Chapter 39
39
I stood on Imran’s doorstep, lasagne in hand and worry in my gut.
It was a few days since his father’s funeral; he’d stopped coming into school and hadn’t responded to any of my Snapchat messages.
A khatam was taking place at the Sayyid house today: all the women from the local community were congregating to read the Quran and make a collective prayer for Uncle Sayyid. It gave me the perfect excuse to go over and check on Imran.
I was steeling myself to knock but a few women came up behind me and beat me to it. They eyed me blatantly, staring at my plain shalwar kameez, the silky dupatta wrapped loosely around my head, the tray of food I was holding. This attire and the fact I’d clearly spent a significant amount of time in the kitchen today should have meant I fitted right in with them, but I still felt like they didn’t approve of me.
The door opened and the aunties greeted Mrs Sayyid as though they were the most concerned friends, but I knew about all the gossiping that went on behind her back, especially about Fawad’s prison sentence.
‘As-salaam-alaikum, Aunty,’ I said to her. She looked like she’d aged a decade in a matter of days. I spoke in Urdu, the only language she knew. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Walaikum-assalam,’ she responded, giving me a warm hug. ‘Thank you for the food. There was no need.’
‘It was no problem, Aunty. Where shall I put it?’
She pointed me towards the kitchen, placing a gentle hand on my elbow, then left me to it.
My heart ached for her. I’d always been fond of Imran’s mum; she was so soft and sincere. Thankfully there were no aunties lingering in the kitchen, so I didn’t have to force any awkward conversations. After placing my tray among the other food, I pulled out my phone.
I called Imran, deciding that if he didn’t pick up on the first go, I’d leave. But he answered straight away, and my heart leaped.
‘I’m at your place,’ I said quickly. ‘I brought you some food.’
Imran was quiet for a few long moments, then said, ‘I’m coming down.’
I nervously paced the length of his small kitchen that closely resembled mine, and then Imran was standing before me. He didn’t say anything and neither did I. He was in his typical tracksuit bottoms and white T-shirt, but it wasn’t crisp like it usually was; it had the air of being slept in, perhaps for days. His eyes were red-rimmed but still as piercing as ever.
He looked me over once, then said, ‘What did you bring?’
I pointed to the lasagne, and he immediately got to work. He took out two plates and then cut us both a slice. With a plate in each hand, he made to leave the kitchen.
‘Come with me,’ he said over his shoulder.
My eyes widened. ‘To the living room? With all the aunties?’
It was only girls and women in there, and they hadn’t even started eating yet. This would look beyond weird, for me more than him. Men were never judged as harshly as women for doing something inappropriate.
Imran shot me an obviously not expression, then gestured towards the stairs with a tilt of his head.
My mouth grew dry. ‘To your room?’
He didn’t bother to answer and carried on, barely glancing back at me before disappearing.
This was a scandalous move.
If any aunty happened to see me entering his bedroom …
But given the circumstances, I didn’t feel able to refuse him. I rushed behind him, straight up the stairs and towards his room. I paused outside, took in the dark look in Imran’s eyes, and began second-guessing my decision.
He cocked a brow. ‘What’s the delay, Khan?’
The sound of a flush from the bathroom spurred me into action, and I practically sprinted into his room and shut the door behind me before anyone could see us.
‘That was close,’ I breathed.
He shrugged as though he couldn’t care less, grabbed one of the plates from his bedside table and settled into bed, leaning against his headboard as he ate. I waited for him to say something. He didn’t.
‘How are you doing?’ I asked tentatively.
‘How do you think?’
He was grieving, obviously, so I had to overlook his tone, but it still felt harsh.
I looked around his bedroom. It was large and surprisingly organized; I’d always imagined him to be messy. A wide wardrobe, with a full-length mirror for a door (the very mirror he’d seen me checking him out in), stood on one side. I walked over to the window and looked across the street into my own bedroom. It felt surreal to be standing on this side.
‘There’s never anything interesting to see. You always draw your curtains while changing.’
Heat flushed my cheeks. ‘It seems like you want to be alone. I’ll just leave.’
‘If I wanted to be alone, I wouldn’t have made you a plate,’ he said, pointing to it with his fork.
‘I’m not hungry. I’ll see you later.’
In one swift move, he stood, fetched the plate and walked over to hand it to me. ‘It’s really good. You should have some.’
I don’t know whether it was the compliment or the sudden softness in his eyes, but I accepted it. Imran looked at the foot of his bed suggestively.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind standing.’
‘Just offerin’ you a seat,’ he murmured. ‘Wasn’t an invitation for anything more.’
My breath hitched. He walked around me, pulled out the chair from underneath his desk and placed it in front of me.
‘Thanks,’ I said quietly, then sat down and began to eat.
We ate in silence for a while until he suddenly said, ‘I’m sorry I’m being a bit –’
‘It’s OK,’ I replied instantly.
‘No, it’s not. You already don’t like me and I’m makin’ it worse.’
‘What makes you think I don’t like you?’
Imran opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He looked me up and down, smirking a little. ‘You look good in traditional clothing. It suits your personality.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked defensively, noting his swift change in topic.
‘You’re just such a … good Pakistani girl – always getting perfect results in school, listening to your parents, following the rules.’
I gave him a hard look. ‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Oh yeah? What you tryna tell me, Khan?’ His brows shot up. ‘That you’re not such a good girl? It’s risky to tease a guy with a reputation like mine. In his own bedroom, might I add.’
I averted my gaze from his, my heart racing. His room was suddenly starting to feel rather … cramped.
‘I wasn’t teasing you. And you can’t be as bad as your reputation makes you out to be.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
My silk dupatta slipped off my head and I instantly pulled it back up, placing it higher than before, hoping it would remind him of the boundaries between us. I finished my slice quickly, stood up and placed the plate carefully on his desk. I wasn’t going back into the kitchen in case I bumped into anyone; the plan was to leave as quickly and quietly as possible.
‘I’m sorry,’ Imran said. ‘I think I’m just trying to distract myself.’
My heart melted a little. ‘Is it working?’
‘For the first time since Dad passed away my mind is elsewhere.’
‘Then keep doing it,’ I said with a smile, pleased that he was finally opening up to me. ‘If it’s helping with your grief, I’m willing to put up with more of your inappropriate comments.’
He chuckled.
‘Come on then. Hit me with some more of your tacky flirt lines.’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ he said with a grin. ‘The tacky flirt lines have to come naturally.’
‘What else can we do to distract you?’
I regretted the words the instant they left my lips. The look in his eyes made it incredibly clear what kind of thoughts were racing through his mind.
He stood and walked over to me confidently, no hesitation at all, until a mere arm’s length remained between us. I stepped back, until I could feel the wall behind me, knowing I’d partially brought this upon myself.
‘I did say it was risky to tease me in my own bedroom.’
My heart thudded uncontrollably but I kept my tone even. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
He laughed softly. ‘You wouldn’t have looked at me like that if it hadn’t crossed your mind too.’
I gestured to the small space left between us. ‘We aren’t what you think we are.’
His head tilted to one side. ‘We are. You’re just not ready to admit it to yourself yet. Earlier I said you don’t like me. I didn’t say you’re not into me.’
My dupatta slipped off my shoulder again.
Imran picked up the edge of it. Just as I thought he was going to gently put it back in place, he tugged it instead. I gasped as I unwillingly stepped towards him, holding on to it tightly so the entire thing wouldn’t glide away into his grasp. He was so close that I could see the specks of stubble growing around his beard.
Slowly, he draped the scarf over my shoulder, his knuckles purposefully grazing my collarbone and neck just before he let go.
The soft touch of the fabric on my body broke the spell of the moment, spurring me back into action. I moved towards his door, but he stood in front of me.
‘Imran,’ I warned.
‘I’ll stop the moment you tell me to,’ he said simply. ‘Just tell me you’re not the least bit interested in me, and I’ll stay away. I’ll never try comin’ close to you again.’
The word never echoed in my mind, cold and unwelcome. His head tilted lower, his eyes locked fiercely on to mine, and the words I was trying to say seemed to be stuck in my throat.
‘Say you don’t want me, Zara,’ he whispered, daring me, coaxing me, his lips getting dangerously close to mine.
My voice box had apparently become redundant.
‘Jus’ tell me to stop,’ he murmured, edging closer every second.
I took a small step back, but still couldn’t seem to speak.
‘Refuse me. It’s so simple.’
And I stood there like an idiot, letting him slip a gentle hand to the nape of my neck and angle my chin higher with a slight tug of my hair. I held my breath, then gulped, then opened my mouth to speak but still nothing came out. My heart stammered as he made the final move towards my lips. Unable to do anything else, I closed my eyes.
The anticipation kept rising and then … nothing. Because I suddenly felt the absence of his touch, of his presence.
My eyes flickered open, and I saw Imran standing a whole foot away, hands in pockets, grinning. ‘I knew it. I just wanted you to know it too.’
What ?
Anger suddenly replaced every other emotion. He’d forced out the feelings that I’d buried deep, and he’d thrust them in front of us both so openly, so carelessly.
‘You were trying to prove a point?’
Imran shrugged, looking so annoyingly smug that I wanted to slap him.
I hated him. I hated that some inescapable part of me wanted him. I hated that when I was with him my brain stopped working.
‘I’m leaving now,’ I snapped, still embarrassingly breathless.
‘Just so you know – next time I won’t hold back,’ he murmured. ‘And now we both know neither will you.’
Imran’s curtains were parted, and I could see inside easily. He was wearing a black thobe and standing in prayer, a white topi covering his head.
I just couldn’t figure him out. There were so many layers to him – all of them concealed under humour and flirtation. He rarely showed me the real him; a few glimpses slipped out here and there, and I liked them more than I dared to admit.
And then there was Karim.
I can imagine you as my wife.
I imagined Imran saying those words, and I imagined liking it; I imagined a whole lot more – daydreams that included willingly removing my dupatta and throwing it on his bedroom floor, closing the small space that always seemed to linger between us, roaming my fingers hungrily over his hard chest, inhaling his luscious scent as I went on my tiptoes and pressed my lips against his …
‘Stop it, Zara,’ I scolded myself aloud as I got into bed.
I couldn’t have feelings for Imran. I was with Karim. The Karim Malik, who everyone wanted. It wasn’t right. I should’ve refused Imran straight away … but it had been so hard … and what if it happened again?
The sound of a sharp bang woke me.
I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep. I got up and looked around, completely dazed. And then the fireworks erupted again.
I’d forgotten it was Guy Fawkes Night.
I approached my window for a better view.
It took me a few seconds to realize Imran was also standing at his window, looking at the same fireworks. His eyes caught mine and my heart stopped. He looked down at his phone, and I used it as an opportunity to escape his gaze and rush back to bed.
My phone pinged with a message from him.
Cute pjs. You look beautiful.
Butterflies rose and fell in my stomach.
Then he was calling me.
I began to panic. What would we even talk about? But that didn’t stop me from picking up.
‘Hi,’ I said uncertainly.
‘Hey,’ he replied in a voice so deep and husky it made me swoon a little. ‘Come to the window so I can see you. Don’t worry, I won’t make any inappropriate comments. Unless you secretly enjoy ’em. If so, own up now and I’ll let ’em flow freely.’
I didn’t bother answering him, but I did go back to my window, grabbing the seat from my study desk to settle in. I looked right at him when I asked, ‘How are you?’
He sighed and scratched the back of his head. ‘I’m feelin’ bad. I scared you off earlier. I’m sorry. I really did appreciate you comin’ to check on me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’m not so easily scared off.’
Imran chuckled. ‘You practically legged it out of my room, Khan. So don’t give me that bull.’
I showed him my middle finger, only making him laugh louder. ‘I wasn’t scared of you. I was uncomfortable with … what could have happened.’
‘Nothin’ would’ve happened without your permission, Zara. I made that clear. That’s not me.’
Goosebumps covered my entire body. Imran had a way of getting into my mind, under my skin. He was across the street, in another house, yet I felt his presence so strongly he could’ve been right next to me.
I cleared my throat. ‘I didn’t want anything to happen.’
‘Do I still need to convince you that you did? Because I’m up for the task.’
It became impossible to speak, so I didn’t answer, but Imran’s words left an exhilarating anticipation lingering in the silence between us.
‘How’s your mum doing?’ I asked, changing the topic entirely. Safe ground.
‘She’s all right. It’s hard. She’s lost her husband, and two of her sons are never able to see her. It’s just me. I hate thinkin’ about her spending so much time alone.’
‘I’m really sorry. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. She doesn’t know me that well but maybe I could come over occasionally to see her. I’m not good at making Pakistani food – but I could bring other stuff. Cakes and pies.’
He was quiet for a while, and I thought maybe I’d said something wrong.
‘That’s real kind of you, Zara,’ he said eventually, his voice thick with emotion. ‘She’d love it. Mum always wanted a daughter.’
‘No problem,’ I responded warmly.
‘You know what? It may seem that my dad passed away from heart disease, but it wasn’t really that.’
My mouth grew dry. ‘What do you mean?’
‘After Fawad bhai got sent to jail, Dad stopped takin’ care of himself. He came to this country to give his children a better life, and worked damn hard in factories, restaurants and taxis to provide it. Then his eldest son made friends with bad people, got caught up in messed-up things and ended up destroying his dreams for his family. Fawad bhai went to jail two years ago but Dad never really got over the humiliation and heartbreak of it. And it all eventually caught up with him.’
His voice quivered a little and I felt my throat close up.
‘And that’s what’s killin’ me,’ Imran continued sternly. ‘If Fawad bhai hadn’t made such stupid decisions, things could’ve been different for my family. Now we’re all scattered. Dad isn’t with us any more. Fawad’s in jail. Saqib’s in Dubai, and plans to stay there, probably so he can run away from everything here. He only came back for the funeral, left two days later and probably won’t return for a long time. I’m the only one with Mum now and I don’t even know how to console her sometimes. It just doesn’t feel like we’re a family any more.’
I took a deep, unsteady breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Imran. You should know that it’s not only you who feels like that. Trust me.’
And then I told him about the issues in my family too, how we all lived so close but were so far apart that the distance between us could never be crossed. I told him about how my parents had emotionally blackmailed my sister into an arranged marriage, how it had turned out to be abusive and yet they weren’t letting her leave it because that’s how much they cared about their reputation.
I told him that my brother never came over any more because my dad had disowned him for marrying a Black woman, and that my mum was heartbroken she could never see her son but wouldn’t dare question her husband’s decision. I told him about how suffocated and misunderstood I felt all the time in my own house, how sometimes I wanted to disappear altogether.
I found myself telling him things I hadn’t even told Saliha or Karim because deep down I knew they’d never understand what it was like to belong to a broken family. I told him things I’d never dared to say aloud.
We talked long into the night, and when dawn broke, we were still looking at each other.