Forbidden by Faith

Prologue

Ipush through the doors of the foyer and am hit by the scene unfolding before me. I’m unable to breathe, the air having left my lungs. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. There’s a bar fight at my wedding. I can hear the words in my mind, but I can’t comprehend their meaning. I’m standing still while everything moves in slow motion.

I see a table fallen over on its side, glass decorating its edges, remnants of wine creating swirling patterns on the floor. I’m vaguely reminded of a painting I’ve seen before, but the title escapes me. A flower arrangement has been knocked over, purple petals splattered on the tiles, its beauty now just a memory. Little groups of guests are scattered around, worried looks on their faces. I see them look at me, lean in toward each other, whispering. Some look with sympathy, others with disdain. Directly in front of me, I see a larger crowd. I can’t see my way through, but the group is composed of my family. The groom is nowhere to be found.

I hear someone mention my cousin’s name, something about a fight. I stand for a moment, baffled, wondering how one person could leave such havoc in his wake. I breathe. I take one more look around, pick up my dress, and head in for battle. I push my way through. The sight of my princess dress in tow parts the crowd like Moses parting the sea. I shove my way in until I am standing directly in front of him.

What are you doing? I shout. "What is wrong with you?"

My uncle comes up beside me and yells something at his son that I can’t comprehend behind the rush of adrenaline and savage anger coursing through my veins. I turn my attention to him.

"Amoo, get him out of here!" I demand. Then, I just keep screaming.

Before I know it, I’m yelling in Farsi. Words my grandmother used when we were kids that I’d forgotten I knew. All I’m aware of is the electric burn of anger that’s invaded my body.

And just like that, I become airborne. I don’t see it coming. I feel two hands circling my waist, whisking me away into the air, through the crowd. I feel the air rustle the edges of my dress as if I’m floating. I’m gently placed on my feet. I look up to see Thomas standing in front of me. It takes me a moment to understand his presence.

He looks at me, kindness filling his eyes when he says, You’re not helping. I reach out for him, but it’s too late. He turns, disappearing into the crowd.

There’s so much noise, but I don’t hear any of it. I can only hear the deafening silence surrounding my shattering heart. I start to cry. What I want to do is get up on a table and scream into the crowd, Don’t you know what I had to go through to get here? Don’t you know there are people in this very crowd thinking to themselves that they were right all along? That we were doomed from the start? But my voice is lost before my thoughts can form around the words. All I keep thinking is, How can this be happening?

Chapter One

Ihang up the phone. I really don’t feel like getting ready to go to this party, but I already promised Leyla I would, so now I have no choice. She’s been dying to introduce me to some of her new UCLA friends. I get dressed in some jeans and a low-cut yellow top, my dark brown waves bouncing against my bare back as I run down the hall.

I’ll be home late, Mom, I yell over my shoulder as I rush out the door.

I make the fifteen-minute drive to Leyla’s, trying to work myself into the mood. Shouldn’t a single twenty-four-year-old want to go out on a Saturday night? Especially to UCLA, where there would be a prime crop of Persian boys.

Leyla comes running out before I’ve fully pulled up and jumps into the front seat, breaking me out of my thoughts.

We’re going to have so much fun, she says, beaming at me. You’re going to love these girls. I try to smile at her as we make our way over to the west side.

Once we arrive, Leyla grabs my hand and drags me around the room, introducing me to everyone she knows. Maya, the host, pushes two solo cups full of some fruity concoction into our hands. I can smell the sterile tang of vodka as it touches my lips, feel the familiar burn as it makes its way down my throat. After a few more sips, I begin to feel a tingling sensation in my fingertips, signaling the start of a warm buzz. I smile at the feel of it.

That’s when I see him. Out of the corner of my eye, his blue shirt catches my attention. I turn to get a better glimpse. He’s beautiful. He’s tall, with dark brown hair and a chiseled face. His hazel eyes are the warm color of honey, with flecks of green decorating his pupils.

I discreetly watch him as he makes his way around the room, engaging in one conversation after the next. I notice the gait of his walk, the way he subtly favors his left, the bounce in his step. I watch him run his fingers carelessly through his hair, hear his laugh bellowing from the bottom of his belly, watch the sparkle in his eye as he speaks.

Then, he suddenly turns as if he can feel the weight of my gaze. He looks at me, stalling for only a second, before he smiles. It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.

I can’t help but smile back, maintaining eye contact for a few seconds before I have to look away. I can’t meet the intensity of his gaze, feeling a blush creeping up my neck. My heart begins to race, Leyla’s words becoming a blur I can’t keep up with.

I turn to look at him again, but he’s gone. I try to discreetly search for him in the crowd but he’s nowhere to be found. It’s almost like he’s disappeared and I wonder for a moment if I’ve just dreamed him up. The disappointment hits me like a wave, but I try to hide it, currently locked in a conversation with Leyla and a few other girls I don’t really know.

The music begins blaring as the DJ turns up the volume. The girls squeal and Leyla drags me toward the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. I notice the discoloration of the wood where the furniture used to be sitting as I’m swallowed into the crowd of moving bodies.

I don’t see the handsome boy anywhere and begin to lose hope. Maybe he’s already left the party. The thought disappoints me further, but I brush it off. The night moves on and soon I’m carelessly whirling around to the beat of the song, enveloped in the blanket of my intoxication.

Suddenly, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze resting on my shoulders. I look up and find him across the room, staring at me. His head’s cocked to the side, a thoughtful expression on his face as he studies me. The room falls silent, the rush of blood through my ears the only thing I can hear. My nerves twist into a knot in the pit of my stomach.

Then, he smiles, that irresistible smile, and just like that, it all melts away. Before I know what I’m doing, I tilt my head, motioning for him to come join me. I’m relieved when he does. He doesn’t say a word, just begins to dance. He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my hair, the heat radiating off of his skin. I can hardly breathe.

This handsome stranger in front of me could be anyone. I don’t know his name, or who he is, but I do know that every time his arm brushes against my body, a surge of electricity runs up my side that nearly knocks me over. I’m mesmerized.

I don’t know how many songs we dance to before he asks me if I want to go outside. I can’t speak, just nod and follow, locked in his trance. My heart’s beating uncontrollably against my chest, making me dizzy. Leyla winks her approval at me as I pass her, but I barely notice. Outside, he finds a quiet spot under a tree and turns to face me.

Hi, I’m Maziar, he says.

I’m Sara.

Nice to meet you, Sara, he replies, pronouncing my name with the soft A sound like it should be. Although Sara is a traditional Iranian name, even my friends pronounce it the English way. It makes me smile.

He’s twenty-four, like myself, about to start his second year of law school. My first thought is, Mom is going to love that. He confirms my suspicions that he’s also Iranian, and for a brief second I feel a rush of pleasure course through me—he’s Persian and a lawyer. But before I can get too excited, I take a deep breath and ask the ever-dreaded question for a Persian girl, What religion are you?

To many people, this may seem like a strange thing to ask when you first meet someone. But to an Iranian girl, his answer will dictate whether I ever see him again.

He looks at me, head tilted, eyes crinkled in thought. He’s not sure if I’m serious. When I give no indication that I’m joking, he utters the words I so desperately don’t want him to say.

I’m Jewish.

Again, the wave of disappointment hits me like a ton of bricks. I put out my hand to shake his. It was very nice meeting you, I say, and get ready to walk away…

Chapter Two

Iwas born in Hollywood, California, in 1981, at the blue Presbyterian hospital. I know it’s blue because Dad points it out every time we drive by. My parents got married in Iran when Dad was twenty-two and Mom was eighteen. They didn’t even get to go home together the night of their wedding. Dad was set to leave for the States the following week, and in an attempt to save my mom’s virtue, my grandfather refused to let them consummate their marriage until she met him in America. He figured it was better to be safe than sorry, just in case the crazy ordeal didn’t work out. You see, my parents’ love story deserves its own explanation.

Dad’s family owned a school where his mother was the principal. My maternal grandmother was a teacher there. One day Dad and my grandfather, were doing some repairs. Dad took a break to stretch his legs and glanced down the street. There on the sidewalk walking toward him, was Mom. She’d come to keep her mother company on the short walk home. The way Dad describes that moment is pure love at first sight.

He says he saw her and was awestruck by her beauty. Who is that? he asked. My grandfather told him, to which he replied, I’m going to marry her.

In those days in that country, courting had little to do with what we define as dating. Getting acquainted with your future spouse consisted of a few meetings at her house with her parents present, and, if you were really lucky, maybe a group outing to a movie with all of her siblings and cousins. The pairing of a couple also had a lot to do with family status and worth. For this reason, my paternal grandmother was against their union. She did her best to leave no doubt about her disdain for Mom. In the end, their love prevailed, with Dad never giving in to his mother’s wishes.

Once the two were married, he made his way to the States to go to school. One year later, when Mom had lost all hope of starting her new life with him, he called for her to come to America. I showed up two years later, with my brother Nima following eighteen months after that.

My parents’ life was a struggle, to say the least. Dad worked multiple jobs to make ends meet while he went to school. Mom didn’t know anyone and barely knew the language; she had to fend for herself, taking care of us while Dad was away. His family alienated her, making her miserable, which in turn made Dad miserable. It’s a miracle they’ve been married for this long.

Because of Mom’s experience with her own in-laws, my parents had always been open-minded about marriage. The only request I could remember them ever having was that I married someone Iranian so he could speak the language.

Traditional religion did not hold much emphasis in my immediate family. Even though we were Muslim, my parents didn’t raise me under its pretenses. They taught me to be spiritual, the religious aspects going as far as believing in God.

If I wanted to go into a Catholic church and light some candles, Mom would tell me to light a few for her too. If I felt like going into a mosque to listen to daily prayers, I could. Our beliefs formed around the commonalities of all religions, letting go of their details.

We were the exception to the rule, however.

Not all families felt the same way, especially in the Iranian culture. Practicing families rarely deviated from the expected, pushing their children to settle down with their own kind. Either Muslim or Jewish, they would rather their children marry someone of the same faith, even if the person was a different race.

Chapter Three

Iturned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm. We’re mortal enemies, right? he said, laughing. Even though we weren’t yet, I feared that someday we would be. Realizing I wasn’t convinced, he continued, Hey, wait, I have no problem with your religion.

It wasn’t him I was worried about, I explained, but he assured me that his family would be fine. Even so, there was still that nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me I should turn around and run. I’d revisit that little voice frequently in the future and wonder why I’d ignored her.

The rest of the night progressed uneventfully. No new life-altering information was exchanged. Maziar found his friends and we ended up leaving the party to get a bite to eat. We exchanged numbers at the end of the night.

I’d never been the typical Persian girl, groomed all her life to find a husband. My upbringing had been quite the contrary. Mom had seen the struggles of being just someone’s wife. She’d spent most of her life rebelling against those restraints. She had pushed me to be a strong, independent woman.

I never want you to rely on a man, Sara, she’d always say. She wanted my husband to be an addition, not a necessity. While many of my cousins were out prowling the scene in search of a suitable mate, I got accepted to pharmacy school.

When weeks passed and I didn’t hear from Maziar, I didn’t even notice. The memories of the electricity we shared and his breathtaking smile had faded. When my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize, I almost didn’t pick up.

You don’t remember me? he teased. I’m your mortal enemy. I could hear him smiling from the other side of the line.

Oh, yeah, now I remember. I laughed.

We talked for an hour, then made plans to meet that weekend.

Now that I didn’t have him in front of me muddling my thoughts with his sex appeal, I realized I didn’t know him at all. He could very well be a serial killer who wanted to lure me into his web and make me his next victim. For this reason, I agreed to meet him at the movie theater instead of my house. Public places were more difficult to get kidnapped from, plus it wasn’t like I was planning to introduce him to my parents.

When Saturday arrived, I told Nima about Maziar, because someone needed to know who to go after if my body needed to be found. I got to the theater a few minutes earlier than he did, which I thought was a bad start. I chastised myself for not having stayed in the car longer. I also realized he was not a prompt person. Strike one for him. In his defense, I’d come to this date ready to make a list of reasons why he shouldn’t make it to date number two.

I was a little worried I wouldn’t recognize him. I was equally worried that the dim lights of the party and the alcohol had made him appear to be much better looking than he really was. For this reason, I had Leyla calling me in two hours to give me an escape route if necessary.

Then, he walked into the plaza.

I saw him before he saw me. First off, the lighting and inebriation had done nothing to change his appearance—he was still gorgeous. It looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower, hair damp, casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. The room froze as I stared, the sound of my breath in and out of my chest the only thing I could hear. Then, he saw me.

Hi, he said. That dazzling smile was stretched across his face as he walked over to me. Point one in his favor.

Hey, I replied awkwardly, suddenly feeling shy.

Maziar didn’t seem to notice, completely comfortable in his skin. He just stood there staring at me as if I were a puzzle he was piecing together. I fidgeted under his gaze. He looked away, the corners of his lips turned up in a grin, knowing he’d made me nervous.

Shall we? he asked, gesturing toward the ticket booth. I followed him to the window, waiting while he paid for our tickets. Point two in his favor.

I spent most of the movie trying to catch glimpses of him in the dim light of the theater without getting caught. I was distinctly aware of our arms lying beside each other on the armrest. I could feel the heat radiating off of his, laced with a spark that felt like an electric charge. It was overwhelming. After the movie, he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the door. I almost melted from his touch. What was with this guy and the effect he had over me?

I’d decided at the beginning of the date that I’d leave after the movie, severing the connection between us before it had a chance to bloom. Even though he’d told me this could work, the voice in my head wouldn’t ease up, still giving me the distinct feeling I needed to flee. But once we were outside and he suggested we grab dinner, I heard myself say yes before I could stop. My brain had officially disconnected itself from the rest of me, and now all responses were based purely on emotion. This couldn’t end well, yet I’d lost all reason.

We settled on the Cheesecake Factory down the street. The wait was strangely short for a Saturday night, and we were seated quickly. The conversation flowed easily between us, something I’d expected.

Maziar grew up in the Palisades, where he lived with his parents and sister, until he moved away a year ago for school. He currently attended Pepperdine Law School and lived in an apartment nearby. Neither of his last two relationships had been with Jewish girls, which I wanted to take as a good sign. Then, he told me his most recent relationship had ended a week before we met, after two years. Strike two for Maziar.

Again the voice urged me to leave, but I was too intrigued to move. I couldn’t resist the energy passing between us. I felt high on him and I couldn’t get enough. I listened to his every word, hung onto his laugh, and melted into his smile. I had lost myself four hours into our first meeting, knowing I’d never find my way back again.

I told him how I’d grown up in the Valley and still lived with my parents and older brother in Encino. I’d just been accepted to pharmacy school at USC and was starting in the fall. He asked me why I’d decided to commute.

My parents would flip if I moved out on my own. They’re a bit old-fashioned that way.

But don’t you want the experience of being independent? he asked.

Yeah, maybe, but I’d have to ease them into it. Plus, having someone cook for me and do my laundry when I’m in school sounds kind of nice, I said, resorting to joking, hoping my lack of independence would be charming. Thankfully, he laughed.

As the conversation continued, the topics became more serious. We began discussing our previous relationships, the details of each of our breakups. I suddenly felt compelled to give him another opportunity to walk away, in hopes of avoiding an unnecessary heartache if things indeed went as expected. Jewish and Muslim relationships were uncommon, and all that I knew of had ended in horrible breakups. I couldn’t do it.

So I know you said my not being Jewish isn’t a big deal, but honestly, if there’s even a chance that your family could be against it, I’d rather we have a nice dinner and leave it at that.

You really are paranoid, aren’t you? he said, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

No, just practical, I replied, slightly annoyed. Look, I’ve been in relationships that don’t work out, and I’m sure you agree‒they can be brutal. Why start something if we already know that’s where it’s inevitably heading?

Because we have no idea where this is heading, he stated.

Ugh, I know that! I said. He was getting the best of me and judging from the look on his face, he knew it. I tried a different approach, attempting to reason with him. I’ve had my heart broken before. I really can’t do it again, I urged with more desperation than I hoped could be heard in my voice. So if this is likely going to end the same, then I’d rather we end it here. We didn’t know each other yet. We could walk away from this encounter whole, no battle scars, and I’d eventually forget that smile.

But Maziar was relentless, insisting that it wasn’t a problem our two religions had been at war for centuries. My parents will be fine, he said, brushing it off.

I wondered if he was naïve, if indeed this might be strike three for Maziar. But as I looked at him, I couldn’t manage to say, you’re out.

I knew this was too heavy a conversation to be having on a first date and I knew it wasn’t painting me in a good light. I also knew it was impossible to predict the future. Even so, I still wanted to be assured I wouldn’t have my heart torn from my chest.

In hindsight, I realize that there are no guarantees in love and there is always the risk of losing a part of yourself along the way.

The following weekend, we had plans for our second date. I found myself feeling giddy with excitement as I got ready. We’d been talking every night for the past week, the conversation only ending when one of us had fallen asleep. The more I got to know him, the more I realized I could really like him.

I learned that Maziar had a twenty-six-year-old sister. He thought they had a decent relationship, but I wouldn’t consider them close by my standards. Neither knew what was going on in the other’s life, and from what I understood, they didn’t talk much, aside from friendly conversation when passing each other in the hall to their bedrooms.

My brother and I were the polar opposite. We knew everything about each other. If I told my parents a lie about where I was or with whom, my brother knew the truth. He was my person, so it was hard for me to wrap my head around that type of relationship, kind and cordial but each life separate.

Maziar picked me up around noon. I knew nothing of the details aside from it being a little bit of a drive. That’s all he would say. My parents were out when he picked me up, which worked out perfectly because I wasn’t interested in the plethora of questions they’d ask if they met him.

We drove north for about an hour. Soon the scenery changed, surrounding us with a lush green landscape. He exited onto a long, curved bridge standing over a large ravine. It was nestled between two great hills on either side. The bridge had prominent archways every few feet, giving it a mystical air. It was gorgeous. To the right, I could see a lake. Maziar pulled off toward it.

He’d packed us a picnic and stowed a few fishing rods in his trunk. We walked down to the water’s edge and threw down a blanket. We nestled close to each other. He opened the basket to reveal sandwiches, a platter of cheese, and a bottle of wine. I felt a warmth begin to stir in the pit of my stomach, followed by a flutter of butterflies.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a comfortable familiarity, as if Maziar and I had been together for years, not just days. The conversation rolled off our tongues with ease, never falling victim to awkward silences. We laughed, the kind that starts from your toes and ends in the pit of your belly. We fit in a way I’d never experienced with another human being before.

He had a thing for fishing and was determined to teach me how it was done. I was pitiful. Even though he’d shown me how to throw out the line a handful of times, I still couldn’t manage it without tangling the string. Instead of becoming irritated with my incompetence, he laughed.

Surprisingly, we actually caught a fish, or at least Maziar did while I stood behind him and squealed as he brought the slimy, flapping creature out of the water. I watched him gently grab it, speaking softly as if he were trying to soothe the fish in its last moments. There was a kindness in the way he removed the hook, in the way he held the animal in his hands. Its body jerked relentlessly, but he never rushed the process, allowing nature to fulfill her destiny as she wished.

Suddenly, I couldn’t bear to watch. Please throw it back in. I don’t want it to die. He looked up at me for a few moments, then, without a word, he placed the fish gently back into the lake. We stood side by side watching it swim away, the sound of our breath mingled with the lapping of the water. I’m sorry, I said, unsure if I was apologizing for the fish or ruining the trip altogether.

For what? he replied, still staring at the water.

For making you set it free.

He turned and faced me, his hazel eyes catching the light of the sun, and smiled. I watched the lines around his lids crinkle, melting my anxiety.

I love that you made me let it go.

On the drive back, the sun was setting, and the sky was illuminated into a canvas of pinks, purples, and oranges. The colors swirled around each other, creating puffs of sherbet-colored clouds you could almost taste.

Maziar pulled over so we could properly adore its beauty. We both got out of the car, standing side by side in the stillness of the dusk. His hand lightly brushed mine, and I felt the familiar surge of electricity course through my veins. I lost all restraint, reaching out and grabbing hold.

Maziar turned toward me. When I faced him, I saw the warmth and longing in his eyes. My breath caught in my throat. He put his hand on my cheek and slowly leaned in to place his lips against mine. My heart beat rapidly against my chest as I felt my body melt into his. I don’t know how long we stood there in our embrace, but when we parted, we both did so reluctantly.

I could have spent the rest of my life in that moment, kissing him.

Chapter Four

We spent all our free time together, and when we weren’t together, we were on the phone. I was infatuated with him. He was like heroin coursing through my veins and when he wasn’t with me, I felt like I needed another hit. The electrical frequency between us just grew with each encounter, and I found it hard to keep myself from craving his touch. I wanted to hold his hand, sit really close, feel the heat off his body every time he was near me. The relationship itself felt easier than any I’d ever experienced. We slid into being a couple as if we were always meant to be together. He felt like he made up a piece of me, like we’d done this before in lifetimes past.

He felt like home.

As the days went on, I started to focus less on the future and fall deeper in love. The academic year had begun, but any chance I got, I made my way over to his apartment. We’d play house, lost in the make-believe of living together, where only the two of us mattered, if only for a moment.

Two months in, I was finally ready to broach the topic of our relationship with my parents. Up until then, they didn’t know that when I went out, I was going with Maziar. The benefit of having Leyla as a best friend was that she always covered for me. It wasn’t that I thought they wouldn’t like him, it was that I knew Mom would freak out when she found out he was Jewish. She had told me numerous times that she didn’t want me to be disliked and disregarded by my husband’s family as she had been.

Life is hard enough as it is. Why add more complications to the situation? she’d say.

I still hadn’t forgotten that this relationship was built on forbidden ground, and even though I basked in the beauty of what we had, the voice in my head wouldn’t let me be completely comfortable. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

One Friday night after I’d gotten home from my last class, we sat down to have dinner together as we normally did before my brother and I headed out for the night. As we talked about our day, the anxiety continued to weigh down on me, to the point that I felt a panic attack about to come on. I couldn’t stay quiet any longer, so I just blurted it out, in the middle of Dad’s sentence about the ridiculous politics at his work.

I’ve been dating a guy for a few months, I said. They all froze and looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. He’s Persian, I continued. Mom had a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Feeling guilty for allowing her to start to build a perfect future for me in her head, I quickly added, And he’s Jewish.

Complete silence followed. Mom dropped her fork. The clanking of the metal against her plate radiated off the walls, magnifying the sound. She looked at me as if she wasn’t sure whether to yell or cry.

It’s totally okay. It’s not a big deal for him or his family, I said. She didn’t move, making me sweat.

In an attempt to alleviate the heaviness in the room, Nima tried to lighten up the mood and started to ask me details about him.

What’s his name? Where did you meet him?

His name is Maziar, and I met him a few months ago when I was out with my friends, I replied.

Cool. What does he do? He tried to keep the conversation moving along, not allowing Mom time to attack. I was grateful.

He goes to Pepperdine law school. I glanced over at her, hoping the information I had just shared would soften the blow. It did nothing, as she continued to stare at me, shocked and angry.

I couldn’t tell her that I’d already fallen in love with him, and I was doomed if what he told me wasn’t the truth, that in fact his family wouldn’t be okay with this union. I couldn’t tell her that I was rapidly losing sleep over it, during the nights when I didn’t have his arms to quiet the storm and make me forget. I couldn’t say any of this, because then Mom would shatter. Whether she showed it or not, I would have broken her heart.

We want to meet him, Dad said. Bring him over next Sunday night. Just like that, he was to come over the following weekend for dinner.

Wednesday rolled around and I had sufficiently avoided Mom’s calls. School made it easy to dodge her, only interacting for a few minutes in the mornings before I headed to class. I had just gotten out of a biology when my phone began to buzz again in my pocket. I stared at her picture flashing on my screen, the dark, short bob framing her face