Chapter 15
That Saturday morning, I learn Chai Ho will be closing early because the Tahir family has another engagement—quite literally. It’s an engagement party.
Mr. Tahir scowls when I ask why Nayim and I can’t mind the shop again, and I fear he somehow discovered that we locked up before we should have last time.
Fortunately, he says, “Believe you me, I’d rather keep it open. Time is money! But Nayim said he has some errands to run tonight. If you’d like, perhaps you can open up tomorrow for a little extra pay?”
Although disappointment eddies through me at the thought of Nayim being too busy to walk me home for the first time since we met, I rally up a smile, accepting the ring of keys Mr. Tahir holds out. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Just don’t be late,” he scolds.
When I salute, he snorts and waves me away.
It ends up being a sleepy day at Chai Ho. After the lunch rush, Dani FaceTimes a paint-splattered Ximena, who volunteered to help restore the old Ivanhoe Mill Wheelhouse so it could once again become a hub for local artists, musicians, and writers. The four of us chat, with me catching them all up on what’s been going on with Harun.
“I know you don’t like him like him,” Dalia says, as we swipe through some Snaps Harun sent me of Rabeardranath riding around on a Roomba, captioned Kaiju attack , “but it’s cute, isn’t it? How close you’ve gotten? I think you text him more than us these days.”
She gusts a dreamy sigh, while I huff, “No way. He’s just trying to convince me to come feed his lizard flies or whatever. As if.”
I pointedly ignore the memory of Harun correcting me: bearded dragon .
“Come on, Zar.” Dani smirks like she can read my mind. “Is it possible not to catch feelings for a hot guy who’s taking you out on romantic dates every week?”
“Romantic?” I squawk, casting a nervous glance at the closed kitchen door. “The two of us are friends. We shook on it and everything. Plus, you don’t even like guys, Dan.”
“Maybe not, but I wouldn’t say no to free food,” she replies, then spins away, laughing, to dodge the dish towel I snap in her direction, still clutching her phone.
Ximena observes our antics over steepled fingers through its screen, the rusted sign of the wheelhouse visible above her curly bun. “That’s adorable. Baby’s first boyfriend.”
“I am not a baby and Harun isn’t my boyfriend.” Crossing my arms, I sulk exactly like a baby might. “This is just something we have to do. We’re like Batman and Superman when they had to team up to defeat that axe-headed dude in that never-ending movie Dani made us watch.”
“Did Bats and Supes make out?” Ximena asks. “I don’t remember that part.”
Dani snickers. “It probably would have been a lot more exciting if they did.”
“But then we might have kissed less,” Ximena points out.
“Very true,” her girlfriend agrees sagely.
I pout until Dalia says, “Okay, let’s not bully poor Zahra. Plenty of people are friends without ever falling in love. I know that better than most.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
Her smile grows impish. “Plus, Zahra already has a Prince Charming, so she doesn’t need to kiss any frogs.”
“Ooooooh,” Dani and Ximena say in sync.
Them being so stinking adorable and happy together rubs salt in the wounds of my own complicated love life… if I can even call fake-dating one boy while walking home with another a love life, since Harun and I are comrades in arms and Nayim hasn’t said a word about wanting to be more than my nightly bodyguard.
“Argh! This is why I need new friends!”
The girls giggle but take mercy on me and let the matter go before Mr. Tahir or Nayim overhear. Or at least, I hope neither have overheard. Nayim and I met at the pass-through window of the shop a few times today, but he seemed distracted and unlike his normal affable self. I’d rather he not hear any jokes about my nonexistent feelings for Harun and misunderstand.
Or worse. If I discover he doesn’t actually care what I do, I don’t know that I could show my face at the tea shop ever again.
The rest of our shift ticks by without us getting much of a chance to talk. Afterward, once the Tahirs have left for their party, accompanied by Ximena, who has shown up in a gorgeous lehenga Mr. and Mrs. Tahir gifted her for her last birthday, I find Nayim kneeling next to Thara the stray outside the shop, offering her a bowl of milk, a gym bag next to him.
“You can’t come with me today, love,” he says.
For a second, I think he means me—and my cheeks burn—until the cat issues a tragic mew. I squint between her, the bag, and his guarded expression. “Is that for your errands? Mr. Tahir mentioned you had something to do, so don’t worry if you can’t take me home. Paterson gets a bad rap, but I used to walk by myself all the time before you came along.”
His throat bobs and I follow the jerky motion of it, wondering why he seems so jittery. He looks good, in a plain white T-shirt and black skinny jeans, colorful rubber bands up and down one wrist, another tying his hair into a bun. He could easily be on the cover of Rolling Stone as the front man of a band… if poor kids from Bangladesh got shots like that.
“Actually,” he says softly, “I was hoping you’d go with me.”
“Where?” I cock my head. “The gym?”
He chuckles. “Maybe later. I was hoping we could go somewhere more special tonight.”
I catch my lip between my teeth and don’t miss the way his eyes dart to it. My ears flush as anticipation and anxiety war inside my belly. Of course I want to go with him, but what if someone sees us together and reports back to Amma? What if the Emons hear? It would end my need to fake a relationship but unearth a million other problems I’d rather not deal with.
Good Bengali Muslim girls shouldn’t be alone with boys.
Harun’s words return to me: You should go for it….
I meet Nayim’s gaze, resolved to tell him no, but when his imploring eyes land on mine, the rejection seizes in my throat, an insect confined in the amber of his irises. I swallow and try again. What comes out is a weak, “I guess since we finished work early, Amma doesn’t expect me home….”
“Perfect!” He beams. “We won’t need long.”
I follow him at a distance as he leads me to the special place in question. By the time we make it to Hinchliffe Stadium, the graffiti-stained baseball field between Public School No. Five and the Great Falls National Park, I have a hunch where we’re going, but Nayim’s long strides don’t slow until we’ve tramped past the grass and the gravel-covered pavilion across from the small brickwork wheelhouse Ximena called from earlier.
At the winding path that leads down to the historic factory Alexander Hamilton once built, he turns and extends his hand. I hesitate for only a second more, before taking it. Sunlight glints off the construction equipment of the Emons’ partially erected cliffside second restaurant, but the crew, busy packing up for the day, is too far away to pay us mind.
The recent drizzle also deters most aunties and uncles from lurking, so I let Nayim usher me to the colossal stone stairway monument, which overlooks the old factory, the wooden bridge that connects one end of the park to the other, and one of the larger waterfalls.
“It’s breathtaking here, isn’t it?” Nayim’s eyes bore into me rather than the view.
I nod, hyperaware that he hasn’t released my hand. “It’s easy to forget because I’ve lived here most of my life… but yeah, it is. My father used to bring us here. He’d read all the plaques on the statues in the area and take us to the Paterson Museum.”
Ignoring my half-hearted protests, Baba would pick me up by the waist so I could join a then-much-younger Arif and Resna on one of the rusty locomotive displays that represented our city’s industrial history. He’d snap photos until his camera roll filled up, a good third featuring his thumb. Later, I would grumble while deleting those.
What I wouldn’t give to go back.
Nayim studies my suddenly stricken face. “He sounds like a great man.”
“He was,” I reply. “He was always so proud to have gotten us to the US. He wanted us to have more than he did.”
The reminder makes me ache.
Even now, the falls are somewhere I like to come when I need to be alone. I can almost sense Baba’s presence when I close my eyes here, but what would he think about my present company? Would he see some of his own drive for a better life in Nayim? What would he think of my choices? That he worked himself to death so I could study and be something more , only to end up doing exactly what he never wanted for me?
The fact that Nayim brought me here of all places makes my heart thump so hard in my chest, I worry that it will burst through a crack in my rib cage and fly to him. Or at the very least, that he can hear it, see the sheen of tears in my eyes, and must hate me for ruining whatever special thing he wanted to show me.
Instead he smiles at me with such tenderness that my knees turn to jelly. Before I can sit down, he blurts, “Wait!”
I gape as he retrieves a red-checked blanket and a picnic basket from the gym bag, as well as a fancy-looking bottle of apple cider with a shiny foil label and two tall glasses from Chai Ho. My jaw drops when he lays out all the food on the step just below us and pats the now-blanketed spot at his side.
“You—how—why—?”
“It just rained,” he murmurs, as if that’s the reason for my shock.
“You did this for me?” I whisper.
He nods, taking out paper plates, plastic utensils, and oyster-pail containers with the logo of the nearest halal Chinese restaurant stamped all over the boxes. I spot desserts from the tea shop inside the basket too. In my head, I do a mental calculation of it all.
A box of fried rice, another of lo mein, yet more of prettily crimped dumplings, and then there’s the clearly expensive cider among all the desserts. The snobby customers who’ll someday dine at the cliffside Gitanjali would never bat an eye at this humble fare, but even with our employee discount, I know the sheer number of things he’s purchased had to have cost over a hundred dollars.
“Nayim…,” I breathe. “This is way too much. You can’t afford to splurge like this. All you ever have for lunch are Maggi noodles and rice with dhal. How will you feed yourself? Pay this month’s rent?”
Save up for his guitar shop?
A hand covers mine as he shakes his head, eyes never once leaving my face. “No, Zahra. It’s not nearly enough.”
Oh.
No one but my immediate family or best friends have ever done something like this for me. Even Harun has only paid for our dates because of his code of chivalry and our colluding. Or maybe pity for the poor girl with the dead dad.
“But why?” I whisper.
There’s nothing special about me. Nothing that could make a boy sacrifice his livelihood and passion. Not when there are plenty of beautiful girls with approving parents and the means to support his dreams.
He squeezes my hand tighter, smile dwindling even as sincerity shines in his gaze. “My whole life, people thought I was too lazy or not smart enough to achieve anything on my own. That I wasn’t deserving of happiness… and I believed it.”
He emits a weary breath, and my heart breaks at the thought of him doubting himself like that, though I don’t know why I’m surprised. People always think less of poor brown kids. Think we’re charity cases and diversity picks. Here to steal their jobs and opportunities.
“That isn’t true,” I say with such fervor that he jolts. “You’re incredible, Nayim. Those people can say what they’d like, but they couldn’t do half of what you are. You’ve been working so hard to achieve your dreams.”
The smile returns, but it feels as brittle as it is bright, like a diamond. He raises his palm to cup my cheek, tracing a calloused thumb over the arch of my cheekbone to catch an errant teardrop. His confession is quiet and fragile in the air between us. “It’s been harder being here than I thought it’d be. There are so many nights I’ve stayed up asking myself, what the hell am I doing? Would I be better off if I gave up and went back to Bangladesh?”
“Nayim…” My eyes go wide.
He’s always so upbeat that I never would have guessed, but before I can tell him I’m glad he stayed, that I hope he keeps staying, he says, “There must have been a dozen times when I almost quit. But you… you believe in me, Zahra. Not only that, but you inspire me. Ever since we met, I keep wondering what a future together could look like. A guitar shop in New York. The two of us writing together every night like we did at the tea shop.”
There it is again—that unshakable surety in his voice. When he talks like this, I can picture everything he’s imagining right alongside him. It appears we both have more faith in each other than we do in ourselves.
His gaze flicks to my lips. Not giving myself the chance to second-guess the rare hum of adrenaline that trills through my veins, I careen forward and brush them against his. His mouth is soft and sweet and I sigh against him.
Never have I let myself dream about a boy like Nayim.
Except, here Nayim is, real.
He smiles in return, more genuinely this time, pulling back just enough to whisper, “Are you sure this is okay? It won’t cause any problems with the guy you’re dating?”
“Harun?” The mention of my fake boyfriend sends me spiraling back to earth. I cringe and shake my head. “You don’t have to worry about that. There’s nothing between us.”
Amma, on the other hand…
“Good.” Nayim’s reddened lips stretch wider. “Because I’d really like to kiss you again.”
I bite my lower lip. We’re not supposed to be doing this. Being alone. Holding hands. Kissing. Our religion forbids any physical intimacy before marriage.
Isn’t he worried? Guilty?
But even if I wanted to wait for him, even if we did everything by the book, would Amma ever let us be together?
And yet… another look in Nayim’s eyes, and I see an entire future waiting for me to take hold of it. It’s so easy to believe it can be real.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “I want this.”
When his lips brush against mine for the second time, all thoughts of my mother, spying aunties, my fake relationship, and eternal damnation fade away.