Page 35 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“It’s been a long day.”
I wait for the inevitable snarky follow-up, but it doesn’t come. His dry, mocking undertone has disappeared, as well.
“What time is it?”
“Does it matter?” He turns to look at me, a slight frown on his face. There are faint shadows under his eyes and his stubble is at least two days old, but the sight of him is just as magnificent as the backdrop.
We stand together in silence, watching the horizon nibble away at the setting sun until the fierce orange glow is no stronger than a twenty-watt lightbulb. He’s right. Time has a magical pass here. Hours will drift at their own immitigable pace, regardless of deadlines and budgets. The frenetic rules of L.A. and London no longer apply, and we’re suspended in this alternative universe together.
“Come,” says Hassan, turning and strolling back to his car. “You must be hungry, and my village is not far from here.”
Chapter Eighteen
Hassan’s village consists of ten stone cabins built into a steep gradient and arranged in a staggered semicircle above the Ourika River at the heart of the valley.
The car stops halfway down a dirt track, and a small army of doe-eyed children pours out of the cabins to greet us, pounding the sides of the Mercedes with their tiny fists and shrieking out unfamiliar words in great excitement.
“As-salam! As-salam!”
“Lam naraka mundhu muddah!”
They greet Hassan like the long-lost brother that he is, eagerly showing him their grazed knees and treasured toys as they jostle with each other for prime position.
I watch Jake closely as we exit the car, knowing his distaste for in-your-face displays of devotion. This is a man who would rather swim with piranha than pose for the paparazzi. To my amazement, he receives the children with the same enthusiasm as Hassan, kneeling down to accept their curiosity, and then tickling and chasing them until they’re screaming with laughter. For the first time I catch a glimpse of the boy in the photograph, and I feel the ground shifting beneath my feet.
“Come, come!” they cry at me, too. A girl of no more than five or six years old takes my hand and pulls me toward the first stone cabin, while the remaining children fight with one another to clasp their arms around Jake.
We’re greeted on the steps by Hassan’s parents, older siblings, and elderly relatives, and they welcome us into their small home with warmth and encouragement. “Please sit,” they urge in broken English, guiding us toward a number of faded, patterned cushions set around a low wooden table in the center of the room.
Jake shoots me a look as we take up our places opposite one another, but I can’t read the subtext. I wish I could slice through that tough exterior and catch a glimpse of those true colors he spoke of yesterday.
Two plates of steaming couscous and some sort of soft, cooked, orange vegetable are placed in front of us, and I smile gratefully at the server, a girl of about sixteen, who smiles back at me shyly. There’s a constant hum of excited chatter in the room and much jostling for position as Hassan and his relatives take their places, as well.
I’m awkward at first. My fork feels too heavy in my hand. My bangs keep falling into my eyes and I’m in no hurry to push them away. I feel like I’m intruding on someone else’s life, but my hosts are trying so hard to put us at ease. Smiles are currency. Laughter is an open doorway. In this small home, these qualities and the sense of family are all-embracing. Their love for one another is so clear and unapologetic that I can’t help feeling included in their affections.
I take a mouthful of couscous and start to choke as grief smothers me like a dirty rag. I’ve never had a family with love like theirs. Mine was stolen away long before I had a chance to cherish it, and in that moment I feel such hatred toward my father that my food turns to sawdust in my mouth.
All the while, I can sense Jake watching me. Stripping me bare with his gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, turning away.
I spend the rest of the meal pushing the food around my plate and chewing each mouthful a hundred times. Smiling often, concealing my pain. Putting on a show, as usual.
Not Jake. I’ve never seen him so relaxed. There are no deadlines to hit, no mysterious studio meetings to fret over, or paparazzi lurking underneath the windows to take an intrusive shot. Sitting between Hassan and his mother, he’s communicating with her through Hassan’s translation, telling her all about the film shoot and America.
“She is wondering when your business will be finished?” I hear Hassan ask him.
“Six weeks. All being well.”
Six weeks?Is that all?For some reason this depresses me.
There’s a pause as Hassan translates this back to his mother. She’s a striking woman with immaculate dark robes and an azure-blue headscarf. I catch her glancing at me often.
“And then back to America until the next movie?”
“No. I’ll be returning for good after this. I’m flying back to take over my father’s company.” A dark emotion flits across Jake’s face. It’s the same one I saw in Cassie’s trailer after he saw me standing there, a reluctant witness to him at his most manipulative.
Regret.
