This short story is an AU done in celebration for the one year anniversary of Lemon Trees publication date. I know it’s being put up a tad later, but life is chaos. So thank you for bearing with me.

I got the idea for this when I shared this tweet in the group chat (that I can’t find right now) of this guy saying he was going to meet this girl for a marriage date thing and she was coming with her brother as a chaperone (I am paraphrasing, so bear with me). He arrives to the cafe, finds a parking spot, and as he’s driving into the parking spot, another car comes out of nowhere also trying to park there. The man in the car gets out. He gets out. They start fighting. He eventually parks elsewhere. He walks inside the cafe to find the girl he’s meeting and her brother sitting beside her was the one he just fought over the parking spot.

So the group chat and I were like, this is Salama and Kenan core in a might life. Kenan and Hamza fighting in the background while Salama and Layla sip on their mint lemonade.

I’ve finally written it, and I hope it brings you some joy. There are Easter eggs for the main story because, in the end, in all the lives they’ve lived, they are soulmates to their core.

Thank you for loving my lemon babies. And for not getting tired of me never shutting up about them and writing lil stories for them.

tags: AU, might life, first time meeting, fluffy moments, studio ghibli, nerd plant girl x nerd artist boy, sweets, in every life i’d fall for you, soulmate, everyone is alive, only happy.

Needless to say, do not read this if you haven’t finished the book. Obviously, spoilers will be in the story in one way or another.

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 the dessert shop

Kenan

I’m running late. The back of my mind is counting the minutes.

Ten minutes late. Nearly eleven.

I try not to step on the gas, muttering under my breath, “Come on! Come on!” to the stacks of cars in front of me.

Today is the day I’m supposed to be meeting this girl Mama met at a wedding. Mama came home that night, called me to the living room, sat me down, and told me about her. The one I’m meant to be with.

Once she started listing who this girl was, I knew there was no chance in hell.

Not a spoiled, youngest daughter of a good family agreeing to be with someone like me whose dream is to animate stories and has no guarantee of achieving that dream. 

I added the spoiled part myself. But all the signs were there.

Still, I don’t want to be late. It’s rude and Mama would be disappointed.

But I had to help Lama with her Math homework, pick up Mahmoud from his friend’s house, and take him back home before leaving for the… whatever the awkwardness of meeting someone you know will reject you is called.

I tug on my collar, breathing in deeply. Mama had ironed my white shirt and black dress pants before trying to wrestle a tie around my neck.

“You’ll look handsome!” she cried, shaking the tie at me. “Everyone loves a man who knows how to dress.”

“It’s over the top,” I said, backing away from her before she leaped at me again. “This whole situation is embarrassing enough.”

She lowered her arms, a serious look on her face. “This is not embarrassing, Kenan. This could be the beginning of something. Or it might not be. That’s all right. But you owe it to yourself to find out. So, what if it was your mother who found her? Doesn’t that mean I know you? Know what kind of person you’d want to spend your life with? There is a chance I might be wrong, yes, but there’s nothing embarrassing about this situation.”

Her words ring in my mind, and I tap my fingers along the wheel, trying not to glance at my phone. To the texts I sent her.

The girl.

Salama.

Our mothers had given us each other’s numbers, so we’d set up when we’d meet. Her brother would be there, she told me, and I said, no problem. Chaperones were the norm. That was the only time we texted.

Me: hey sorry if this is awkward but would you like to meet this Saturday?

Her: that sounds good. Would 2 pm at the halabi work? my brother will be there as well

Me: I’ll be there

I opened her profile picture and looked at it more times than I’d admit.

She was sitting on the steps of our college, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, caught mid-laugh.

She looked adorable.

Then I looked at my own profile picture and studied it a million times from every angle. What would she see when she looks at this picture? My hair is unkempt, one part of it caught in my eyelashes, gigantic headphones, and the way I’m concentrating on my laptop screen like I’m about to shoot lasers out of my eyes.

Objectively, it’s not a bad picture.

I know because I’ve had a few girls start messaging me after I posted it.

But what does she see?

Salama.

The traffic finally lets up, and I exhale in relief.

If there is no more of that, I’ll make it within five minutes.

But this is Homs, and the one rule of driving is that there are no rules.

So fifteen minutes later when I am a half hour late, I arrive at the Halabi. The parking lot is almost full save for one spot that’s a few meters away from me. I drive towards it, thanking God for this quick and easy conclusion to a hurricane of a morning.

But as soon as I veer right in front of the space, another car comes into view, and we both press on the brakes, coming to a screeching halt.

Indignant, I peer at the driver behind the wheel. A man who doesn’t look that much older than me.

For a minute, we just stare at one another, thinking the other is going to back out of the spot. But when it seems neither one of us will be doing that, the staring turns hostile.

“No way in hell I’m leaving,” I mutter, letting go of the steering wheel and crossing my arms.

The man sees that and scoffs before fiddling with the car and then getting out.

He walks towards me, and I lower the window, scowling.

“You’re in my spot,” I say before he says anything. “I was here first.”

“Not possible,” he says. “I saw the car pull out and made my way here first. So back off.”

I raise my eyebrows. “No, I don’t think I will.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his expression turning sour. “I’m not asking.”

“So, you’re going to shove the car back?” I laugh.

This seems to make him more annoyed, and he taps a palm on the hood of my car. “Get out. We’re settling this in person.”

“I’m not getting out of anything. So, either move your car or watch me slam it out of the way.”

“Are you threatening to crash it?”

“Oh, it’s a promise.”

“Then I promise you, you will no longer have a face by the time I’m done.”

My impatience that’s been wearing thinner and thinner all morning snaps. I’m already late. I don’t know if I want to be here or if Mama gaslit me into thinking I do. Getting Lama to concentrate on her homework was frustrating, and I had to wait twenty minutes for Mahmoud to leave his friend’s house. If there’s going to be any outlet for this mountain of annoyance, it’s going to be me slamming this person’s head against the car.

I kick open the door, and he gets out of the way just in time.

“Good,” he says, grinning. “You’re not a coward.”

Salama

I stir my straw against the ice cubes melting in my mint lemonade and blow out a puff of air.

“He stood me up,” I say to Layla who’s taking pictures of her tea and knafeh.

“Who would stand you up?” Layla says, rolling her eyes, and then places her phone beside her plate. “He might be late like us.”

“Or he might have arrived early, seen that I wasn’t here, and left and I wouldn’t be able to explain to him that it was actually my sister-in-law’s fault because she couldn’t decide between hijabs that were the same damn color.”

“Shows how much you know about colors,” Layla huffs, patting down her blue hijab that she called a Baltic blue and not a Yale blue. “Besides, he did not stand you up. Just text him and find out where he is.”

My palms become clammy, and I fidget with the ends of my hijab. It’s a pastel green to match my white tulle skirt. We only texted once, and he started it by immediately asking me out. There was no hello how are you? What are your hobbies? Do you like lemons? Nothing. No dancing around the main topic but just diving right into it.

It was… startling. But in a good way. I thought he might like to ask those questions in person. Not to know each other through texts but through seeing one another.

Layla and I had declared him cute from the first glance of his profile picture and then thoroughly examined it to determine whether the first impression was right.

It was.

“I don’t think it would work between us,” I say, poking at the ice cubes and avoiding her eyes. “Come on, didn’t you hear the way Mama waxed poetry about him?”

“His mother waxed poetry about him to your mother,” Layla says. “And of course, she would. She wants you to think he’s the best of the best.”

“She can’t exaggerate his academic achievements,” I reply. “Right? I mean, those are facts. It’s not like she was saying he’s the most generous, the most selfless person. Not abstract things.” I take a deep breath. “He sounds like a dreamer. And I don’t know if my dreams can keep up with him.”

Layla lightly smacks my arm. “Stop being mean to yourself. He’s going to be here. He’s going to see you. Fall head over heels. And Hamza and I will—” She sits up, looking around. “Why isn’t Hamza back yet? Did he park the car on the moon?”

She picks up her phone, dialing his number. Her lips are pursed, and she taps her nails on the table. “It’s ringing.”

When he doesn’t pick up, her eyebrows furrow. Hamza never misses a call from Layla. Even if he’s carrying groceries in each hand or hanging off a mountain, he’ll answer her call.

“Weird.” I frown. “Let’s just wait ten more minutes and if he doesn’t show up, we’ll leave, okay? I have an exam this week, anyway, and I need to study.”

Layla shakes her head and sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “How are we friends? No, you’re not going to study today. If he doesn’t show up, we hunt him down and we, in a nice tone, ask him why. The audacity! When he was the one dying to meet you!”

I don’t remind her that it was actually his mother who planned the whole thing, and he might have felt coerced into this so he’s not coming.

I don’t blame him.

The door opens and Hamza walks in, looking irate. And his shirt rumpled, a few of the buttons missing.  

“What happened?” I ask when he slides in beside Layla. “Why’s your shirt like that?”

“Why are you frowning?” Layla asks, pressing a finger between his eyebrows. “Unfurrow them right now.”

He immediately obliges her, a genuine smile spreading on his lips. “Nothing. Just some idiot who tried to take my parking spot.”

“You fought someone over a parking spot? Are you five?” I ask.

“It’s about the principle!” Hamza retorts.

I roll my eyes. “Sure.”

“I was there first,” he says.

“Hamza, I really don’t care,” I say, my thigh jumping with anxiety. “As you can see there are bigger things happening than a stupid parking spot.”

 He looks around. “What?”

“Kenan didn’t show up,” Layla says, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Yet. He still could.”

“It’s been forty minutes,” I say. “And he hasn’t texted me. So, let’s leave. This is embarrassing.”

“It’s not,” she says firmly.

The door opens again, and a guy walks in, his chest heaving up and down in an effort to breathe. His tie is askew and there’s a reddish tint on his cheeks. I instantly know it’s him.

He’s here.

He drags an arm across his forehead, looking around.

He looks so, so much cuter in real life. He really nailed the whole nerdy look with his messy hair, white dress shirt, and black pants. Even if his shirt is creased.

His eyes land on me, and I know he recognizes me. But I don’t know if it’s from my profile picture, or if I’m looking at him like I know him, or if it’s something else.

Before I can say anything, Hamza splutters, “That’s him. That’s the idiot who tried to take my parking spot.”

Kenan

Of course, I’d know the girl staring at me was Salama. At that moment, I realized I could know her anywhere.

We haven’t properly spoken to one another, but I know deep in my heart, I’d know her.

It’s one of those moments I’ve read about. Moments I’ve seen described as fate. Like a girl falling from the sky to be caught by a boy standing on the edge of an abandoned building.

I could draw her like this, I think and blink, taken aback by the thoughts.

But they all vanish when I see who’s sitting beside her.

It’s that man.

The one who took my parking spot.

It clicks in my mind, and my stomach clenches.

That’s her brother.

This no longer became the beginning of something but rather an abrupt ending. I might as well turn around, get in my car and leave.

He’s staring daggers at me as if the sheer intensity of it will have me dropping to the floor dead. Beside him sits a young woman who’s urgently talking to him and tugging on his shirt.

I walk towards them, feeling the weight of my body in each step. As if I’m walking to my death.

When I reach them, I see the blush on Salama’s cheeks but there’s no annoyance on her brother’s behalf in her expression.

“Salam 3alaykum,” she says, smiling.

“Wa 3alaykum elsalam,” I reply, feeling bashful.

“Did you find a parking spot?” her brother says ruefully.

“Hamza!” Salama and the girl beside her brother exclaim in unison.

I take the empty seat beside Salama, keeping a respectful distance between my chair and hers. “I did. No thanks to you.”

Hamza narrows his eyes and Salama bites her lower lip, but I think she’s fighting a smile.

I won’t be rude to him, though it doesn’t mean I’ll roll over just because I’m interested in his sister. I turn towards Salama and say, “Other than trying to find a parking spot, I’m sorry I was late. I had some family stuff I had to take care of.”

“That’s okay.” She glances at her glass of lemonade that was nearly finished. Then she looks up. “So you’ve met my brother. And that’s his wife and my best friend, Layla.”

Layla’s eyes are warm like the summer and there’s a certain excited energy hanging around her that I suspect is a part of her character.

“Ahla wa sahla,” she says cheerfully while her husband keeps on glowering at me. “We’re all glad we finally are able to have you two meet.”

“Thank you,” I say and then to Salama, “Can I get you anything?”

My gaze falls on the plate of knafeh on the table. I need ten pieces of that.

“I’ll take another lemonade,” she says, still shyly not looking at me.

“Done,” I say, and my heart hammers. I want her to look at me. Freely and with no abandon.

She feels me watching her and looks up. The prettiest shade of pink is dusted on her tanned skin, and I want to press my fingers against them. Her eyes are a deep amber, glittering like precious stones and they’ve captured me.

Hamza clears his throat, and we jump as if we’ve been caught in a closet together.

“All of this and I’m sitting right here,” he says. “What would have happened if there was no chaperone?”

“Hamza, bas,” Salama says with some steel in her voice, all her shyness disappearing.  

He doesn’t seem to relent. Looking me up and down, he says, “You’re studying to be an artist, right?”

His tone isn’t condescending which surprises me. It’s usually the general first reaction to anyone who hears I declined my acceptance to medical school to study animation.

“Yes,” I say. “Animator, actually.”

“And you know how incredibly competitive that line of work is?”

“Isn’t every job like that?” I reply.

Layla nods, looking impressed.

“Can you not interrogate him right now?” Salama asks, massaging her forehead.

“Have you thought of where you’ll be living?” Hamza goes on, ignoring her. “You’re both still students. So how will you provide for her? Or do you think marriage is just fun?”

Salama glances at the ceiling, muttering a prayer.

“I’m older than you,” Hamza says and folds his arms. “Is that how you treat your elders? The way you did over the parking spot?”

“It’s how I stand up to what’s right,” I retort. “Age doesn’t matter when it comes to that.”

His nostrils flare. “I was there first.”

“Well, you got it at the end.” I narrow my eyes and my hand absently plays with my tie that he pulled while I grabbed the front of his shirt. “Through sheer bullying.”

“I am so telling Mama what you did,” Salama says, glaring at her brother. “Even if it wasn’t Kenan. My God, you physically fought someone over something so stupid? At your age? What if you were a dad? How embarrassing it would be for your kid.”

Hamza’s lips twitch with amusement, all his indignation dissolving.

“Traitor,” he whispers to Salama but there’s no heat in his words. He turns to me, seizing me up and down like he’s seeing me for the first time. “I still don’t like you.”

I don’t say anything, holding his stare.

Layla leans forward. “I’m sorry about him. Please ignore him.”

I try to hide my chuckle. “It’s all right.”

She continues, “What you must tell us is why did you show up? I mean, aside from your mother asking you to. Why did you want to meet Salama? Why was your mother so insistent because we were trying to fig—”

“Layla,” Salama says quickly. “Thank you. That’s enough. I think you and Hamza need to see the view of the café from over there.” She points to the other side of where we’re sitting.

“That’s not—” Hamza starts.

“Now,” Salama interrupts, her voice sharp.

They settle into a staring match that I know very well and at the end, Salama emerges victorious. Layla takes his hand, dragging him to the empty table out of earshot.

I take the seat in front of her, and she rubs her eyes. “I am sorry about all of this,” she says. “This is so embarrassing.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. I honestly thought you’d want to leave after the whole parking spot thing.”

“Yeah, what happened there?”

I tell her everything, and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry but you both arrived at the same time. So you should have shared the spot.”

“You mean squish the cars together?”

“Exactly,” she says solemnly. “That’s only fair.”

I laugh. “I knew you were smart.”

She smiles, fiddling with her glass of lemonade.

“Oh, right,” I say, standing. “Let me get you a glass of lemonade.”

Salama

Layla gives me the thumbs up from across the café and mouths he is cute!

I nod, trying to school my features back to normal when Kenan comes back. Only he’s not just holding a glass of mint lemonade, but it sits on a tray that’s filled with an assortment of desserts. Mhalabeye, layalee lebnan, and five servings of knafeh.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I got a bit of everything,” he says, setting the tray in front of me. I try not to stare at his hands and forearms and fail miserably.

“Wild guess, but the knafeh…”

“Oh, that’s mine. All five of them. So, if you want yours, you’re going to have to get one yourself,” he says teasingly.

My lips twitch. “Right, sorry. I should have done my homework on you.”

He sits, pushing the whole tray towards me. “Whatever you want. If you want something else, I’ll get it.”

“It’s all right,” I say, laughing, and his eyes glimmer. They’re the most beautiful green shade I have ever seen.

“No, really, I—” he says and then does a double take at something on the table. I glance at what he’s looking at. It’s my phone lying on its face, showing my Totoro background. “That cover?”

I clasp my phone, pressing it against my chest feeling my cheeks heat. “Yes. Yes. I’m a Studio Ghibli fan. I don’t know if you know what that is.”

One would think I told him he just won a million dollars.

“Me too,” he says in a hushed voice, and his whole expression changes. If he shined before, he’s blooming now. “That’s why I got into animation.”

I blink several times, warmth spreading to my extremities.

He leans back, and something switches in his gaze. Like he’s not just seeing me, he’s studying every detail.

“What?” I ask, raising a hand to my face.

“I’m trying to figure out how I’d draw you. In which setting.”

I smile. “I can help you with that. I always pictured myself as one of the villagers in Kiki’s Delivery Service. A flower shop by the sea.”

He grins, and my heart skips several beats. “I see it. I can draw that.” Then, he gestures to himself. “What about me? Where do you see me?”

I clasp my fingers together, taking in the specifics of him. The faint scar splitting his left eyebrow in half, the warmth of his green eyes that tell me how gentleness runs deep in his blood, the light tan on his face, down to the creased shirt with the first button unbuttoned revealing a flicker of collarbone.

“I think we’d be neighbors in Koriko,” I finally say. “People would buy flowers from me to heal them or make them happy and they’d visit your shop for paint brushes to paint places far away. I think we’d belong in a port town. I think there’s enough magic in that to make us happy.”

His gaze softens, and he draws closer. “Are we… and what’s the nature of our relationship in that might life?”

My lips turn into a cheeky smile. “I don’t know. I just met you.”

He laughs, and it’s such a wonderful sound, I wonder if it’s possible to feel like you know someone from a few words and laughs.

“Well, then,” he says and holds up a plate of knafeh, “I would like to know you, Salama.”

So he tells me about himself. About the expectations his parents had for him, and how he decided to be a dreamer. About his younger siblings, and I can tell how much he loves them. He tells me how he played soccer in middle grade all the way up to high school, but he doesn’t really have time right now. He makes me laugh when he tells me the story of how he lost his first tooth.

He asks me about me. What I like to do. What’s my favorite type of tea? My favorite type of music. Where would I like to travel? Do I want to live my entire life in Homs or move somewhere else? Whether I believe Pluto is a planet. He asks me why I wanted to be a pharmacist.

“I… I always felt the earth call to me,” I say and then shake my head. “This sounds weird. Forget it.”

“No, no,” he says earnestly. “I get what you mean.”

He looks so genuine; I don’t feel silly spilling the thoughts I only entertained in my mind. “I’ve always had a green thumb. I love growing flowers and plants. I loved going up to my grandparents’ estate and spending hours in the orchards and gardens, studying every plant. I knew how to take care of them. Plants never died with me. I read so many books on medicinal herbs. I make my own hydrating creams, you know?”

He watches me with wonder, like he’s been looking for me forever and he’s only just found me.

“We go to the same university. How have I never met you before?” he says.

Before I can answer, Hamza’s voice cuts through like a splash of cold water. “We need to go home.”

Kenan and I look up, with what I assume are identical expressions— exasperation.

He stands in front of us, arms folded, and Layla is nowhere in sight. Which means she’s in the restroom.

“Why?” I ask. “It’s been a half hour.”

“It’s been two,” Hamza says.

I blink.

“Also, Mama called, and she needs us back.”

I sigh, mentally cursing at Hamza and his smug face. He’s enjoying this way too much which I know is payback to how much I third-wheeled his dates with Layla. Even though it was what Mama and Layla’s mama wanted me to do.

It was a relief when they did the katb ktab, and I was free from having to sit between them.

“I’m going to smack you,” I mouth at Hamza behind Kenan, and Hamza rolls his eyes.

Kenan stands, his hands going into his pockets, and for the first time since he got here, he looks flustered.

“I… Will I see you again?” he asks, his cheeks coloring up.

“We’ll see about that,” Hamza answers.

“Hamza!” Layla half shouts before arranging her expression into a sweet one. She glides to where we are and hooks her hand through his elbow before dragging him away. “We’ll be waiting in the car.”

“You have five minutes,” Hamza calls out, pointing two fingers at his eyes before extending them to me.

When they’re gone, I turn toward Kenan. “You sure you want to see me again after all this?”

“Absolutely,” he answers instantly.

I realize then how much taller he is than me. He leans one hand on the table, angling his body toward me, and I wonder if he’s done this before with anyone. It feels too smooth for him to be a natural but the shyness and hesitation on his face tell another story.

“I honestly didn’t know what to expect when Mama told me about you,” he says in a low voice. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I thought it would be awkward at best. But… it wasn’t. Right?”

His eyes flit all over me, searching for my answer.

“It wasn’t.” I hug an arm around myself, and the tension drains from his shoulders.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair. 

I laugh and find myself hoping my own hands will be able to do that soon.

I pick up my purse, shifting from one foot to the other. “I better get going before Hamza comes barging in.”

“Let me just pay the bill, and I’ll walk you out,” he says, hurrying to the counter.

He escorts me out, and I discover the sun was made for him in the way her rays turn the brown in his hair a deeper shade and light up the green in his eyes.

“I’ll message you?” he asks, holding the door for me.

Layla has spun around in her seat, her phone in her hand as she, not so secretly, starts taking pictures.

I nod, feeling giddy. “Yes.”

We stare at one another for a minute before a loud click of a camera knocks us back to reality.

“Yalla,” Hamza grumbles from the front seat.

“I am not bringing him next time,” I tell Kenan who just laughs and waves at Hamza.

I turn back in the car, watching Kenan standing there as we disappear around a bend.

Layla hoists herself up, crawling between the space that separates the front seat from the back seat.

“Layla!” Hamza yells, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “What the hell are you doing?”

I laugh, pulling her arms, and she crashes over me.

“How was it?” she shrieks, ignoring Hamza. “You looked like you hit it off. Even Hamza agreed.”

“I did no such thing,” Hamza replies, staring at us from the rearview mirror. “You twisted my words.”

“Are you going to be this annoying the whole time?” Layla asks, raising her eyebrows.

He mumbles something we can’t hear.

“Good,” she says and then turns to me. “So?”

I smile, leaning my head back against the headrest. “It’s too early to tell.”

She swats my shoulder lightly. “You’re such a liar.”

My phone vibrates with a message, and I glance at it.

Kenan: We would live a great life in Koriko. But I want to have adventures with you like Pazu and Sheeta had in Castle in the Sky. I’ve always wanted to meet my Sheeta. I hope you’ve met your Pazu in me.

The end.