberately turn the volume up as I start sorting out the flat. Pouring the aush into containers and cutting the bread. Packing away the things I know Yashar always forgets: his electric shaver, a pair of socks, his yoga mat.

When I get around to waking him up, he's already seated upright. His legs crisscrossed under him, a faraway look in his eyes. Listening.

"Do you like it?"

He regards me for a what feels like half an eternity, his expression uncannily like his mother's guarded blankness before he says, "I have to brush my teeth."

***

With four words I've kicked him back into his shell. In the car he's no longer my Yashar, but Yashar the visitor. I've done the very thing I never do. I've disregarded keeping the peace; treading the line; never upsetting. He doesn't grow cold. That's the thing about him. The thing that makes his behaviour so hard to confront. He doesn't shun. He changes the station. Leaves the radio on a rock ballad. Lets me intertwine our fingers and trace the crescent tattoo between his thumb and forefinger while he traces the sun on his other. When he's about the fall asleep I let the car cruise, for a moment taking my eyes off the M1, to reach over and nudge his neck. He rolls his head my way and smiles lazily.

See, I tell myself. He isn't upset.

His gaze reverts back to the window. Just distant. The sunset tinted landscape blurs past.

"Tell me how to say 'I love you' again?" He's quiet for so long I'm convinced he won't rise to the occasion to humour me. I'm about to reach over and nudge him again, check if he's fallen asleep when he turns to me. "You going to specify a language?"

I scoff, hiding my start. "Humble much? Have a little sympathy for us monolinguals." The sound of his laughter is a balm.

I pretend to think it over. "Farsi."

"How strong?"

"A stranger," I say as if it's the first time we're playing this game.

"What kind of person would say 'I love you' to a stranger?"

"You obviously don't know me very well."

"Wait, is this for whoever you were dressing up for this morning? That not-Claes?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, and they obviously speak the language. Now give me a bit of game."

"Doos-et daaram."

"Nope, not really the one I'm thinking of."

"Man ashetghetam?"

"No." I know there's a third one, a much stronger one.

He scoffs, "Yeah, over my dead body that you're saying that to a stranger."

"You jealous? Of not-Claes? Would it help if I said they're balding?"

"So it is a man."

"Don't get too excited. Come on. Don't you want me to learn?"

"I rather you do not if you're going to revoke my Persian-card by going up to strangers and saying 'I would give my life for you.'"

"Okay," I sullenly lean back in my seat. "How do you say 'I love you' in Azeri?"

"Men seni sevirem."

"In Spanish—Te quiero?"

"Yes. Swedish?" He asks.

"Oh, easy. Jeg elsker deg. Nan used to say it all the time."

"Excuse me, that's Norwegian. I asked for Swedish."

"Oh, come on, it's the same thing but with a weirder pronunciation."

He just shakes his head.

"Well, did you understand it or not?" when he doesn't respond, I snort. "Thought so."

"Okay, how would your mother say, 'I have a present for you?'"

It's shocking how fast his face falls.

"What?"

My heart restricts so fast it coagulates. Becomes a stone. I wait for the sound: the plop, the clink, the distinct noise of my confidence hitting the floor. If it has, I must have talked over it because I only hear my voice, "Would she say it in Farsi or Azeri? I know you speak both."

I glance at him, see my own latent surprise reflected back.

"I..." He never finishes because he's waiting for me to change the subject; placate, soothe.

"Your aunt speaks Azeri and you speak it with your sister. I guess I'm just trying to figure out if it's your father or—"

"Frans." He turns his face away from me, towards the window, but it's too late. I've already seen it, his hurt like emergency sirens that rob the momentum from under my careening heart until the adrenaline mellows, the faux confidence cowers.

No, I'm sorry, we don't talk about that, do we? We never talk about anything that truly matters. The words aren't making their way out, and I hate myself for it. Hate how just one look from him effectively shuts down my motor functions until I'm reduced to whitening knuckles on the steering wheel.

You can be so fucking cruel. You and your fucking split personality.

It's like he's Pavlov's dog-ing me through silent treatment, conditioning me to not ask questions. Knowing he'll tolerate me better that way. And I don't know what's worse: that I've let it go on for this long or that I pretend I don't get gratification from solving him like a Rubik's cube. That even now as he's silently brewing beside me, I'm listing the things I'm going to google once we get home: culture and its impact on speaking about trauma. Lakes in Iran. Lakes in Azerbaijan.

Claes said it himself. I'm sick.

I pretend I'm not fascinated by his multiplicity: the Swedish adoptee who teaches me how to use an osthyvel and drags me off to late-September dips in the ocean; the mystic Turk who cleanses me with wisps of incense; the London careerist who's always tied up in some sort of conversation with his stressed-out manager, Tom.

He, who after having ignored me for the duration of this car ride, will turn to me with a timid, but awed smile. Eyes closed, head tilted towards the twilight sky. Will tell me to listen, as if he's been hit by amnesia and can't remember the hundred other times he's taken in the soft, sloshing river against the watermill, the calming quiet surrounding the detached country house, the open fields.

"Look at you," he says now, following me with his eyes until I come to stand beside him, luggage in tow. "You're practically glowing."

I punch in the combination that'll open the gated entryway and wait for the click. "Are you on something?" I ask.

He steps closer, stares me down with passionate eyes. Eyes that have no chance of betraying the hurt he felt moments ago, either because it's always there humming like an ignited engine, or he's buried it so deep even he's forgotten it for the picturesque scenery of the village.

"No, really, listen." He strains his ears. "Hear that?" he takes his holdall from my shoulder. "Crickets." He exhales and the most satisfied smile settles over his features. "There really is no other place like this."

I hold open the entrance, unsure whether to laugh or not. "It's scary how much of a Gemini you are sometimes," I say as he passes me inside. And I mean it.

How can someone be so hot and certifiably insane?