Awakened by Love

By Azin Sametipour

From the critically acclaimed and award-winning author, Azin Sametipour, comes a breath-taking story about forbidden love, heartbreak and identity. Born in California into a Muslim family from Iran, Zoha Farzam thought she had her entire life planned. Graduating from UC Davis in just three years, and attending Stanford Medical School. Even remov

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palatine Hill Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999061428

Book preview

Chapter 1

Someone was shaking her arm. Too tired and sleepy to move, she ignored it. But the shaking continued.

What the—? Zoha thought groggily, opening her eyes. To her absolute horror, a guy was standing just a few inches from her, his hand on her shoulder, shaking it, touching it.

Don’t…don’t touch me! she snapped, jolting herself back onto her couch.

He jumped, his hand shooting back. Zoha scrambled, her arms drawing her shoulders in, even though he was now several feet away.

I’m sorry. Your alarm went off, and I figured you needed to wake up. I just…tried to wake you up, he said, his eyes on hers. He wasn’t lying. She could see that in those platinum-gray eyes, but, lying or not, he had no right to touch her. Granted, he didn’t know she was Muslim and that no men outside her family were allowed to touch her. But still, he shouldn’t have touched her. For crying out loud, she didn’t even know him; he had no right to!

He pointed to her phone, which was lying on the library floor. It must have slipped out of her hand. Your phone, he said. His voice was deep and strong, and it gave Zoha goose bumps.

Thanks, she said with a voice now barely above a whisper as she reached for her phone. All she knew was that she needed to get up, no matter how tired she was. She had to pick up her bag and head for the coffee shop. Zoha hadn’t been sleeping long, only twenty minutes or so—or at least that’s how long she had put the timer on. Only twenty minutes. So she would have the ten minutes to grab coffee from the student-center shop before her organic chemistry class. That was the plan, anyway. This was what happened when she tried to cram in a full day of school after only four hours of sleep the night before. A total, complete fail, she thought.

You okay there? the guy asked. He was now closer, a few inches from the green couch she had been taking her nap on, just behind the bookshelves at the far end of the library’s third floor. Zoha glanced at him. He had on a navy-blue UC Davis sweater. His dirty-blond hair was spiked on top and, like almost every guy on campus, he hadn’t had the time to shave that morning, but it was his eyes that made her stare at him. His eyes were the most gorgeous eyes she had ever seen, like two disks of liquid platinum.

Coming out of her daze, Zoha tucked one of her black curls under her left ear and said, Yes. Yes. Thanks.

You seem a little disoriented. The way he stared at her was as if she were from another planet.

I’m okay. Just tired. She rubbed her right eye, still careful enough not to smudge the eyeliner. She wished he would stop staring. Hadn’t he ever seen anyone waking up ‘disoriented’? Maybe he thought she was on drugs. She had already told him that she was fine, but he lingered, his platinum-gray eyes on her. Anyway, why was he there, in her private spot, the back of the library where the books had gathered layers of dust and hadn’t had visitors in years? But she didn’t have the time or the interest in striking up a conversation with a stranger she didn’t care to know, beautiful eyes or not.

Being Muslim and knowing how strict her parents were when it came to the opposite sex, Zoha still talked to guys and made friends with them if they were in her classes, but only to a point and no more. This guy who was standing in front of her was not in any of her classes. In fact, she had never seen him on campus before, and chances were that she would never see him again. Zoha got up and tried to grab her bag, but it fell. Given her luck, the bag was unzipped and, with a cacophony of sounds, everything in it scattered out. Her handmade makeup bag, her change, pencil case, and even her organic chemistry notes all spread out on the cold, gray stone of the library floor.

Oh, God! Not this! That’s all she needed—for her stuff all spread out on the floor in front of him. The clock was ticking against her. She would most likely be late for her class now. As she knelt down and started to pick up her stuff, Mr. Busybody offered, Here. Let me help you.

No, thanks, she said sharply, with a tone that said, You did your job, you woke me up; now, will you please leave me alone? She quickly threw her stuff back in her bag and zipped it, and without wasting another minute, strode out.

The couch in the library was her place to refuge between classes, mostly for studying. Since she had spent the entire last month interviewing for different medical schools, she had to catch up with her classes now. This left her overworked and exhausted. Just half an hour ago, while she was studying, she had been so sleep deprived that her eyelids had practically closed themselves.

Outside, the cool February breeze greeted her as she rushed toward the coffee shop inside the student center, across from her lecture hall. She badly needed that pick-me-up before her class started. Luckily, the line wasn’t too long, but she still hated to wait. She shifted from one leg to the other till it was her turn.

Small coffee, she said, before the barista could even open her mouth. And I am a student.

Do you have your card? the barista with clearly fake-blond hair asked. Zoha knew her from her sociology class.

I do, Zoha said, as she searched the inside of her bag. The little cardholder, in which she kept her student ID, her driver’s license, and even her bankcard, wasn’t there.

I don’t have it with me right now, but if I pay with cash, can you still give me the discount?

I’m sorry. Without the card, I can’t give you any discount. The girl rolled her eyes. Zoha wished at least she could remember the girl’s name.

You know me. I come here all the time. You were in my sosh class last year.

I am sorry. The girl shook her head, but her tone clearly wasn’t apologetic.

It wasn’t that Zoha couldn’t afford coffee without that 10 percent discount. It was because her dad was paying for her school, and Zoha didn’t have a job. If she could save him money, even a few pennies, she would. After all, he still had two more daughters who needed to go to college, too.

Fine, Zoha said finally, her lips drawing thin. But I will remember this, she thought darkly.

Were you looking for this? A man’s voice came from behind her.

It was the guy from the library, standing behind her with her little cardholder, that she had made last year of pink and purple felt. He loomed over her, which wasn’t a great shock, as Zoha was very petite. Even her fifteen-year-old sister, Noorah, was taller than she. With his height, this guy could be a basketball player, too—just like Noorah.

Where did you find it? she asked, finally taking the cardholder.

You forgot to pick it up when your bag fell, and you were in such a hurry, I had to run after you, he said through perfect lips. He could model, Zoha mentally noted somewhere in her subconscious.

She thanked him. Then Zoha turned and handing her ID to the barista, raised her eyebrows and said, Student ID! Now, give me my discount.

The barista took the card, scanned it, and handed it back to her without a peep.

Make that two, actually, the guy said, and handed the barista a ten-dollar bill. Keep the change.

No, Zoha protested. No, I can buy—

It’s okay. I got it. He flashed her his white teeth.

She wanted to smile. This wasn’t the first time a guy had spontaneously treated her, and it wouldn’t be the last either, but what was the use? She couldn’t even befriend him, let alone think of anything more. She was first and foremost a Muslim girl.

From the back of the counter, a girl with spiky hair and a nose ring handed them two steaming paper cups. They took their cups and walked toward the milk-and-sugar counter.

Thank you, Zoha finally said. Really. You shouldn’t have.

I’m Ethan, he said, his eyes shifting from her hair to her face and back to her hair again. No, she wasn’t the tallest girl on the block, and yes, she was a typical Iranian girl, with her skin just a shade darker than pearl and dark-brown eyes. But it was almost always her lustrous black, curly hair, like something out of a hair dye commercial, that caught people’s attention.

Zoha, she said, holding on to her cup with both hands. She wasn’t always like that when it came to shaking hands. For years, she followed her mom and aunts’ method of saying apologetically, Sorry, we don’t shake hands with men. But after she started college, she figured out that if she kept her hands occupied, the chances of a handshake dropped off dramatically. Then she didn’t need to explain her life story to the person she had just met—that she couldn’t shake hands with unrelated men. She liked to keep things simple that way. There was no need for the whole world to know that she was a Muslim girl who came from a family whose main priority in life was their faith.

Zoha? he asked. She could read a million questions in his perplexed eyes. Is that even a name? If so, what kind of name is that? Where are you from? What’s your nationality?

Yes, Zoha. She gave him a quick smile. No, it wasn’t Emily or Courtney. No, it wasn’t the kind of name that one heard daily, but if he was really interested, he was more than welcome to Google it. She was late for her class and felt no obligation to share anything about it.

Is it Z-O-H-A?

Yes. Zoha smiled again. Thanks for the coffee, Ethan. I’m late for my class.

He hesitated a bit, and if it hadn’t been clear before, Zoha now knew that he was into her. He must have expected that treating her to coffee meant a good chat, maybe getting to know her better or even exchanging phone numbers. But she knew better than to exchange any number with him—or any guy, for that matter.

I’ll walk you to your class, he finally offered.

My class is just across the road, Zoha said, pointing toward the lecture hall.

What time is your class over?

Four, she said trying so hard not to smile. Who wouldn’t like a little attention from such a hot guy?

He nodded, and then finally said, It was nice meeting you, Zoha.

As she crossed the road to the lecture hall, she knew he was standing there, watching her. But she didn’t have to worry about it. She wore jeans and a jacket long enough to cover her bottom. She was covered. He would not see a thing.

After throwing the empty cup in a nearby trashcan, Zoha put her curls in a ponytail. She didn’t remember ever having a real haircut. Her mom’s friend, Mahnaz trimmed her hair now and then in her house, but she had never had a real haircut, or been to a salon. As a practicing Muslim girl, she was supposed to keep her hair under a scarf once she left the house, and Zoha had done just that until last year. But once she started college, she no longer wanted to wear the scarf. For Zoha, it was not just about wanting to fit in. It was more. It was about the reasons behind wearing a scarf, the reasons that no longer made sense anymore. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. She had thought about it all throughout her senior year in high school, but finding the courage and making the decision to actually remove her scarf without her parents knowing—well that was another story. Although she had kept her secret from them, the thought of it burned within her, like a hot skewer. The guilt of it haunted her; removing her scarf was a betrayal of their values. Her parents had raised her to practice and believe in Islam, but as she got older, she found herself struggling between what made her happy and what her parents expected of her.

Chapter 2

The organic chemistry lecture ended at exactly 4:00 p.m. Zoha could bank on that, given Professor Benzoin’s penchant for timeliness. That gave Zoha an hour to drive twenty-two miles in the evening rush hour to Sacramento, where her sister Noorah was having a basketball game at five o’clock.

She had just stepped out of the class when she heard someone calling her. She turned around, and to her surprise, she saw the guy she had met earlier walking toward her. What was he doing here?

Hi, he said, while maintaining his grin.

Hi, she responded.

Where’re you heading? he asked, as if they had known each other all their lives.

Well, I have to be somewhere in Sacramento by five, she answered hesitantly. She didn’t want to chat with him. Their little encounter was supposed to have had ended two hours ago.

Where’ve you parked? he asked. I can walk you to your car.

She looked at him. He was tall, gorgeous, and not at all her type. All along, he had given her the impression that he was the kind of guy who had nothing to do with girls except try to get into their pants the first thing after they met. It was perhaps the way he held himself, his posture—so confident, so sure of himself. Maybe it was his voice, deep and masculine, yet soft like velvet. No, no, it was his eyes—definitely his eyes. She shook her head. Whatever it was, in no way was she in the tiniest bit, even slightly, interested in such guys. Because she would never let any man inside her pants unless that man was her legal husband. Yes, sex was a sin, but it was more than that. She was Zoha, an achiever and a top student in her own right. She didn’t want to just be someone’s fling. She wanted to be someone’s love. Someone’s only love.

Did you hear me? His voice shook her out of her thoughts.

I’m sorry, what?

I can walk you to your car.

No need, thanks, she said, as she tried to put a few feet of distance between herself and him. He, however, had no trouble catching up.

You know what I’ve been doing for the last two hours?

No, I don’t, she said picking up her pace.

I was thinking, ‘What kind of name is Zoha?’ He was practically walking right next to her now.

She stopped and faced him. Raising her eyebrows, she asked, And?

And? he said, looking directly into her eyes. She suddenly found herself chewing her lower lip.

Nothing, he said.

What do you mean, ‘nothing’?

I couldn’t figure it out. He stepped aside for the people behind him to pass by.

You don’t know how to use a search engine? she asked.

Damn it! he blurted.

What?

That didn’t even cross my mind.

Well, glad I could help. She started walking again. He was making her late, but he followed her.

Wait a second, he said.

She stopped. He looked at her in a way that made her heart unfold. She found herself chewing on her lower lip again. Stop it! She ordered herself.

He then put his hand in his pocket and said, Let’s see. He pulled out his phone. She watched him unlock it and press something. Was he really searching now? After a few seconds, he stretched out his hand.

Look, he said, and his eyes twinkled. He showed her the screen, which was set to the Urban Dictionary page.

Zoha: Someone with immense beauty who is flawed with an aggressive nature. This person uses her looks and anger to destroy those who let her.

Her smile vanished as she took it in. Zoha never, ever cursed, but in that moment, she wanted to call him an asshole. He took the phone and put it back in his pocket, then looked at her, his eyes puzzled. Well?

That’s not the meaning of my name. She managed, irritated.

It’s not? he asked, clearly not believing her.

No, it’s not, she snapped at him.

At least one part of it is true, for sure. You are beautiful.

She didn’t smile. He could not insult her and then call her beautiful. In Arabic, she said, Zoha means ‘daybreak.’

Her dad had named her after the ninety-third chapter in the Qur’an—the chapter with only eleven verses. How could she explain that to him?

It’s a beautiful name, Ethan said, his voice dropping almost to a murmur.

Thank you, she squeaked.

That was the first definition on Google search, Zoha.

Zoha was no longer angry with him. For some reason, she liked the sound of her name on his lips. My father chose my name the night before I was born from the Islamic holy book, the Qur’an. Do you know what that is?

Yeah, I know about the Qur’an, he said softly.

She gave him a quick smile. I was a bit shocked to see what you showed me.

I really am sorry. He shifted on one leg, his eyes falling on his Vans before looking up. She took a deep breath, now realizing in those short sentences how much information she had given him about herself.

It’s cool. Don’t worry about it. She wanted him to leave, but he moved closer.

I would like to make this up to you, Ethan said.

Please don’t—she felt like saying.

I’d like to buy you lunch sometime. Tomorrow?

I’ve got enough money to pay for my own lunch, she said, without even thinking.

He was taken aback as he looked at her. His expression said, What the hell?

I mean, there’s no need. Thanks. She then looked at her phone. It was getting late.

He took another step toward her, but before she could move, he put his hand on her shoulder. She jumped, holding her shoulder with her other hand, and said, Please don’t touch me.

I’m sorry. I…mean, I didn’t mean to— There was a line between his eyebrows. She could spend the next ten minutes explaining to him why he couldn’t touch her, but she really didn’t want to.

I have to go.

He swallowed hard. Can you at least let me walk you to your car?

Okay, but my car is parked far away, and I really need to hurry up, she said, walking past the rows of parked bicycles outside the science building.

What’s your major? he asked, catching up to her.

Molecular biology, she answered.

Are you premed?

The guy was smart, Zoha thought. Most of the time, people would say, Wow, that’s hard. or What do you want to do after you graduate?

Yes, it runs in the family. My dad went to med school at UC Davis. She closed her eyes for a brief second, sighing silently, realizing that that was the second time she had talked about her dad and again had given out information that he didn’t need to know.

What kind of doctor is he? he asked.

Internal medicine.

Cool.

What about you? She figured it was the politest thing to ask. She didn’t have to know anything else about him. She would let him walk her to the parking garage. They would say good-bye. She would maybe see him now and then on campus and would perhaps say hello. Then, he would get busy and forget all about the girl with the big hair and the strange name. As sexy as he was with his unshaven face, that ripped body, and platinum-gray eyes, she wasn’t interested in getting to know him. She had no common ground with him, no future. She was Muslim, and he wasn’t. It was as simple as that.

Enology, he said coolly, as if it was the most normal major ever.

Enology? She stopped in her place. Her voice was loud enough to make the Asian boys standing by the side of the road look up.

Ya Allah! she said under her breath. Why did she act like a ten-year-old?

Yes. Wine making.

Oh, I know what that is. Wine making? Really? she said with a smirk. Wine making, she said again, this time chuckling. I always wondered why people needed to go to school for that.

He was smiling widely now, flashing all his teeth. Wine making is a combination of art and science, Zoha. So yeah, people do need to go to school for that.

To make wine? Why can’t you just learn it on the job?

You could also ask why people go to school to be artists like painters or actors or even writers.

Well, I could ask that, too. She shrugged.

You might be surprised, but we do have lot of premed converts.

What do you mean? she asked.

There’re people who start off as premed, but they change to enology.

Yeah. That would never happen to me.

You never know. You should take a class. You’ll like it.

You think? I am Muslim. I don’t take alcohol-making class.

His phone chimed. Oh, shit! he said, looking at his phone. I totally forgot. I’ve got a meeting in like five minutes.

What meeting? Wine tasting? she teased, her voice velvety. Good God, was she flirting with him? She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and ordered herself to stop.

I would’ve missed a wine-tasting meeting to walk you to your car, but no, it’s something else, and I really need to run. So when can I see you again?

Please don’t do this. I am not your type—she wanted to say. She looked at her boots and felt a rush of heat from her heart to her face.

Maybe we can exchange phone numbers? he said after a pause, when she stayed silent.

She couldn’t exchange phone numbers. It wasn’t possible. What did she have in common with this sexy guy who was studying to make wine? What would she tell her dad?

I don’t have a cell phone. What a stupid excuse. She knew he wouldn’t buy it, but she lied anyway. It’s been a year since her whole life had become a series of lies; one more lie wouldn’t hurt.

You don’t?

Good. The lie seemed to be working. She shook her head innocently.

Interesting! Well, I would have believed you, but then I remember your cell phone lying on the library floor just a few hours ago.

Ah! Of course he would remember that.

She swallowed hard and took a step away from him. She just wanted to run away from the look in his eyes.

He raised his eyebrows. Zoha, you know there are a million ways I can find to talk with you. I can easily search ‘Zoha, UC Davis’ and find your Facebook account or even find your school e-mail. He paused, his jaw firm. But, if you don’t want to give me your number, at least don’t lie to me! He took a few steps away from her. Anyway, it was nice chatting with you.

Nice chatting with you, too. Zoha fought to keep her voice steady. She wanted to run after him and say, It’s not you; it’s me. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She stood there as if she were glued to the ground, her mouth locked shut. Yes, he could find her school e-mail address, but that was the only thing she had out there. Social media, that was different. She had deactivated all of her accounts about a year ago after removing her hejab. She couldn’t risk being caught without her scarf. She was living a double life, and there was no way she could mix her two lives together—not yet, anyway. Maybe after she graduated, but not now.

Zoha watched Ethan as he crossed the street and disappeared behind the building. She hated herself for being so mean to him.

Chapter 3

When Zoha was a few miles away from her sister’s school, Trinity High—the same private, all-girls high school she had graduated from two years ago—she leaned and opened the glove compartment. She felt for it, and there it was: a neatly folded, sky-blue scarf. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Zoha threw the scarf on with practiced ease. She would adjust it once she parked and walked to the gym. For the time being, she had to have something covering her head in situations when she might see someone who knew her.

Inside the cavernous building, she found a place in the front row and spotted her sister on the court. It wasn’t hard to spot Noorah, the only girl there wearing a scarf. Zoha grabbed her iPhone and tried to take pictures of her sister in action. It was hard to take pictures of Noorah, streaking across the court, grabbing the ball and scoring, clearly not limited by her headscarf or the fact that she had to wear leggings and a long-sleeved shirt under her uniform. Zoha took a deep breath as she looked at all the other girls wearing shorts and Under Armour sleeveless tops, with their hair in ponytails, bouncing left and right as they ran. She then looked back again at Noorah, who didn’t think twice about her scarf or the fact that she had to cover her skin. Of course, all that mattered to these girls at this moment was the ball in front of them and the numbers on the scoreboard.

Zoha was proud of Noorah, of course, but for reasons she couldn’t really explain, she was also disappointed in herself. Was it because she never played any sports? She had tried, of course, but she had never taken any sports seriously. When she was four years old, before Noorah had arrived on the scene, her