Chapter 12
A few days later, I’m left to fend for myself once more, this time at Chai Ho.
Or at least, that seems to be Mr. Tahir’s fear.
“Are you certain you can handle this on your own, Miss Khan?” he asks me for what must be the third time in as many minutes.
“We’ll be fiiiiine,” I reply. “I’m not actually on my own.”
He shoots a narrow-eyed glare at Nayim, who lounges behind the counter, flipping through the tea shop’s menu while humming some old rock anthem. “And that’s exactly the problem. Your mother has put her trust in me to guard your, well…”
Nauzubillah, please don’t say something extra embarrassing like virtue .
“…reputation,” he continues, which is only marginally less Bridgerton . “So I hesitate to leave you alone with a boy now after so many years of diligence.”
He looks at me way too earnestly.
I grimace, deliberating how to respond in a way that’s less rude than, Being virtuous and reputable won’t help me save up for college again, so I’d prefer the time and a half you’re promising for today, thank-you-very-much.
Mercifully, I’m saved from having to answer by Dani swanning into the shop from the curb, where her mother and sister wait inside the family’s minivan. All three are dressed in elaborate cerulean lehengas that match their father’s tie, purchased from Amma by Mrs. Tahir, in preparation for attending one of their cousins’ birthday parties in Woodbridge.
“Okay, number one,” Dani says, lifting a finger, “that’s pretty sexist, Abbu.” Mr. Tahir opens his mouth to defend himself, but a second finger cuts him off. “Number two, Nayim is bunking with the imam. I doubt he’d bring the wrath of God—or Zahra’s Hello Kitty pepper spray—raining down on himself by trying anything gross. Number three, Zahra’s looked after the shop before with me or Dalia. Lastly, what could she and Nayim possibly get up to? Making out right in the middle of the floor?”
Just then, Dalia beeps the minivan’s horn as her mom waves for Dani and Mr. Tahir to hurry. Dani takes her sputtering father by the arm and drags him toward the exit. Before they depart, however, he turns to me one last time and whispers, “Don’t forget the cricket bat I keep under the counter… for safety .”
I puff out a relieved sigh when he’s out of earshot. It’s nine in the morning and I’m already exhausted thanks to him. But in his defense, he’s made it as easy as possible for Nayim and me to look after Chai Ho today, having preprepared all the baked goods so we just have to wrap them up in fancy to-go boxes and brew tea. Takeout-only days are the best.
“He’s a funny guy, isn’t he?” Nayim says, gazing out the door after our boss with one cheek in his upraised palm.
My own cheeks grow pink as I wonder how much of the Tahirs’ conversation he overheard. Clearing my throat, I say, “I guess so, but we should be grateful he trusts us enough to take care of the shop while he’s gone.”
“You’re always so responsible,” Nayim remarks.
I begin to bristle, then notice his affectionate smile and force my hackles down, shrugging. “I’ve sort of had to be, as the oldest kid, the oldest daughter . Especially now with my dad gone, my mom, grandma, and siblings rely on me. I can’t let them down.”
I ponder whether he thinks he’s better off than me. He’s lost people too, but he only has to take care of himself now. Or is that worse? Am I a monster for even comparing us? I can’t imagine myself in a world without my family in it.
His smile dims as he reads the conflict in my expression. I busy myself with hanging the chairs upside down on the tables and flipping the CLOSED sign over to OPEN .
Only when I’m done does he say, “But who can you rely on?”
I stiffen in front of the glass door, the corner of the sign gripped in my white-knuckled fingers, then chime a breezy laugh in an attempt to turn it into a joke. “You, today, I hope. Mr. Tahir was going to keep Chai Ho closed but left it open because I begged him. I’m sure I’m not the only one who could use the paycheck, right?”
He meets my gaze with those keen eyes and quirks a grin at me. “Right.”
Our first customer arrives, followed by a steady stream of others, undeterred by the limited take-out menu for the day. As I watch Nayim man the register, I can almost see why Mr. Tahir was so scandalized on my behalf.
Gossip spreads like the flu in Paterson, so a gaggle of avid new faces have turned up to meet Nayim for the first time, not all of them Bengali. A freshman-aged girl bats her eyelashes as he writes her name on her plastic iced chai latte cup with a flourish, while a few middle schoolers peek out at him from behind each other, giggling every time one of them makes eye contact.
The older women are hardly better. They march up to the counter to inspect him as if the confections aren’t the only thing on sale, then have to be dragged away by their husbands or children when he gifts them one of his sweet, knee-melting smiles.
I’ve noticed people gawking at him whenever we walk home. He has the kind of charisma that summons every eye in a room, but I guess it’s a survival instinct as much as anything else. How else would he attract an audience as a street performer or convince random people to hire an immigrant boy for the jobs they need done?
I get it. I do .
My hands squeeze the mop in my grasp hard, viciously sopping up a falooda someone spilled, as I watch a beautiful girl I recognize, who’ll be a high school senior come September, twirling a lock of dyed purple hair while chatting with him. As if he senses my death glare, his eyes catch mine and crinkle at the corners.
Harrumphing, I whip around and dunk the mop into the bucket more savagely than necessary, splashing murky water and soap suds across the tiled floor and my own Vans.
Ugh, I hate boys.
Insufferable, adorable, bigheaded boys.
Despite my displeasure and Mr. Tahir’s suspicions, the rest of our shift passes by without too much extra hassle. Before I know it, the clock has struck four and only an hour remains until we shut down for the night.
Nayim strolls over to the door, where he switches the sign to CLOSED and clicks the lock to match, then turns to me expectantly.
I put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing? We still have an hour.”
He glances down at me with a gleam in his eye. “I thought we could close a little early. Mr. Tahir won’t mind.”
“Ummm, I’m pretty sure he will. You don’t know him like I do. He’ll put you on bathroom duty for a week, and I strongly suspect that toilet is a portal to Jahannam.”
Nayim chuckles. “You’re such a writer, with those clever metaphors. Wouldn’t you like to sit outside on this lovely summer evening and just… do that?”
His eyes are intent on me. I gulp. “Do what , exactly?”
“Write, Zar.”
He arches both brows, as if the answer should be obvious. Perhaps it should have been, but the slight flux of excitement that spiked through my veins fizzles at the clarification, replaced by a persistent anxiety.
It’s not a matter of sitting down and doing it. I’ve tried for the last two years, to no avail. It’s like when Baba died, my ability to tell a story died with him. It’s hard to write happily-ever-afters when my own “after” has been up in the air for so long. When, rather than the words I’m seeking, visions of every possible disastrous outcome that leads to my family begging on the street plague me.
Sometimes, a good imagination is a very dangerous thing.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to do anything Mr. Tahir would get mad about when he trusted us tonight. I didn’t think you were that sort of person either.”
To his credit, Nayim appears chastised at the thought of breaking my—and, by extension, Mr. Tahir’s—trust. He murmurs an apologetic, “Sorry. I only meant… You’ve been running around handling all the orders and cleaning up after customers while I ran the register, so I figured you could use a break.”
“That’s—”
…Actually very sweet.
“I’m fine,” I say instead, but his gaze is somber.
“Earlier, I think it bothered you that you have so many people relying on you and no one you can do the same with,” he says gently. “I want you to know, you can trust me, Zahra. With your writing hopes and anything else you want to share with me.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I whisper, frowning down at my stained sneakers.
It’s not in me to break the rules like this. To slack off. It was one thing being alone with him when we were working, but this… this is something else entirely. And yet, when he extends his hand, my own twitches at my side.
He takes it and steers me over to one of the tables, pulling out a chair for me. “You don’t have to know yet. At least for tonight, can’t we look out at the stars together, rather than with an alleyway between us?”
“It’s too early for stars,” I want to grouse, but can’t bring myself to do it when his eyes are glittering imploringly at me like stars themselves. I turn to the windows to see if anyone might be snooping or eavesdropping, but he’s already drawn the curtains together to give us some semblance of privacy. The last weight of indecisiveness on my shoulders lifts as I give my consent.
“Okay…”
Sucking in a trembling breath, I observe Nayim through wide eyes as he dims the lights of the shop and brings me a bowl of creamy rossomalai and a cup of masala chai—extra sweet and milky, exactly as I like it. After I murmur a thank-you, he vanishes into the back room and returns with a wooden guitar. If possible, my eyes get rounder.
“Is that—”
“The guitar I told you about,” he says, running reverential fingertips over the polished arches of the instrument. His attention turns to me, his honey eyes hooded. “If you want, we can write together? You, your book, while I try to finish a new song?”
“But what if I can’t do it?” I mumble. “What if I try and nothing happens?”
“It’s okay.” His casual words make me scowl, until he continues, “I’ve learned that you sometimes find inspiration in unexpected places. Like in the Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey, for example.”
Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I nod. “Okay. But you have to play me a song.”
“I can do that,” Nayim agrees.
I notice the tension in his shoulders, however, as I sling my backpack over my own, an untouched notebook inside it, and carry the treats he prepared for me into the enclosed yard behind Chai Ho. Potted herbs and plants like mint, lemongrass, and lavender, which Mr. Tahir grows for his recipes, soon encircle us.
Nayim sits across from me on an upturned milk crate, the guitar in his lap. Although there are no stars, when he bows his head and his thick, shoulder-length hair curtains his face, the sun halos his figure like a crown, casting the shadows of his inky eyelashes across his high cheekbones.
God, he’s beautiful. Polaris in his own right.
His long, graceful fingers strum a chord, but he soon pulls them back, laughing nervously. “Sorry, I’m a bit rusty.”
I wave my empty notebook. “Hello. Girl who hasn’t written a word in two years here. No judgment, Nayim. Seriously.”
That makes him grin again, in that irresistible, lopsided way. “All right. I’ll try to play if you try to write. Deal?”
“Deal,” I reply, sounding more confident than I am.
He strums more and more chords, until they become a yearning melody I’ve never heard before. Something he’s written? It sends a thrill through me like I’ve touched a live wire. This is the sort of “rusty” that treasure glints beneath.
I tear my gaze away only when his eyes rise and catch mine, my ears burning, but as I frown at the blank first page of my notebook, I realize it no longer feels like an insurmountable mountain to climb, because I’m not alone on my quest anymore. Bringing my sparkly pen to the paper, I start to write.
Nowhere near as bewitching as Nayim’s song.
Nonsensical things, about raven hair and golden eyes, siren songs and sumptuous lips, but soon I’m stringing them together into sentences, into a story.
A love story.
He’s right: having the right muse makes all the difference.