And if Alex had false impressions of her, well then was she any better? She confessed to herself that it felt dangerous to be with Alex, too—her mother expected her to eventually marry an Arab man. But what if Alex was the one for her? She needed to break out of the box, to find out, to imagine different endings to the story her mother had scripted.

So she didn’t say much about her feelings to him—in a way, she was grateful that he showed interest in her culture. There were times when she lacked interest in her Arab-ness, when she wanted it to disappear and just wake up blonde and green-eyed, with a live-in, stockbroker boyfriend who watched football on Sundays while she read Time magazine on the couch beside him.

That, of course, had been her parents’ first rule. They didn’t support her moving out in the first place (“It’s not safe,” her mother had said), but they expressly clarified that they would be compelled to disown her if it turned out that she was “with a man” or causing people to label her “bint al haram.”

But leaving had become necessary—not to live with a man, but to prevent the competition of cultures from fogging the path of her future. There were times when it had, when she’d hated her mother and father—their sad faces, their accents, the way they always spoke wistfully of home, as much as she felt awkward around co-workers who couldn’t wait for Fridays but trudged in with Monday morning hangovers.

“Would your parents like me?” Alex asked her one night, as they took one of their nightly strolls. They headed toward South Street this time to do some window shopping and people-watching.

“I’m sure they would,” Reema answered, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

“Even though I’m not an Arab?” he stared at her eagerly.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, not sure how to give him an answer. His eyes looked almost desperate.

“I mean, would they want you to be with me or with an Arab guy, like Nabeel?”

“Most parents want their children to marry within their culture—it’s natural.”

“So they wouldn’t like me?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Yes, you are.” He dropped her hand. “They probably wouldn’t even like you being with me. I’m disgracing the family or some crap like that and then your brother would have to kill you to preserve everyone’s honor.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “And have you told your parents about me?” she counterattacked. “What did they say?”

He stopped under a street lamp, and she could see an odd smile on his lips. “Actually, I mentioned you to my mother and—goddamn it if she didn’t ask me what color you were.” He peered at her. “Isn’t that weird?” The cage of his mouth swallowed the “d.”