Yours, Eventually

Chapter Six

Six

“Abu, I’m ready!”

Asma stood outside her father’s bedroom, jangling her keys. Iman and her dad were moving at the end of the week, now that Sophia and Yusef had signed the lease on their house, but there was still so much to do. Asma relished the frenetic pace, adding things with pleasure to her to-do list. She would much rather label boxes than dwell on her cringeworthy run-in with Farooq.

They had run out of empty moving boxes the previous evening, and Mr. Ibrahim and Iman’s packing had come to a grinding halt.

“Tell me again why we didn’t hire people for this,” Iman said, less a question than a complaint.

“Because we can pack ourselves,” said Asma.

“No one is saying we can’t , Asma,” Iman retorted. “We are saying we don’t want to.”

“I think we can still find someone,” said Mr. Ibrahim.

“We can find someone,” Asma replied, with a pointed look at Iman. “But we’re not going to. Movers are expensive, and unnecessary expenses are what got us into this mess in the first place.”

Under normal circumstances, Asma would’ve roped in Aunty Rehana to help with packing or at least to wrangle her father and sister. But Rehana had left that morning for an extended trip to Pakistan, one she had announced to the family at the very last minute. Asma wondered if her sudden departure had anything to do with the tension between the two of them since their conversation in Asma’s room. Asma couldn’t quell the anger she’d been feeling toward her aunt since Farooq’s reappearance and had been doing her best to avoid her. Or perhaps Rehana simply wanted to escape the chaos of the Ibrahim relocation. If it was that, Asma couldn’t blame her.

“Come in, beta!” Mr. Ibrahim called from inside, voice muffled. “I need a few minutes.”

Asma followed her father’s voice into his room. “Abu, we don’t have time, I am working tonight, we have to leave—”

Asma stopped at the sight of her father, sitting on the floor of his palatial walk-in closet with an open box in front of him—the box of her mother’s old saris. Asma recognized the box immediately. The last time she’d seen it had been well into her mother’s treatment, the afternoon when Rehana and Mrs. Ibrahim had carefully folded and packed up her clothes, unaware that Asma was sitting on the floor outside the room and watching through a crack in the door. Rehana had urged Mrs. Ibrahim to rest, but Mrs. Ibrahim—the little hair she had remaining covered by a soft cotton dupatta—would not take a nap until her saris were put away. “I don’t want the girls to have to do any of this when I’m gone,” she had said. Asma had taken the gesture at face value—it was only now, seeing the look on her father’s face and feeling a lump grow in her throat, that Asma understood her mother’s wisdom in removing the things that would remind them of her.

“I thought this box had my old ties, but instead I found some of your mother’s clothes. She wore this one to the grand opening of our showroom.” Mr. Ibrahim held up a red silk sari. “It was a beautiful afternoon, such a classy affair. She didn’t want to have a big gathering, but I insisted. And she supported me. She always supported me. I had such great success because of her.”

Asma’s frustration with her father dissipated. She felt taken off guard by his tenderness. He had never acknowledged her mother’s business contributions before.

“Abu, are you okay?” Asma remembered her father’s nap in the car on the way back from the doctor. Was this nostalgia motivated by a premonition?

“Moving is hard. Especially from a place with so many memories.”

Asma felt growing compassion for her father as she saw him carefully fold the sari and place it back in the box. Her father rarely spoke about her mother. There was much she didn’t know about their relationship and so much she had forgotten over the years. Asma never knew how to bring her up with him, so she hadn’t.

But their moment was over.

“Abu! Abu!” Iman stuck her head into the closet and looked from her father to Asma. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing,” said Asma, her tone betraying her irritation at being interrupted. Besides the car rides to and from her father’s doctors’ appointments, it was rare for Asma to find herself alone with him, and she was surprised by how much their conversation had meant.

“We’re packing up your mother’s old saris,” Mr. Ibrahim said.

Iman looked from Mr. Ibrahim to Asma again. A look crossed her face that Asma couldn’t read before Iman glanced down at the box. “Oh good, you have it out—I was just coming to return this.”

Iman tossed the sari she had worn at their father’s retirement party into the open box. “Can’t wear that again.”

“Why, what did you do to it?” asked Asma.

“Nothing! But I was wearing it in the picture I gave to Aunty Uzma. It’s a good picture, my hair looks perfect.”

“Picture as in a rishta picture? You gave one to Aunty Uzma?”

“It’s for her book.”

“What book?”

“Her matchmaking book! The one of the most eligible people in the area. I can’t imagine what the men are like in Sacramento…and I don’t want to miss out on any chance of finding someone in the Bay.”

Asma was surprised to hear Iman speak so openly about meeting someone. There had been a number of serious contenders for Iman over the years, but no one had come close to fulfilling the high standards that Mr. Ibrahim—and Iman—had for Iman. That is, save for one: Omar Khan, the son of Mr. Ibrahim’s former financial advisor. Asma suspected that Mr. Ibrahim had long taken for granted that Omar would one day be his son-in-law. A handsome, well-educated Muslim man from a good Pakistani family. Iman liked him. He checked all the boxes. But it was Omar’s father, embroiled in secret financial struggles of his own due to a clandestine gambling habit, who had convinced Mr. Ibrahim to invest his money in the Ponzi scheme. By the time the scheme was uncovered, Omar’s father had absconded from the country, along with Mr. Ibrahim’s money. The girls had been furious, betrayed by a man they thought would one day be family. And then came the second betrayal—Omar had cut off all communication with Iman, presumably to disentangle himself from his father’s mess.

At first, in the aftermath of the family’s financial ruin and Iman’s breakup, Asma wondered if she and her sister might grow closer. After all, both knew what it was to be all-but-spinsters in the eyes of their community, both had built successful—if very different— careers for themselves, and both had experienced a failed engagement. But whereas Asma had spent months after her breakup with Farooq nearly inconsolable, Iman’s cool callousness when it came to Omar took her by surprise. So Asma never brought up her breakup with Farooq to Iman, and the sisters remained as they always had, each focused on her own set of distinct priorities, rarely overlapping.

Asma glanced at Mr. Ibrahim, but he wasn’t paying attention, still preoccupied by the saris.

“So you won’t go online to meet someone, but you’ll let Aunty Uzma put your picture in some yearbook for single people?” Asma asked Iman.

“Anyone can go online. Matchmakers are making a comeback. To get into Aunty’s book you have to be asked and have a certain income, family, and look. I mean, no offense, but has anyone asked you to be in the book?”

“Good thing they haven’t,” said Asma. “I don’t have time to take a rishta picture. I’m too busy with residency.”

—

That night, as Asma packed up the last of her room, she faced her own box of memories: a shoebox at the back of her closet full of mementos from her time with Farooq—letters and cards, movie ticket stubs, photos.

She pulled out her favorite—a photo booth strip featuring her and Farooq. They were making silly faces in the first two pictures, and he had his arm around her in the third. Asma was wearing a Santa hat.

The picture was taken freshman year, the weekend before they were both headed home for winter break. They would be just ninety minutes apart—Farooq in Stockton, Asma in Palo Alto—but they knew they wouldn’t see each other for a month. Asma had been determined to hide her relationship with Farooq while at Berkeley, but she wasn’t the kind of girl to sneak away while living at home to meet up with her secret boyfriend. On their last day of finals, Farooq had planned an outing to San Francisco, which he didn’t realize coincided with the city’s Christmas tree lighting. They pushed their way from BART to Union Square, weaving through throngs of tourists and shoppers, and into a branded promotional photo booth. Farooq slipped the Santa hat onto Asma’s head just before the camera started clicking. They then sat on a bench while the sun set and the Christmas lights went on. Between the lights, the peppermint mocha Asma was sipping, and Farooq’s warm fingers laced through hers, the evening felt magical—enough warmth to carry her through the coming month without Farooq.

With Farooq, Asma could just be. No worrying, no explaining, no caretaking—there was a peace she didn’t have in any of the other relationships in her life at the time. Or since.

Asma hadn’t gone through this box in years but had never been able to bring herself to throw it away either. She found she still couldn’t.

—

“I didn’t know this was going to be at a bar.” Fatima rummaged through her purse for her ID, the bouncer waiting patiently as she pulled out a wad of crumpled tissues, a ChapStick, and finally her wallet.

“It’s not a bar,” Asma replied, “it’s a club.”

“That makes me feel better,” Fatima deadpanned.

The hostess guided Asma and Fatima to an empty small round table on the side of the room. Asma looked around. They were twenty minutes early, but the club was nearly full.

“Two-drink minimum.” Fatima pushed the table tent over to Asma as she took her seat. “I don’t think two Diet Cokes is what they had in mind.”

“Maybe they’ll think we’re recovering alcoholics,” Asma replied.

“Couldn’t you just have asked Farooq for his number like a normal person?”

“Oh sure, in front of my dad and his sister, covered in mud with my arm bleeding like I was just bitten by a dog. Not to mention the fact that he told his sister he didn’t even recognize me.” Asma shook her head. When Sophia and Yusef were leaving their house, Sophia had invited Asma to the launch party for Yusef’s new book. “I’m pretty sure he’s still pissed about the breakup. He didn’t say a word to me the whole time we were together.”

“So what are we doing here, then?” Fatima asked. “If he’s pissed, do you really think showing up to his brother-in-law’s book launch is going to be enough to smooth things over?”

In truth, Asma wasn’t sure how she was going to navigate her next interaction with Farooq. All she knew was, if they were ever going to clear the air between them, being in the same place at the same time would be a start. And this time she was ready—freshly showered and even wearing mascara.

“There’s Sophia!” Asma waved to Sophia, peeking out of a door near the stage. She grinned at Asma and headed over to their table.

“I’m so glad you were able to make it!” Sophia leaned down to give Asma a hug.

“Me too! I have the night off,” Asma said. “This is my best friend, Fatima. We went to Berkeley together.”

“So nice to meet you, Fatima!” Sophia greeted Fatima with a hug too. “So you also know Farooq?”

“Not personally, only by reputation.” Fatima glanced around the room. “Is he here?”

“Not yet,” said Sophia. “My parents are remodeling so he’s been in Stockton, dealing with the contractors. Then he was taking my mom to her physical therapy appointment. She just had knee replacement surgery. Then—”

“—he’s rescuing some feral kittens?” Fatima asked with a laugh.

“I know, right?” Sophia smiled. “The good son. He’s always made Haroon and me look bad.”

Sophia turned to look at the door she had just emerged from, enough time for Asma to tilt her head toward Fatima with a look that said See?

“It looks like Yusef’s calling me.” Sophia waved to Yusef, who was standing at the door. “I think they’re about to start. I’ll come find you guys later.”

“Is Farooq for real?” asked Fatima when Sophia was out of earshot. “Nice and super rich?”

Asma remembered Farooq’s relationship with his family—respectful, patient, and genuine. What other freshman guy willingly called his parents, just to check in and hear their voices?

Asma sighed. “He was nice before he was super rich.”

—

Farooq still hadn’t arrived by the time the MC took to the stage. Asma had been trying to look around the club discreetly, turning her head every time anyone entered. Fatima’s eyes were glued to her phone, which was unusual for her.

“Everything okay?” Asma asked.

“I just wanted to check in on Salman.”

“I thought you said he’s working late.”

“That’s what he said. But I don’t think that’s true. He’s not answering my texts.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he’s cheating on me.” Fatima’s words tumbled out almost involuntarily. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What?” Asma said it so loud that the waiter passing next to their table jumped, the glasses on his tray rattling. He gave Asma a look, which she returned with her hand up to say sorry.

“Salman? Cheating?” Asma lowered her voice as she twisted around to stare at Fatima.

Salman had been so awkward when she ran into him at their house. She supposed that for another man it might have seemed suspicious, but for him it seemed to be par for the course. Asma was certain that Salman lacked the basic social skills she imagined one needed in order to cheat—or even talk to a woman other than his wife.

“He’s been spending more and more time at work.”

“But he’s always working, it’s nothing new.”

“It feels different. He didn’t come to my last appointment with the fertility doctor—he told me he had a last-minute business trip. But all his clients are here. Where could he be going?” Fatima asked. “And last week, I was looking for a number in his phone and I found a text from an unknown number that said, ‘Thanks for dinner.’?”

“He had dinner with someone?” Asma asked, feigning alarm. “No!”

“I called the number and a woman answered.”

“She’s probably a client, or another lawyer at the firm.”

“Maybe.”

“Sweetie, you’re going through a stressful time. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it.”

Fatima didn’t look as convinced as Asma felt. Asma reached across the table and took her hand.

Salman, cheating? Please, thought Asma, as the house lights dimmed and a jazz trio began to play. Nerdy Desi men didn’t cheat.

—

Farooq never showed. Asma couldn’t help but suspect that he had avoided the event specifically because he knew Asma was invited. By the time she accepted that he wasn’t coming it was late. Much later than Asma ever stayed up when she wasn’t working. The anticipation—then disappointment—of waiting for Farooq coupled with Fatima’s anxiety about Salman left Asma more tired than if she had spent the night tending to patients.

And it showed the next day at work.

“The hell you yawning so much?” Jackson shoved a coffee under Asma’s nose, then waved it around as though the aroma would be enough to wake her up. “You were off last night.”

“I went out.”

“No way!”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Asma said. “I go out.”

“Spending time with your family at family parties is not ‘going out,’?” Jackson said with exaggerated air quotes.

Something in Asma’s face must have given her away. Jackson peered at her with special interest. “Did you go out with a guy?”

“No,” Asma said quickly. Then, after a pause, she added, “He didn’t show. Are you going to answer that?”

Jackson silenced his pager, which had been beeping for several seconds. “Not until we’re done with this.” He pulled out the nearest chair and plopped into it, turning his full attention to Asma. “Who is he?”

“An old friend.”

“You mean an ex?”

“Kind of.”

“I thought you didn’t date,” said Jackson. “Because of your religion.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Asma could never stomach the word dating , even though she knew that was a shorthand way of describing her relationship with Farooq. Dating implied physical contact, forbidden before marriage. But she felt the term denigrated her relationship with Farooq—they were not just boyfriend and girlfriend, they were meant for each other and would one day be husband and wife. Until they weren’t.

“Ohhh, I get it.” Jackson wiggled his eyebrows. “Go on, Asma.”

“It wasn’t like that, either,” said Asma.

“Sure, it wasn’t.” Jackson bit his bottom lip as he made a strange, suggestive movement with his hips.

“What’s wrong with you?” Asma laughed.

“What’s his name?” Jackson swiveled his chair around to grab his phone. “I’m going to Google him.”

“Farooq,” Asma said. “Farooq Waheed.”

Jackson was quiet for a second, then let out a low whistle. “Daaang, Asma. He’s cute.” Then, after another second: “Damn, Asma!” Jackson looked up from his phone, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “Five hundred million bucks?”

Asma waved him off. “Use that phone to answer your page, someone could be dying.”

Jackson continued to gape at his phone.

“Jackson!”

“Okay, okay,” Jackson said. “But we need to talk more about this later.”

Asma grabbed the coffee from where Jackson had set it down on the table and took a sip. But it was unnecessary. Their conversation had perked Asma up in a way that the caffeine couldn’t. Jackson was right—it was unlike her to go to Yusef’s book launch, without a plan, determined to speak to Farooq.

Farooq’s reappearance couldn’t just be coincidental—especially at this stage in her life. It had to be a sign that they were meant to reconnect.