Yours, Eventually

Chapter Thirteen

Thirteen

Asma tiptoed down the stairs. She rummaged around the front hall closet, but unable to find shoes in the dark—and not wanting to wake anyone by turning on any lights—she slipped out the front door barefoot. The night air was cool, the breeze hitting her bare arms and her legs through her pajama pants. She ran on her tiptoes over the dew-covered front lawn to the car parked curbside.

Asma’s phone had rung shortly after midnight, blending into her dream. When it rang the second time, it roused her from her sleep. She bolted upright on her air mattress and felt underneath her pillow for her phone, answering it quickly so as to not wake the twins.

It was Fatima, in tears. Asma couldn’t understand what she was saying, only that she needed to talk and was on her way to Maryam’s house.

She was still crying as Asma slipped into the passenger seat.

“Salman’s cheating.”

Asma felt her stomach drop. She remembered Fatima’s suspicions and how she had tried to downplay them. She had been so wrapped up with work and Farooq that she hadn’t wanted to worry about anything else, convinced that Salman would never be foolish enough to betray a wife like Fatima.

“How do you know?” Asma asked.

“He admitted it. He was on the phone with her when he thought I was in the shower, and I heard everything.”

“Oh, Fatima,” Asma began, but her friend was talking quickly before she could say more.

“She was a summer associate at his firm,” Fatima said. “It’s been going on for a year, Asma! I missed the signs for an entire year!”

Fatima’s voice cracked.

“I feel so stupid.”

“ You feel stupid?” Asma said. “ He’s the stupid one!”

“Here I was, going about my days in total denial. Trying for a baby! And he was cheating on me the entire time.”

Asma held Fatima’s hand as she doubled over in sobs, a sliver of a memory sharpening in her mind: Fatima, a huge smile on her face, holding up an acceptance letter to Columbia’s School of Architecture. The opportunity she’d given up when Salman’s priorities got in the way.

Fatima had sacrificed her entire life when she married Salman. Any personal or career aspirations she had had been put on hold to become a loving and a supportive wife as he worked countless hours to become a partner at his firm. And this bastard had cheated on her?

“What are you going to do?” Asma asked.

“My parents told me to pray and not make any rash decisions because it won’t look good if I just leave.”

Fatima looked at Asma, tears streaked across her cheeks.

“ He cheated on me ! And my parents said I won’t look good for leaving?” She shook her head. “I’m heading to Oakland to stay at my cousin’s.”

“Now?” Asma asked. “It’s late! Stay here.”

“I can’t—your sister and Hassan’s family. They’ll want to know what’s going on. And I don’t want to answer any questions.”

“Okay, then wait. I’m coming with you.”

“You have work.”

“I’ll Uber back tomorrow morning.”

“It’s okay. I need to be alone,” Fatima replied, wiping her face. “I have to figure out what I’m going to do.”

Even once Fatima had left, Asma didn’t sleep, staying up to wait for Fatima to text that she’d made it to her cousin’s. When the text came in, Asma switched off her phone and settled into bed. But sleep didn’t come. She tossed and turned, ruminating about the situation. It wasn’t lost on her that Fatima had done everything she was supposed to. She’d married the man her parents had wanted for her and been a loyal and devoted wife to Salman for years. He had taken her for granted all that time, and then betrayed her. And yet, after all that, her parents’ first concern was saving face. For whom? Asma wondered. Was keeping up appearances more important than their daughter’s happiness?

And then, as Asma was finally drifting off to sleep, the answer came: of course. After all, it had been for her family too.

—

Aunty Bushra’s dupatta was slipping down the back of her head as she opened the door. “Thank you, Asma beti,” she said, pulling Asma in for a hug. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

Asma had been enjoying a rare morning off after waking up to an unusually empty house. Hassan was working and Maryam had taken the boys to their soccer game. But a minute after she had brewed a fresh cup of coffee, she got a call from Maryam that Zayd was running a fever, she’d dropped him at Bushra’s house, but Bushra needed to run to the store to pick up groceries for a dinner party she was hosting later that night. Nothing like a sick child to entirely throw off everyone’s well-laid plans.

“Zayd is upstairs asleep and there’s food in the fridge.” Bushra squeezed past Asma and out the door. “Please eat!”

Bushra didn’t need to tell her twice. Asma rummaged through the fridge. Only Bushra, with a kitchen full of food, would be cooking up a fresh feast to serve guests.

Asma had just finished pulling out all her favorites—chicken jalfrezi, saag paneer, and roti—when the landline rang. The caller ID announced that it was Lubna.

“Salaam, Lubna,” Asma said, answering the phone. “It’s Asma.”

“Asma! Hey, salaam! Is my mom there?”

“She went to the store—I’m here with Zayd. Everything okay?”

“Yes, fine, fine! I just ran to get a mani because I have to film later today. It’s for this amazing new lip gloss, Smooches. It goes on so smoothly and doesn’t get all sticky.”

“That’s a good testimonial,” Asma said. “I don’t even wear lip gloss and I’m tempted to get some.”

“Don’t buy it, Asma!” Lubna said, alarmed. “They are sending me so many boxes, I can totally hook you up.”

Asma laughed. “Thanks, Lubna, I appreciate that.”

“Of course! Hey, you’ll be there for a bit longer, right?” Lubna continued. “Farooq is stopping by in a minute. My laptop was acting crazy so he took it yesterday to fix it—he said he’d drop it off on his way to work.”

Farooq? Coming here? Now? Asma scanned what she was wearing. A total mess. Sweats, a hoodie, and her old, scratched-up glasses.

“Asma? You still there?”

“Still here!”

“Can you please let him in? Don’t let him leave! I texted and called but his phone went straight to voice-mail. I’ll be home in like fifteen minutes.”

Asma hung up the phone, panicked. She pulled up the hood on her sweatshirt and tied the string tightly under her chin. Maybe Aunty had a dupatta lying around that she could throw on her head?

The doorbell rang.

Asma ran into the living room, then the guest room, scanning for a scarf, but none were to be found.

The doorbell rang again. No time to check upstairs. It was inevitable. She dragged herself toward the front hallway, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror by the front door. Her hoodie was on so tight she looked like the kid from South Park.

She untied the hoodie and pulled it down, along with the rubber band holding together a sloppy bun. She quickly combed through her hair with her fingers. There was not much else she could do.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Farooq was standing on the doorstep, laptop in one hand and a small stack of newspapers and flyers in the other—items that had been littering the Qureishis’ driveway and front stoop all week that no one had bothered to bend down and pick up. He was freshly shaved and wearing a sharp, well-tailored navy suit and aviator sunglasses—the most put together she’d seen him. Ever.

“Asma?” He looked completely startled to see her. He stepped back in confusion, took off his sunglasses, and looked around, seemingly in search of the house number.

“You’re in the right place,” she said. Something about how disoriented he was by her presence made her feel a bit better about her disheveled appearance. “I’m babysitting a sick kid. Lubna’s on her way home, she should be back soon.”

Farooq nodded, still looking thrown. They stood uncomfortably for a second, before Farooq gestured toward the driveway. “I can just wait in my car.”

She needed to stop making this awkward. “No, no. Come in, come in.”

Asma opened the door wider and he followed her into the house. Now what?

“I was just about to get some food, let me make you a plate.” She gestured toward the table as they entered the kitchen.

She knew exactly what he liked—chicken tikka masala and roti. His no-fail staple order whenever they went to Big Biryani, the terrible Desi restaurant near campus they frequented whenever he felt homesick. Despite her encouragement—and much to her dismay—he never ate a single vegetable. She pointed to the Tupperware of spinach on the counter in front of her to confirm. “No saag, right?”

“Right, no saag,” he said with a small smile.

They didn’t speak as the food warmed. Asma stared at the microwave while Farooq glanced through the flyers he had brought in with him from the front door, like he was in the market for a gardener and a new roof.

Asma brought the food to the table when it was ready, taking the seat across the table from him.

“Thanks,” Farooq said. “Aunty Bushra’s food is amazing. I’ve been thinking about it since the dinner we had.”

“It’s my favorite,” Asma said.

They ate for a few minutes in silence before Asma couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

“I wanted to—”

“What do you—”

Of course, they both had felt the awkwardness at the same time. Farooq motioned to Asma to go ahead.

“Thank you for the coffee the other day.”

Farooq nodded. “You seemed pretty exhausted after your all-nighter. Saving lives?”

“One or two,” Asma demurred.

“You’re off today?”

“On tonight,” she replied. “You?”

“I have a few meetings. Then we’re having a team dinner at that new, fancy Lebanese restaurant, Le Palais Zaatar.” Farooq gestured to his suit self-consciously. “That’s why I’m dressed like this.”

“Ah, I was wondering,” Asma smiled. “Le Palais Zaatar is good, you’ll like it. Fatima and I went there a few weeks ago.”

Farooq looked at Asma with curiosity. Of course, he had no idea who Fatima was—they had met after the breakup, because of the breakup. How strange that two of the most important people in her life had never met.

“Fatima’s one of my best friends. She went to Cal too. We met junior year.”

Farooq seemed to instantly understand. He nodded slightly.

“She was at Yusef’s book launch.” Why weren’t you? she wanted to ask.

Farooq answered the unspoken question.

“I was sorry to miss it,” he said. “I was at my parents’ place in Stockton dealing with their contractors and it was too late by the time we wrapped up.”

So his absence had nothing to do with her, after all. She felt relief. His mention of Stockton made her nostalgic. He had fiercely defended the small city while in the Bay. By his account, he’d had a charmed, idyllic childhood, in a city he claimed was diverse, down-to-earth, and a great place to raise a family. An unsubtle campaign, Asma teased him, for one of the cities on their short list of places to settle down after they got married.

“How’s Hamza?” she asked before overthinking the overfamiliarity of the question. Hamza was Farooq’s childhood best friend, one of the few people in his life she’d felt comfortable meeting during their time together. Mainly because Farooq referred to him as his security detail. Quiet and big, he was obsessed with bodybuilding.

“He’s great,” Farooq said. “Married, one kid— another one on the way. His dad just retired, so he’s taken over the store.”

“No way!” Asma replied, more enthusiastically than she intended. “Do they carry beef jerky now?” Hamza’s father owned a small halal market in Stockton that Hamza was forever trying to modernize. He had been convinced that halal beef jerky was the key to the store’s patronage by a new generation of clientele, presumably young Muslims like him also obsessed with weight training and portable protein.

Farooq laughed. “It was the first order he put in as the new owner.”

“Good for him.” Asma felt the nostalgia grow, enveloping her. There was so much more she wanted to ask, but she didn’t want to push. It seemed as though they had come to a tentative truce after Farooq’s anger at the PIMPS event and the awkwardness during their walk. Perhaps the coffee had been a peace offering.

They sat in a comfortable silence, finishing their food. The quiet was interrupted by Zayd, coming into the kitchen, his blanket trailing behind him.

“Hi, sweetie, you feeling better?” Asma touched his forehead—his fever had broken.

Zayd held up his iPad. “I need the password.”

Asma punched the password into his iPad as Farooq pulled out the chair next to him and helped Zayd into it.

“I remember you,” he said to Farooq.

“I remember you too,” Farooq responded with his big lopsided grin. “Zayd, right?”

Zayd nodded, his eyes back on his iPad.

Farooq gestured toward Zayd. “Your target demographic,” he said to Asma with a hesitant smile.

Asma, surprised by the reference, could only nod. She felt whiplash. It was just days ago that Farooq had lied about never visiting Santa Cruz. And now, here he was referencing an intimate shared memory.

During one of their late-night, marathon phone sessions in college, the conversation had shifted to the family they envisioned for themselves.

“I have a confession,” Asma said. She continued only after Farooq had promised not to judge her. “I’m not into babies.”

“Not into babies? What does that even mean?”

“I like kids. A lot. But I don’t really get all the fuss about babies. I never know what to do with them.”

“You just cuddle them,” Farooq had replied. “They’re like comfort animals. They make you feel better.”

“Yeah, until they start that inconsolable crying. Then they make you feel totally useless.” Asma had shaken her head. “I love kids in those preschool years. They are so funny. Such wild conversationalists.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Farooq had said. “I’m super into babies. So I’ll hold our babies and then, when they get older, you can have deep conversations with them.”

Asma’s heart had swelled at the thought of Farooq holding their children.

“Sounds like we make a good team,” Asma had replied. “I’m going to hold you to the baby thing.”

“InshAllah,” Farooq had said. InshAllah was a word that promised disappointment when said by most of the people in her life—a way for people to say no without confrontation. But coming out of Farooq’s mouth, it felt like a promise. How easy it is to make promises when you’re young and in love. How easy to imagine a world where babies could be dreamed into existence. Not like the reality of Maryam’s first few years with the twins or Fatima’s struggle with infertility.

Asma looked at the man in front of her. The man who said InshAllah and meant it.

Zayd glanced up from his iPad. “Who is your wife?” The spell had been broken. By a middle-aged aunty in the body of a three-year-old.

Farooq’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not married.”

“Neither is Asma Khala.” Zayd motioned to Asma as though introducing her to Farooq for the first time. Asma felt herself blush.

“Is that right?” Farooq said. Then he said to Asma with a twinkle in his eye, “Here’s that preschooler conversation you’re so fond of.”

Asma laughed in spite of herself.

Zayd continued. “My dadi said she’s not sure why Asma Khala’s not married because she’s such a nice girl.”

“Zayd!” Asma said, trying to sound stern. She wanted to slip under the table.

Farooq laughed, his face lighting up with amusement. “What else does your dadi say?”

“Farooq!” Asma held up her hands in admonishment, but Farooq’s laughter made her laugh too. She was completely and totally mortified.

Zayd looked at the adults laughing at the table around him, confused. Not to be left behind, he joined in too.

“Hi, guys! What’s so funny?” They didn’t hear Lubna enter the kitchen over their laughter.

Lubna’s presence immediately sobered Asma. Lubna had asked her to open the door for Farooq, and Asma had—why did she feel like she had been doing something wrong? Asma grabbed their empty plates and took them to the sink, busying herself with loading the dishwasher to soothe her guilt.

“Zayd,” Farooq said, affectionally tapping Zayd on the shoulder. “Zayd is so funny.”

Zayd beamed at Farooq’s praise and then held up his iPad. “Farooq Uncle, look—I just got a high score.”

As Farooq and Lubna crowded around Zayd to admire his score, Asma slipped out of the kitchen. She wanted to escape before the jealousy of seeing Lubna and Farooq together supplanted the nostalgia and warmth of memories that had made her feel, just for a bit, the comfort of old times and what she once thought her future might be.

—

The bowling ball wasn’t even halfway down the lane before Asma turned around to give Hassan a thumbs-up. And, sure enough, a second later, she heard the familiar clatter of the pins. Friday night at San Jose Lanes was loud and chaotic, but Asma could hear Hassan cheer above the din of the teenagers on group dates and schoolkids up past their bedtimes.

“Another strike!” Hassan raised his hand in the air to give Asma a high five.

Bowling wasn’t the original plan for the evening. Hassan and Maryam were supposed to be on a double date to watch the newest superhero blockbuster with Lubna and Farooq, but Farooq had texted a few minutes before they were to leave that he was stuck in a meeting and wouldn’t be able to make it after all. Saba was busy studying for a GRE practice exam, but after much cajoling, Lubna was able to coax Asma out of her pajamas and the house. The change of plans took time. By the time they got to the theater, all the showings of the movie were sold out. It was Maryam who suggested they go bowling, excited to be out without the kids.

“This is crazy. Who knew that Asma was such a great bowler?” Lubna wondered aloud.

“She was on an intramural bowling team in college,” said Maryam.

Lubna looked at Asma, exasperated. “How come you didn’t say anything when we were picking teams?”

“That’s what you get for picking Maryam,” Asma replied.

“What was your team name, Asma?” Maryam said. “I can’t remember, I just remember it was dumb.”

“The Pin Pals.”

Lubna groaned. “Oh man!”

Asma took a deep bow, then laughed and headed to the snack bar. She was actually having fun, and not only because she was leading the scoreboard by such a margin that she could miss her next three turns and still win by at least a hundred points.

She was waiting for a vanilla shake when she saw Farooq enter the bowling alley. Wasn’t he supposed to be at work? He had certainly dressed the part of a Silicon Valley CEO—jeans and a hoodie. It was more in line with how he used to dress, unlike the last time she’d seen him, in a fancy suit.

Farooq scanned the crowd, spotted Asma, and smiled. She felt her heart pounding as he headed toward the snack bar, an amused look on his face.

“I assume bowling was your idea?”

Farooq had laughed hysterically the first time he saw Asma wearing her bowling team jacket—he had never heard a cornier name, he’d told her. But he stopped laughing when he saw her in action. She’d beaten him badly the first time they went bowling together, and subsequently he had nothing but the utmost respect for the Pals.

“Maryam’s, actually. I haven’t been bowling in ages.”

“Don’t tell me you’re rusty,” Farooq said, with mock optimism and a raised eyebrow.

“Of course not,” Asma replied. Farooq smiled.

Asma smiled back, unsure of exactly what was happening. Farooq made no move toward joining the others, and she could feel them slipping back into old rhythms. The shorthand of people who knew each other intimately. Just like earlier in the week at Aunty Bushra’s. But it felt wrong in these surroundings, especially considering the fact that Farooq was here for a date with Lubna. Asma found she was relieved when her order was called. It made it seem less like the two of them were drawing close to an edge, like the steep slopes of the cliffs where they used to hike together. There they were, giddy at the view, but apt to tumble down with one wrong move. She was reaching across the counter for her shake and a wad of napkins when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Farooq? Farooq Waheed!” Asma was taken aback to see Dr. Saucedo, greeting Farooq like a long-lost friend. “I thought that was you—how are you?”

“Melinda! I’m great! It’s been years!”

Dr. Saucedo caught sight of Asma and looked as surprised to see her as Asma felt.

“Asma!” Dr. Saucedo looked from Asma to Farooq then back at Asma, her face breaking into a grin. “What a small world! I didn’t realize you two were—” She gestured from Farooq to Asma suggestively.

Asma felt herself flush.

“We’re not, we’re—”

“We know each other from college,” Farooq finished smoothly.

Asma nodded.

“What are you doing here?”

“Birthday party,” Dr. Saucedo replied. “So many birthday parties!”

“And how do you know each other?” Asma pointed from Dr. Saucedo to Farooq.

“Farooq and my husband were at the same company years ago.”

“You two work together?” Farooq asked in return.

“Asma’s our star resident. And”—Dr. Saucedo smiled big and leaned in—“the lead candidate for a position that just opened up.” She looked at Farooq. “If you can help convince her to stay in the Bay Area instead of moving to the middle of nowhere.”

Asma swallowed hard. There was a job opening at her hospital, just as Dr. Saucedo had been promising. She thought about staying in the Bay, the prospect of continuing to work at the ER that had become her second home. And, of course, of her father’s disapproval if she did.

“The middle of nowhere?” Farooq asked.

“Staying with my sister was supposed to be temporary,” Asma explained, disoriented by the choice now presented to her. “I was going to move to Sacramento after graduation. But…” She paused, meeting Dr. Saucedo’s smile. “I don’t think I could pass up the opportunity to stay, if I got the job.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Dr. Saucedo replied, smiling wide. “Come over to our place for dinner tomorrow. We can discuss your application.”

“That would be great!” said Asma.

“Farooq—come too!” Dr. Saucedo continued. “Hector would love to see you.”

Farooq seemed flustered at the invitation. He gestured to his phone.

“Thanks for the invitation…but, um—”

“Wonderful!” Dr. Saucedo was distracted by two small girls behind her—mini versions of herself—who were tugging on her jacket. “Hector will text you the address. I better run, these two are up way past their bedtime.”

Dr. Saucedo gathered the girls and headed toward the exit, calling over her shoulder, “We’ll see you both tomorrow night!”

Farooq stared after Dr. Saucedo until she left the bowling alley, then started punching the dinner into his calendar. Asma felt overwhelmed by the news about the job opening and her worlds colliding. But she knew that one thing needed to be addressed immediately.

“Farooq?”

He looked up from his phone.

“If you wouldn’t mind keeping this to yourself for now, I’d appreciate it. I haven’t told my family about the job.”

Asma saw a flicker of the familiar coldness in Farooq’s eyes, and the smile faded from his face. More secrets. More conflict between what she wanted and what her family would allow. If he thought that nothing had changed since they were in college—that Asma was still more than willing to indulge in dishonesty and avoidance rather than disappoint her father—he would be justified in thinking so.

“I won’t say anything,” he said, his tone clipped and terse.

He put his phone in his pocket and walked off toward her family at the back of the bowling alley. Asma felt her excitement over her job opportunity slip away as the warmth that had begun to build between them dissipated. She stood staring after him until she felt something cool and sticky on her arm. Her milkshake had sprung a leak and was dripping down her sleeve.