Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Of course, as soon as Asma was settled into the house in Sacramento, her father insisted on yet another visit to Mrs. Gulnaz Dadabhoy. Despite Asma’s protests—namely, that after her father’s heart attack, the Dadabhoys should be visiting them, instead of the other way around—she, Iman, Rehana, and Mr. Ibrahim spent an entire afternoon in that same garish living room, sipping chai and listening to Mrs. Dadabhoy wax poetic about the virtues—and money—of her son Zubayr, while her granddaughter Shagufta sat silently scrolling on her phone. Asma managed to hold it together until they got in the car to go home.
“I can’t believe you’re trying to set me up with a man who has a daughter who is almost my age!”
“Oh no, you’re mistaken,” Mr. Ibrahim replied. “She’s not trying to set you up with her son.”
“Yeah, Asma, way to have a big head,” said Iman. “He’s a hundred-millionaire, why would Aunty try to set you up with him?”
“Aunty knows a lot of people,” Rehana said. “It’ll be good for her to have her eye out for you.”
“Of course you were in on this too,” Asma practically spat at her aunt.
For so long, she had thought Rehana had wanted what was best for her, but Asma now realized that wasn’t the case. She wanted not what was best for Asma but what she thought was best for Asma—really what was in the best interest of the family.
She and her aunt spent the rest of the car ride in tense silence as her father went on his constant refrain about the beauty of the Dadabhoy house and how fortunate the Ibrahims were to have such wealthy and well-connected relatives so nearby. But Asma’s anger grew, like the heat of a pressure cooker, until she was nearly bursting with it.
It all spilled out later that evening, at a family dinner to which Omar Khan had apparently been invited.
“You remember what she said about Hassan last time we were there?” Asma said, slamming her hand on the dining room table for emphasis. “That he’s not a real doctor! You should’ve seen her face. Like Hassan’s a quack practicing out of the trunk of his car.”
Omar chuckled, seemingly enjoying Asma’s recounting of the visit.
“Well, he’s technically not a real doctor,” Iman said.
“Like me?”
“Yeah, but I mean a doctor with a job.”
Asma glared at her sister. “I had a job. I moved here and gave it up, remember?”
“Of course I remember, you won’t let any of us forget.”
“Omar found me a very good cardiologist,” Mr. Ibrahim said. “I’m sure he can help you find something around here. In private practice?” He glanced at Omar, as if these were marching orders enough for the younger man.
“No, thanks,” Asma said. “I can do it myself.”
“Oh, come on, Asma,” said Omar. “Let me help. My fund invests extensively in the medical field, and I would be happy to introduce you to some of my local contacts.”
Despite her irritation with her family, Asma knew it would be foolish to pass up the opportunity for local contacts. While she hated the idea of leaving emergency medicine for private practice, it would give her the flexibility to take Mr. Ibrahim to his appointments and help out around the house more.
“Okay,” Asma replied. “I would appreciate that.”
“Definitely,” said Omar. “Let’s meet this weekend to discuss strategy.”
—
Omar called Asma the day after that dinner and suggested they meet up for brunch. Asma assumed Omar would pick some pretentious, trendy restaurant filled with people taking their overpriced food too seriously—but when she googled the café that Omar suggested, she was discomfited to see it reviewed as one of Sacramento’s most romantic first-date locations.
Asma spotted Omar sitting on a bench outside the restaurant, wearing linen shorts, a polo, and sunglasses. He looked good, like a model in the diversity issue of a surf-and-sand magazine, if they had such a thing. Asma didn’t realize how intently she was admiring the view until he turned and saw her. She felt herself flush, then waved, hoping he hadn’t noticed her checking him out.
“There you are!” he said. “I put our names down for a table on the patio.”
The waitress ushered them to a corner table with a riverside view before leaving them to peruse the menu. Asma zeroed in on it with intense focus, trying to ignore the other patrons dining on the patio—clearly all couples from the way they were seated. It was uncomfortably intimate.
Asma settled on the goat cheese frittata, before pulling out her notebook and pen from her purse. She was here for business. Only business.
“Thanks for meeting with me. I’ll just be taking notes while you talk,” said Asma in her most formal tone. “Any recs you can give me about who to contact for further information would be great.”
But Omar was clearly not in the mood. He waved his hand toward her notebook.
“In a bit—we have more important matters to discuss first. Chocolate or apple beignets?”
“Uhh…let’s go with apple.”
“Now that that’s settled,” said Omar, “I need you to finish your rant from the other night. It was quite entertaining.”
“What rant?”
“About the Dadabhoys. I couldn’t stop laughing this week thinking about it.”
“What’s to know? They’re snobs. And such poor manners. But everyone kisses up to them because they’re rich. It’s gross.”
“And hilarious.”
“I wish everyone would tell them to go you know where.”
“That would signal the end of time. It wouldn’t happen. It’s the community we live in. There’s a social order.”
“You sound like Abu! There’s only a social order because we allow it to continue.”
Omar’s smile became a bit wistful.
“The social order will persist whether you and I like it or not. Your father’s a wise man who recognizes that.”
“These material markers of status are BS. It’s all so shallow and fake.”
“Of course, we couldn’t expect someone like you to understand the world of the shallow and fake.”
Omar paused as he and Asma made eye contact. The intimacy of the look—and the realization that she had never before sat across the table from such a good-looking man—flustered Asma, and she laughed to break the tension.
Asma was grateful to see the waitress returning to take their order. But it was only a momentary interruption. Omar’s attention was back on Asma the minute the waitress left the table.
“I spent the better part of my twenties rebelling,” Omar continued. “But it got me nowhere. I realize now that it’s easier to play by the community’s rules. And use them to your advantage.”
“Is that why you broke off contact with Iman?” Asma asked. “You were rebelling?”
Omar’s smile faded, replaced by a look of remorse.
“I felt like I had to after what happened with my father. So many people were involved in his financial schemes, not just your family, there was so much bad blood. And so many secrets. I didn’t even know where he had run off to initially. I needed to get my life in order.”
“But no one blamed you.”
“I know that now. I didn’t know it at the time. I thought everyone was upset with me. Your father especially. But seeing my father in the condition he’s in now?” Omar shook his head. “I knew it was time to make amends. I’ve had the chance to apologize to your father and your sister. And I should apologize to you too. I’m sorry.”
Omar seemed so sincere and earnest that Asma felt her doubt over his intentions dissipate. Asma took his words in as their waitress returned to the table with their food.
“You don’t need to apologize to me. But I appreciate it.”
Asma looked up from her plate to find Omar smiling at her. And this time, she smiled right back.