Ghassan’s sister was at the bakery when we arrived. She worked there less frequently since Ghassan had returned, because her incessant lectures were intolerable: he wasn’t pious enough; he should be married by now, should have kids; he didn’t associate with pious friends; why was he so stubborn. Worst of all was her disdain for Jumana.

We were surprised to see her, and she us.

“Welcome, ladies. Ghassan didn’t tell me we were having company,” she said. She eyed Jumana up and down, stopping at her hair. “Still not wearing a hijab, I see.”

I stepped forward, putting every nasty curse word into my stare. Ghassan appeared in the periphery, and I whispered, “Something is wrong with you,” before he came near to greet us.

She didn’t like him shaking Jumana’s hand and kissing her on each cheek, but she held her tongue as Ghassan congratulated us on Bilal’s triumph and on the wedding.

“Oh, Ghassan. This is the strangest wedding in the history of Palestine,” I said. “Bilal is going to be—”

“Did he even ask for your hand?” Ghassan’s sister interrupted.

Before I could sink my claws into her eyeballs, Ghassan snapped, “What are you still doing here? Your husband called you home half an hour ago. Go!”

As she walked away in a huff, Ghassan turned to us. “I was just making some fresh bread while dinner gets here. I sent for a few mashawi and mezze plates,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself,” Jumana said.

He smiled at her, repeating an old saying: “For the ones we love, nothing is ever trouble, and everything is never enough.”

“Ugh. You two are ridiculous.” I rolled my eyes. “We should be talking about your wedding.”

Ghassan leaned in. “Looks like we have extra ears,” he said, motioning to a group of young men sitting at a table across the room. They were the only remaining customers, and we spoke superficially until they left.

Ghassan got up to lock the door after them.

“Do you think they’re spies?” Jumana asked.

“Who knows anymore. They’re from the village, but they don’t come here often,” he said. “Listen, we have some inventory. We need to move it tomorrow,” Ghassan added. “Two women are going to come to your salon in the late afternoon to get their hair fixed. Make sure your parking spot is available. And get rid of other customers when they arrive. We’ll take care of everything else.”

I looked at Jumana. Neither of us knew what to say. Ghassan admonished us. “Try to seem as if we’re just having a friendly conversation. Anyone walking by can see us.” We complied, adjusting our expressions for the large storefront window.