Honeybee

If anyone saw who I was swiping right on, they’d think I had no father figure at all.

The smoke from the candles on my cake probably still lingered in the air, but here I was, newly eighteen, perusing the profiles of guys whose ages began with a two.

It would have made logical sense to try for someone my own age. But from what I had heard from my friends who actually could talk to guys, they were unserious. I had to broaden my horizons.

Besides, my father was in the next room, snoring loudly, so no one could say the opposite was true.

My parents would think that I was forcing myself into maturity too young, and that guys like these thought I was good for only one thing. Maybe they would have accused me of probably trying to have sex. They always had their eyes peeled.

An hour ago, I slipped out of the dress I bought for my birthday, and wedged myself underneath my blanket, taking narrow breaths as the bright glow of the app lit my face. It was so quiet at night, and the silence felt lingering.

‘Honey’ and its yellow honeycomb logo popped up to meet me, and then it prompted me to make a profile.

After this, there was no turning back. I was officially going to be the girl who had been on a dating app. I was opening myself up to the public, to a whole new world. If I were talking to my friends from church, they would have told me I was dipping my toe into the murky sewage water of guys who only wanted to say dirty words to me or even…hook up.

I wouldn’t be dating app innocent again. Somebody would see me.

Finally.

It was time to make my profile.

I selected five photos of myself that I disliked the least. They hid my double chin and the way my stomach rolled over itself. Then I put a picture of my Bible sitting on my lap, as I was sitting close to the front pew at church. I showed my Christian-ness.

It made me look somewhat pretty. Not the kind of pretty all my girl friends would compliment me about, but the kind of pretty a guy would see.

I put in my ‘About Me’ section that I loved to hang out with my friends, and was looking for someone to get me to leave the app. Then I did the prompts.

What’s a conspiracy theory you have?

“Aliens are real,” I imagined I said goofily.

Typical Sunday?

“Going to church and praising my saviour Jesus!” I proclaimed in the next one.

I was well-rounded and unique.

I set my preferences to “Christian.” I was at church today, and today they talked all about marriage, and how it was a relationship of mutual love and respect, and those in the dating process should not conceal anything, but seek wise, godly counsel.

It didn’t apply to me at all yet. Maybe not for the next couple of years. But if I were going to be in a godly marriage, I couldn’t hide anything.

I needed to fish for good men on this app. If I found a man, and he wasn’t church approved, I would immediately break up with him. I would not choose the wrong person, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to jeopardize my church community.

So I started swiping. The guys were okay. There were so many pictures of them holding up large fish, posing nonchalantly by their cars, and maybe there were even stills of them with lifted hands in worship at church.

I swiped, and then the screen lit up again.

You’ve seen everyone. Adjust your preferences for more results.

A sigh escaped me once again.

Hesitantly, my finger hovered over the filters once again, and I looked at it. It was set to 20-25 for conservative Christian men. My finger touched the screen again.

20-25-year-old men only.

I started swiping again and saw the guys.

 They had shirtless pictures with muscles and abs on their profiles. My eyes lingered on the screen as I felt a flush spread through my cheeks.

They also had photos of them holding up beer cans and cigarettes or playing the guitar at basement shows for bands that people in my church wouldn’t approve of.

Tension strained my chest.

What was I doing?

So I swiped right on every single one of them.

I didn’t register what I had done until I got approximately two matches at first. They were both cute guys who had probably already experienced a woman, and my gut twisted. They probably didn’t care about purity a lot then.

But anyway, neither of them replied to the enthusiastic greeting I gave them. Maybe my choosing of them was for the ego boost it gave.

The next guy was named Artan, and he was twenty-four years old. That was 7–no–6 years older than me. I could already imagine everyone telling me that he was too old for some reason.

I first looked at him like every other guy, except he didn’t seem to be like every other guy.

Artan was a South-Asian guy with a build that looked like he spent long hours at a physical job. His hair was a little shaggy, round, black, and he had a beard that looked to be filling itself in.

Artan was the kind of guy who was attractive in a way that wasn’t immediate, flashy, or showed itself off to you in a second with curated photos. It had to be analyzed for a moment, probably when he breathed or cracked a smile, which is when you would drink in his features.

For a moment, I wondered if he was lying about his age, because he looked a bit older than 24 years old, and there was a 37-year-old man behind the screen instead.

People could do that, apparently. But I couldn’t help but trust him.

Artan had two pictures. There was one of him hiking on a trail and another of him holding a coffee cup. He probably didn’t care for vanity, seeing as he had two photos at angles that just made him look flattering enough, but not truly. He probably loved nature and loved the environment, and maybe he even recycled that coffee cup.

Maybe he wasn’t a conservative.

I know I should have craved a conservative man because I was a Christian. I wouldn’t bring someone to church who contained ideas they found… alternative. I had mastered the art of silently nodding instead of openly disagreeing. He could rock the boat that I tried to level through quiet conversation.

But I lingered on his profile. My finger hovered over the right side of my screen.

The screen lit up, telling us we had matched, and my stomach swelled a bit.

This was real. I saw him, and he saw me.

Hey! How are you doing?

I thought nothing of it as I sent the message. It was enthusiastic, but not too flirty so that it would look like I was throwing myself at him, because what kind of girl was I?

Was I so devoid of attention and affection that I had to cling to any guy who just showed me a fraction of it?

Of course not.

But I didn’t know what the guys on ‘Honey’ thought was too much. It seemed like they all went to the same place and learned how to write prompts for their profiles, because all they would say is “don’t be dry” or “be bold.” It was vague, and I imagined them throwing virtual tomatoes at me or smelling my desperation through the screen if they didn’t like me.

Artan: Yoooo

My heart sped up as I read his instant reply to me. He sounded cool, but maybe he didn’t take himself too seriously. I liked that.

Me: How are you?

Artan: Good? Hbu?

Me: I’m good!

Artan: Wyd?

Me: Just in bed? U?

Artan: In bed as well.

A yawn escaped from my mouth. I quickly switched the tabs to check my Instagram, and then scrolled through like five TikToks, before checking my email, and then coming back to the app again.

I thought people who were interested in each other were supposed to say something fun. I had nothing to work with! What was I supposed to say now? Was matching supposed to be the peak of this?

I sighed and then switched back to the page that showed me all my matches.

From looking at another profile, I found a guy who was from the United States and was on vacation in Canada. He was looking for someone to spend time with and show him around the city.

I found out he worked at a big, grown-up finance company in the States. He had huge muscles and abs, which I stared at in pictures, and had fluffy brown hair.

I had never even really seen a guy like this, let alone have them interested in who I was. My heart started beating.

His profile said he was “spiritual.” Maybe he was a Christian who needed to be a little bolder in professing the Gospel. Or he was confused and needed help. Non-Christian guys were off-limits.

But I couldn’t help but text him anyway.

He sent a voice message, which I put to my ear.

“Hey…” he lingered on in a deep and groggy voice. “It’s nice to meet you. You’re so beautiful in your pictures. I’ve been around Calgary these past few days, and I would love to see you.”

If anyone could see me, I would be a blushing mess at the moment.

He sounded like a seasoned traveller and was open to seeing and hearing about new cultures. I liked openness.

Guy: Do you wanna hang out?

He asked right away. He wanted to hurry things up. My heart quickened. He wasn’t wasting his time on a dating app. He wanted to see me and date me.

I imagined video calling him as he went back to California or surfing on the beaches with him, because I would have lived with him there. He called me beautiful, which I had never heard from a guy, so he must have wanted me in some way.

This was a man, not just some guy.

They probably knew so much more than guys at my age. They saw the world for what it was.

And I was in it.

MAN: I’ll pay for an Uber so you can come to my rental, my love.

Love? A small smile tugged at my lips. I had never been called that before. Maybe it suited me.

ME: Awesome! What do you want to do? I can show you around. There’s this cafe I’m dying to go to.

MAN: I was thinking we should hang and bang.

Hang and bang?

I suddenly felt the air crinkle in my ears.

He described it as if it were a quick, drive-through action. He was leaving Calgary soon. Maybe it meant it was for a quick hangout, and it’s how they said it down in California. Maybe I would learn the slang if we got together and–

Or maybe he had a hang-and-bang situation in every city.

A creeping chill raced down my spine.

I was being perceived. There was an expectation of that perception. I wasn’t a baby anymore. He wanted me.

ME: I don’t know about the bang part, but we can still hang, haha

Maybe he didn’t understand what he was saying after all. Maybe he was joking.

But saying no outright or blocking him might have been mean. I imagined him on the other side of the screen, pining over his words, thinking of himself as an idiot.

I refreshed the page, and suddenly he wasn’t available anymore.

He blocked me.

I went to bed.

The next morning, I woke up to a notification from Honey, a feature I would soon have to disable if anyone who trusted me as a brand-new adult glanced at my phone.

ARTAN: Good morning!

Artan was cheerful. He was cheerful because he wanted to talk to me. I smiled out of instinct.

ME: What are you up to now?

ARTAN: Just heading to work. Hbu?

ME: Heading to work as well? Where do you work?

ARTAN: I work at a warehouse, but I want to be a trucker one day.

As I got ready for the day, my toothbrush in one hand and my phone in the other, I found out he also wanted to own his own trucking company one day. I was going to university in a couple of months, but for now, I was working at a convenience store to save for the year.

ARTAN: You're so smart, going to university, haha

Artan had to redo some courses from high school, but wanted to go to a local college for business soon. I found this out as I was on the bus to work.

ARTAN: I have a question.

His question was sudden. We had been talking the entire bus ride to work, and the conversation was effortless. It felt easy.

ME: What?

ARTAN: Why did you join Honey?

I was eighteen now, and that opened me up to a world full of guys I would never have had access to. Maybe they would like me.

ME: I wanted to find someone. Wbu?

ARTAN: Same, haha. But sometimes I don’t get a good feeling about it. I might delete it soon.

Artan was going to delete the app. That probably meant he was fed up with everyone, or he maybe thought there was a person out there worth deleting it for.

I turned off my screen and caught my reflection in the phone, showing all my features to me.

I suddenly didn’t get a good feeling about ‘Honey.’

All of them seemed to want more than just a hangout. Not Artan, though.

Artan: What’s your Instagram?

I followed him instantly. Then I deleted Honey.

Artan wasn’t a sleazeball like Mr. Hang and Bang.

ARTAN: Your Instagram is so adorable.

ME: Aww, thanks

ARTAN: Wanna know something?

ME: What?

ARTAN: I thought you were too young at first, but I think ur really cool.

I couldn’t help but smile again. I found myself doing that a lot.

ARTAN: What did you do yesterday?

ME: I went to church.

ARTAN: Are you a Christian?

ME: Yeah. What about you? Are you religious at all?

ARTAN: Well…it’s kinda 50/50 at the moment

ME: With what religion?

ARTAN: I’m Muslim.

I was a Christian, devout, knowing who Jesus was before I even learned how to read. I loved the Lord. Artan didn’t even seem to really love his own lord. I wondered if he would be open to Christianity.

I suddenly realized there was a Muslim man inside my phone. He wasn’t trapped in there, but he was there. I needed to tell someone about this. My friends had to know, or else this would be a big secret.

But I immediately knew that none of my friends from church could ever know about him.

Artan was born in Okara, Pakistan, but moved to Canada when he was sixteen. I learned that after my shift. Maybe I could tell from the awkward texting style. I asked him to send a voice message, and he had a slight accent, which I found hot.

ME: How was life there?

ARTAN: It was good. I miss a lot of my family and friends. My parents miss it so much that they want me to move back.

My eyes widened. He could leave. As if he read my thoughts, he texted:

ARTAN: Don’t worry. I’m still unsure if I want to go back, and it will be next year.

Wasn’t he twenty-four and didn’t have to follow their every whim? I thought adults were supposed to stick up for themselves.

Was I?

ARTAN: Send a picture.

ME: I look so tired, and I’m at work, haha.

ARTAN: Send one, please.

ME: I can’t.

ARTAN: Just send one.

Sighing, I opened up the camera to reveal my tired eyes and frumpy work uniform. I still had my bonnet on and held up the peace sign.

ARTAN: Ur so cute, oh my gosh

Heat spread across my cheeks and then into my chest. It felt genuine, not like Mr. Hang and Bang, who called me beautiful just to get into my pants. That felt gross.

Artan didn’t feel gross.

I had never been called cute by guys, except as a joke for when they would tell me their much hotter and popular friend liked me.

ARTAN: I love how crooked your teeth are

I stared down at the text. Then I dashed into the work bathroom and smiled into the mirror, trying to find the twisted ridges and angles of my teeth. I didn’t notice it at all before he mentioned it.

I guess he noticed the things that I didn’t see.

Soon, Artan and I were talking every day. When I had breaks at work, I would grab my phone to text him, instead of banging my head on the wall, wishing for the end of my shift. Right before I did my nightly Bible readings, he was there, asking me about my day and taking notice of me.

ARTAN: You should sneak out and come and meet me.

I imagined it would be like in the movies, where I would put pillows underneath my blanket and jump out the window to meet him. I imagined us holding hands and laughing and going for late-night drives with music in the background.

Except I would be lying. While everyone thought I was lulled to sleep, I would be with a mystery guy they didn’t know about.

I could have blocked Artan. But he would wonder where I went, and he would feel bad.

Artan was insistent, and I would say the same thing every time.

ME: My parents are going to know

They were both light sleepers. If I told them I was spending time with a boy, suddenly, surely they would freak out that I didn’t tell them right as it was unfolding. I could barely go anywhere with friends, even without them asking a barrage of questions, asking for the life story of everyone.

It still didn’t stop him from asking. I thought he had amnesia or something.

But I wanted it. To hang out.

I would be past the point of no return. I couldn’t say anymore that no one had ever liked me or I hadn’t ever hung out with a guy, because Artan would be there.

And maybe I was okay with that.

ME: We should meet up.

ARTAN: Where?

ME: What if we got ice cream? There’s a place near my university, and it’s to die for.

ARTAN: Let’s do it then.

I appeared to be getting ready for school the next day, but I was also getting ready for Artan. I wore a tank top and put a small cardigan over it. The neckline was high.

I looked over my shoulder around my empty house and then pulled down the tank top and cardigan.

That will do, I thought.

Mom was downstairs getting ready for work when I got there, and on instinct, I pulled up my tank top.

She sniffled.

“Why are you wearing so much perfume?”

I suddenly found myself at school and could barely pay attention in my classes. I texted Artan to confirm if we were actually going to be hanging out today, and he replied with an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Classes were over, and I popped two pieces of gum in my mouth, then spat them out right away.

I didn’t need this. I would not be kissing him.

I walked to the shop, and I sat on the bench outside the ice cream shop we had said we were going to meet at.

I sucked in a deep breath as my heart bounced against my ribs, which went rigid with nervousness.

We were meeting in five minutes.

Then four.

Then three.

Then two.

When five minutes passed, I assumed he had to find parking. I suddenly realized I didn’t know the kind of car he drove.

So I waited.

We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed, and I practically snatched it out of my pocket. It was a photo of him outside…the post office?

ARTAN: Hey, I'm really sorry. I had to drop my friend off for an interview.

ME: It’s okay because you had to help a friend.

I replied instantly.

I clutched my backpack straps and stood up instantly, making my way to the bus station. I swallowed back a gulp. Everyone just saw me sit and wait, and then walk away. My stomach clawed.

I had spent all this time getting to the ice cream place and getting ready. Maybe he didn’t want to see me after all, and this was the excuse.

Maybe he didn’t like my crooked teeth after all. Perhaps he didn’t like my personality. I was ugly, or I was too loud, and he needed to get me off his tracks.

“I think it’s a red flag,” my friend explained to me the following day.

We sat together eating lunch at the fast-food place at our school. I explained Artan had to drop off his friend, but we were still going to meet again soon. Only she got to know about Artan because she didn’t go to my church at all.

“He cancelled on you last minute, and he does not value your time,” she recounted. “I wouldn’t go out with him after that.”

Maybe that was the truth. But he deserved grace. We all made mistakes.

So, I gave him another chance.

We met up a second time a few days after, but not at the ice cream shop. Apparently, he just found out a relative of his worked there, and if they saw him with a mysterious, Black girl, they would tell his parents.

ME: Where do you want to go?

ARTAN: What if we go outside the city for ice cream?

ME: Let’s go closer. I want to stay around the school.

ARTAN: We can go for a drive?

ME: Everyone is going to wonder where I am.

ARTAN: You sound like a wanted criminal, haha

ME: *laughing emoji

ME: What about boba? There’s a place near my school.

ARTAN: Then we shall go to boba.

Artan sent a picture of his car so I would know which one it was, which was a hail-damaged Volvo. I encountered it and stared into the car for minutes.

My arms tensed strongly as my heart pounded. There was a hail-damaged Volvo right in front of me. Artan, the guy I had been speaking to for months, was on the other end of that car.

I had never done this before.

I had never done this before.

I had never done this before. 

Artan’s gaze caught mine, and then suddenly I was wrapped up in the arms of a man I had never met in person, but smelled of sweet cologne, arms which were strong but soft, and excited to see me.

When we pulled away, I made eye contact with him, meaning he didn’t lie about his height in his profile, which I was relieved by.

Artan was wearing a compression shirt that outlined his figure, cargo pants, and these sandals that exposed all his toes. I didn’t know we were on toe-seeing terms.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s me!”

Of course, it was Artan. His Mario-like announcement came with a genuine smile.

“Hey, Artan,” I whispered. “It’s so great to meet you.”

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Don’t be, let’s go inside,” he said, and then walked in front of me.

I stopped in front of the door, and then he came and opened it. It almost swung onto my face, and then I stepped back with an awkward laugh.

Artan looked at me with a blank stare for a second, and I looked at him with wide eyes, before he suddenly laughed into a goofy smile. My cheeks went a little hot.

We went into the boba shop. I barely saw the menu before I told the worker I wanted a strawberry green tea drink.

It wasn’t when Artan ordered and tapped his card that I realized what I had done. I ordered a fruit tea, but I always got a milk tea. I never did that. My heart pounded.

But I had ordered it regardless. We left.

“We should walk around!” I exclaimed suddenly. “There’s a park nearby.”

“Too many eyes,” Artan blurted. “We can sit in my car. There’s no space for us to sit inside.”

He wasn’t wrong. We were on the university streetway close to a college bar. The whole point wasn’t to sit down.

If I were using logic, I would not go in the car of a man I virtually knew nothing about.

That was like common knowledge. Right?

Don’t go into his car, I thought.

Artan was a gentleman and opened the door for me, anyway. I swallowed back a gulp and stepped in, accepting his kind offer. I could have said no, but the door was already open.

The car smelled heavy of those little tree-shaped air fresheners, and I put my backpack into the back seat.

The air hung heavy with silence and smelled stuffy. I could hear the faint buzz of the outside world from inside the car, but the windows blocked it.

There was stuff all over the car, but it wasn’t messy, just busy. I sipped my tea quietly.

“Bismillah,” Artan whispered under his breath before taking a sip.

He then fiddled with his car speaker for a bit before he turned to me.

“What do you want to listen to?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Anything you want,” I blurted. “It’s your car.”

Artan dryly laughed before fiddling with his speaker to turn on a generic R&B playlist in the background.

He was quieter than expected, diverting from the chatty and flirty guy he was in my DM’s.

I was suddenly uncomfortable.

Maybe he had garbage bags, ropes, knives, and a knack for making women disappear in his arsenal.

“Are you nervous?” he asked with a goofy smile.

Artan could reach across the driver’s seat and strangle me. Or he could rape me.

I just shook my head as the word nervously lodged in my throat.

“You seem nervous,” he said. “You don't have to worry about me hurting you or anything like that.”

“You could hurt me if you wanted to,” I suddenly blurted out.

Artan’s lips parted in shock like he was going to say something as his eyebrows raised, but he smiled into a laugh. I laughed too, and he reached across to give me a joking pat on the back like I was an old friend. I tensed.

I wondered if maybe he could tell I was uncomfortable, and all of this silence and awkwardness before the laugh was all because of me.

Artan kept laughing until he went silent and then cocked his head at me. I could not look him directly in the eyes.

His eyes weren’t beautiful by any means necessary. They definitely wouldn't make me stumble in my tracks while speaking. So I looked at his cheek the entire time.

“How do you pronounce your name?” he asked.

It wasn’t an out-of-the-ordinary kind of question. My name was complicated and ethnic. Every time I had a new teacher, I knew by the pause and the pre-apologies before reading, that I was next in line.

But I don’t know why I was shocked that Artan didn’t know it. He had been reading it the entire time. I never called him by his name either, though.

I asked him over text how to pronounce it, but that’s all, because I wanted to hear what his voice sounded like.

I told him.

“That's a beautiful name,” he complimented. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

I pushed up a smile and giggled a bit.

“Thank you,” I replied slowly. “You have a nice car.”

That was a lie. It was a messy hail-damaged. I didn’t know why I said that.

Artan laughed a little before thanking me, and I smiled wryly again.

“You are the girl I met on Honey,” he said, as if he needed to remind me. “And you’re cute like a bee. You’re my Honeybee.”

My? That felt oddly possessive for a first date. If you could count sipping boba in a hail-damaged car as that.

I still laughed anyway because if he tried to say a cute pet name and I didn’t laugh, it would be embarrassing for everyone involved.

“Did you go to church today?” Artan asked.

“No,” I said. “I only go on Sundays, really.”

“Cool. Do you like it?”

“I love it. I love the church. I love Jesus.”

“How many siblings do you have?” I then asked to keep the conversation going.

“Three,” he said, with a smile. “I have a younger sister, and then two older brothers.”

“I’m an only child.”

“Does it get lonely?”

I thought about it for a moment.

“No,” I told him. “It’s fine.”

We kept on talking. He laughed at all my jokes. I became amplified, and I wanted to tell him more.

“There’s also one more thing you should know about me before we take this further,” Artan suddenly said, quieting the mood.

“What?”

“My parents want me to go back to Pakistan next fall to move back permanently,” he revealed.

Oh!

He already told me this. It’s like when he always asked me to sneak out and then forgot I couldn’t do it. I knew this information. But maybe he forgot. Maybe he didn’t think I was listening to him well.

“Do you want to go back?” is what I asked instead.
“I miss my family,” he said. “But there’s not a lot of hope there. That’s why people want to leave.”

We ended up talking for the rest of the time. It was about his job, or his family, or Pakistan, or school.

Artan drove me to the bus stop. It hadn’t even been an hour, and I wanted to stay longer, but I told my parents I was going to come home.

“I could drive you home,” he said as he parked inside the bus stop. “I don’t mind.”

That meant he would know where I lived, and that could have been dangerous. I’m sure he wasn’t, I just wanted to make sure.

He reached over and hugged me, and I hugged him back before dashing out of the car and to my bus that was waiting.

I dropped into a smile.

That was fun. I went out with a boy and he hugged me. He noticed me.

I couldn’t help but smile at him, even as his car drove past me.

It was so fun; we met up for the second time. I wanted pancakes.

ME: We should go get pancakes.

ARTAN: Pancakes?

ME: Yeah. It's great, some people have told me how they like it.

ARTAN: Let’s get boba. I’ll only pay for the boba.

I guess I wanted boba. He was paying anyway.

So when I once again waited outside the boba shop, panic gripped me when I remembered who I was meeting with, and what he had asked me.

It was two nights ago. He had interrupted my Bible study time to ask me a question.

ARTAN: How far have you ever gone with a guy?

I gave one a handshake before. I also spoke to a guy I was interested in.

That was all, I thought,

It seemed like everyone nowadays had done something with someone. I had done nothing. I wasn’t like the other people in this generation, who didn’t wait for marriage before they got into it with each other. I was different.

And I liked that.

ME: Nothing really. How about you? I’m guessing that since you’re Muslim, you have also done nothing.

ARTAN: I’ve actually done it multiple times.

Oh?

Oh!

He wasn’t a virgin. That was interesting.

ME: I’ve still done nothing.

ARTAN: It’s okay, we can take it slow. I won’t ask you to do anything.

He was going to be respectful of my boundaries. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to cross those boundaries.

No!

I was in his car again after that, where I hopefully wouldn’t be murdered again. There was no parking on the street today.

“Let’s find another street,” Artan informed me, leaning over.

I nervously traded a glance with the ground, and my jaw clenched. We would not be on the public street.

Dear Jesus. Please protect me as I enter this car. Amen.

We were moving locations. I didn’t plan for that. Suddenly, we found a quiet residential street, and he parked alongside the sidewalk.

Artan didn’t speak, but he only looked forward. Then he breathed and turned around to look at me.

Everything got quiet for a moment. I stared at the dashboard in front of me, but I could feel his gaze burning on me. He twiddled his fingers.

“Have you ever had your first kiss?” Artan asked cheekily.

“No.”

I already texted him this.

If we were going to be an actual couple, then maybe that was going to be important for us. But even I had muddy details about his own life.

Maybe he was actually a super spy, and this was his attempt at living a normal life.

My stomach kinda churned at the idea of having his lips on my lips. Maybe we were moving too quickly.

But for a moment, I wondered what it would be like running his fingers through his hair, as he grabbed my neck and kissed me so hard I couldn’t breathe anymore.

No.

“Do you want to have it?”

Did I? It was the second date. I wasn’t a slut at all. I wouldn’t give up my lip virginity so easily to him. Did I even want to kiss him?

Maybe we should have been walking in the park, hand-in-hand, while we gazed at the moon and stars, and then we kissed. That would have been a real proper date.

But once again, I was back in his car on a random street. It was just us.

Artan stared blankly at me for what seemed like an eternity.

I could feel his eyes slide down my entire being before he lightly bit down on his lip. A knot formed in my throat.

Artan was noticing me, alright.

He leaned over, and then I backed away. His eyes snapped open.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, feeling my shoulders go slack. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to do it?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I’ll stop if you want me to stop. Okay?”

Okay.

Suddenly, his lips collided with mine, and it felt…wet?

I immediately grabbed both of his shoulders, like I was in a pool, anchoring myself to him.

Artan’s lips danced against mine, but it was like he was freestyling and was still trying to find the rhythm, but then I couldn’t breathe, and then we kept kissing. My hands tightened into fists, and I kept opening my eyes, but his were still closed.

I pulled away.

“No way that was your first time!” Artan exclaimed, flopping back onto the seat.

He was giddy, like a little boy who just learned what “boobies” are.

The unsettling loop of him kissing me played back in my mind. I still felt Artan moving on my lips.

“It was,” I muttered under my breath, forcing a breathless smile.

I was a slut in way too deep.

“Take deep breaths,” he assured. “You know I have condoms, right?”

I was rigid. Artan grabbed my shoulder, and a sharp and cold tingle rushed across my skin.

My first kiss was gone.

I tore my arm away from him, and his eyes widened in concern.

“No.”

“It’s okay,” Artan assured. “Do you want to sit on my lap?”

“No,” I breathed again, taking shallow breaths.

“Do you want to kiss again?”

“No!”

My hand flew to the door handle. I staggered out of the car, catching a view of the uniform houses and the other cars parked against the street.

The breath caught in my throat. It was like someone had tied a knot there and wouldn’t let it go for dear life.

I think I started walking, but my legs seemed foreign to me, unwilling to let me get where I needed to go. I tried to breathe in the cool, crisp air, and not the tree-scented one in his car.

A sob escaped from my throat, and I covered my eyes, crying.

It was like the fresh air came with clarity. I caught my reflection in a car window. I was a person who, at this moment, just kissed a man I barely knew.

There was noise in the air, but I didn’t register it until the noise came closer.

“I thought you wanted to kiss!” Artan shouted in the quiet neighbourhood. I cringed.

“I wasn’t supposed to do that,” I cried, as a sob almost escaped my throat.

“It’s okay, I know it's your first kiss,” he tried to reassure. “I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it.”

For a moment, I pretended like my biggest problem was the fact that I couldn't kiss, and maybe I sloppily pushed my lips onto his, and it was a terrible kiss, but one day we could get better and do it better.

Maybe if I didn’t love the Lord or my family, or friends, or church, we could get better one day. Everyone else could know that I kissed Artan, and that would be okay.

Maybe I was a terrible kisser, but I didn’t have to be a bad Christian.

At that moment, I was just a terrible kisser.

I was just a terrible kisser here with Artan.

I pushed out another sob.

“It’s okay,” he slowly said, encapsulating me into his strong, hairy arms and hugging me.

“It’s okay,” I repeated shakily.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Atta girl.”

But the truth of the matter was, I was a good kisser and a bad Christian.

I was no longer pure.

Going to church that Sunday only made it worse.

My lips, which were reciting prayer and singing worship songs, were also lips that kissed a man nobody knew about. The song we were currently singing was about coming to the altar and laying all your worries down for Jesus.

But yet I wouldn’t lay down the very thing that was troubling me.

I was a liar. Everyone sat there around me like a crowd in the neatly arranged rows, praising and worshipping. I wondered if they could smell his cologne on me.

There was a forbidden man on my phone.

God, I was so untrustworthy.

So I did the right thing.

Shut the hell up.

Everyone would know and subconsciously perceive me and my sin if I told them anything. So I didn’t.

Afterwards, I still talked to Artan. But sometimes, I would answer him once or twice a day and not as long as I used to. Less frequently and less vigour.

I wondered what would happen if we got married and had kids. Nobody would allow this relationship to occur. I would have to elope with him like in Fiddler on the Roof.

“When can I see you next?” he asked over a video call.

I was in a cramped bathroom stall at church after the service had been dismissed.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “A lot is going on.”

I heard the door swing open and silently muttered a sudden curse under my breath.

The truth was, I didn’t want to see him at all, but I still wanted to see him. He was a magnet. A repulsive one, but a magnet.

Maybe girls his age didn’t want to date him because he was an absolute slimeball.

That couldn’t be. I was the youngest girl he had ever gone out with. It was NOT a pattern.

“I’m scared,” I admitted.

He paused for a while.

“Why?”

I said nothing.

“I don’t want anyone to find out,” I admitted. The door creaked open again.

“Are you ashamed of me?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Do you feel embarrassed to be around me?” he rephrased.

I shook my head.

Artan’s face twisted into a scowl, and then he poked his cheek with his tongue. He was upset.

It was a little hot.

The person in the bathroom suddenly stopped washing their hands and paused for a while. I pursed my lips together and prayed they heard nothing.

“Do you care that I’m old?” he asked.

I shook my head with vigour. But he was older, and he had probably seen lots of bodies and breasts and stomachs that didn't roll over. He was old, and I was young, and maybe he didn’t think I knew anything.

I didn’t want to know anything.

I didn’t want to know anything.

I didn’t want to know anything.

Maybe he was flirtatious enough, but something told me there was more to him.

The person in the bathroom left. I exhaled finally.

“I don’t have a problem with it,” I half-admitted. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

I wanted to believe my hesitation was because I was some innocent little girl being taken advantage of by an older man, and I feared what he could do to me.

Maybe it’s the fact that I thought he wasn’t attractive enough for me to risk my entire life over. Even if I didn’t know what I was risking.

But I was in his car once again on the same street days later, and my chest was still tense.

“Do you think I’m dangerous?” he asked suddenly.

It was unlike anything he had asked before, goofy and full of admiration for me. This was short and cold.

I shook my head and then faced forward, staring at the street in front of me.

“Hey.”

I didn’t speak.

“Hey.”

He called me by name.

I didn’t speak.

“I just don’t want you to be worried. Okay?” Artan suddenly whispered.

I turned back to him and relaxed my shoulders, leaning into the seat. I gave him a nod with a small smile.

“There you go,” he whispered, as he rested a hand on my shoulder. “There’s my Honeybee.”

Artan moved his hand to my chin and then turned my head around to face him.

We were kissing again. I melted into it this time, grabbing his face as well. I fell into an easy sigh.

It shouldn’t have been easy. But I relaxed.

We pulled away and then sat in silence for a bit. Even though we had kissed, we still had to talk about things. This couldn’t purely be physical.

“What did you do today?” I inquired.

“Packing for Pakistan,” he revealed.

“I thought that wasn’t until next year,” I said, as panic laced my voice.

“I’m going for a month to visit family,” he said in a reassuring voice. “I’ll be back by November.”

Artan didn’t tell me any of this yet. Why didn’t he say anything earlier?

A pit in my stomach formed.

“I didn’t know.”

Was I even supposed to know? I wasn’t his girlfriend. We were stuck in this weird limbo, where we had been talking for weeks, but didn’t have a label. How could we categorize our dates, when they consisted only of kissing, boba, and sitting in his car listening to music I didn’t like?

Maybe he didn’t need to tell me anything.

Like he was reading my thoughts, he said, “It’s just to visit family.”

He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not moving yet. We still have so much time for each other.”

“Okay.”

“I just really miss it over there.”

“Okay.”

But I lingered on how he said to each other?

That was a concept in itself. I fought back a smile.

I looked at him again, and he looked back at me with a joking smirk. He was joking.

But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the idea of a future lured me into this idea that Artan was a normal person who would be accepted in my circle, and he was a normal guy that I could have a future with.

I imagined that for a second. I imagined telling my friends:

“Hey, guys! This is Artan, and he’s my much older and much less Christian, but Muslim boyfriend. We’re going to get married.”

That wouldn’t work. There was no way.

We kissed again, and his lips engulfed me. Between the five minutes we just spent apart, I think the kiss might have somehow gotten better.

Suddenly, he was pawing at my chest with his hands, and I quickly forced them down. They came back up again, and I forced it down again.

 He took my head into his hands and kissed me deeper. He was insistent, and he was hungry. I took a sharp inhale.

My body suddenly shook, and for a moment I thought I might like to kiss him more, too.

The thought lasted long, but somehow not long enough when he pulled away again and put his lips to my ear.

“You’re wet?” he attempted to tease, but it confused me.

I couldn't tell if it was a question, an observation stroking his own ego (I would have rather have stroked that anyway), or an order. Right now, I just knew it was a statement of hot breath in my ear.

I bit down on my lips to suppress a laugh, but Artan must have misread that and moved to my neck.

It suddenly occurred to me I was in a hail-damaged car, letting a random man kiss my neck.

Artan kissed me again. Longer, harder, and faster. I could taste my fears. I could taste panic.

“Hey, beautiful,” he gulped in between the kisses. He tilted my head to look at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was fantastic,” he said. “I liked that. I needed that.”

And what about me?

At the end, he drove me to the bus stop again, and I got out, feeling the burning tingle of his lips on my throat.

The reminiscence of the kiss mixed with the guilt started taking over me. I was still a virgin, but I was a step closer to fully losing it, and I wasn’t getting married soon.

I couldn’t believe I had done this.

Church on Sunday came around again.

The pastor started preaching, and my phone burned hot in my pocket full of answered messages from Artan. The pastor started talking about how unconstrained lust and sexual desire could break down marriages and families, but also break down a person and how they perceived their relationship with God.

I needed to stay pure.

Somehow, we got to the end of the sermon, and I registered him doing a salvation call to those who had never accepted Jesus before. We closed our eyes, and then he told them to raise their hands so he could see them.

My eyes were tightly shut, and my hands remained in place.

Then he uttered a salvation prayer to those who had never accepted Jesus into their life.

“I accept your gift of eternal life,” I repeated at the end. “Amen.”

I took a deep breath in and then out.

I was safe now.

Artan was still texting me. My phone kept buzzing, and it wouldn’t stop. He wanted me to reply.

In my head, I kept drafting a message:

Thank you so much for your time, but I am not interested in anything serious right now.

Too dismissive.

I don’t think this is going to work out anymore. I’m a Christian, and you are not.

He was simply not.

I’m going through a lot. I just had a mental breakdown, and I don’t think that I am ready for a relationship.

It made me sound immature. Crazy. Unstable. Someone who could not be trusted.

It would have made more sense for me to hit the block button.

But as I walked outside of those sanctuary doors, I stood and spoke with my Christian friends like I hadn’t just kissed a boy in the back of a car.

And then I went home.

Who was Artan anyway? Who was he?

I opened Facebook, my lesser-used platform, and I searched him up. I found his face.

Artan Khan.

It sounded smooth with his last name. I imagined what it would be like to be Mrs. Khan. Maybe in the future, I would have his little children, and maybe I might be a Muslim, wearing a hijab, and reciting dedicated prayers on a mat.

I would be a good Khan.

I went through his profile, and his first post was of him hiking. He loved to hike. I saw pictures of him when he was much younger, probably new to Canada, and trying to fit in and find himself and who he was.

ARTAN: R u busy?

The text came up as I was stalking him. I figured it would be best to talk to him now.

ME: No. What's up?

ARTAN: I have to tell you something.

That could have meant anything. I swallowed a gulp.

ME: What?

ARTAN: I’m not just going back to Pakistan for my family.

ARTAN: I’m getting married.

Married?

Married.

Married.

Artan was engaged. He was betrothed. He was a groom-to-be.

What business did he have with stealing my lip virginity? It was the only one I had!

My phone hit the wall and then fell onto the ground.

I didn’t notice I was shaking until I felt the bed underneath me vibrate. I held back a scream forming in my throat. The lips he kissed suddenly went hot.

Married?

Artan Khan was a fucking liar.

Hot tears welled in my eyes before I slowly got up and picked the phone up from the floor.

ME: Why didn’t you tell me?

ARTAN: I really liked you. I'm sorry.

ARTAN: Are you angry?

ARTAN: Are you?

ARTAN: Are you?

ARTAN: Are you?

ARTAN: Are u

ARTAN: Are u, Honeybee?