Chapter 36
Visiting Columbia never ceases to be a wonder.
Although many things have changed since I first applied to the school last year, a tiny part of me will always delight in the way no one spares me a second glance while I stride through the Southfield section of the campus toward the freshman dorms.
It’s only when I reach the John Jay Hall building that I stop in front of the three sets of black steel doors, admiring the matching trelliswork in the arches above them.
It doesn’t take long for the center door to open.
“Hey, you,” I say, already grinning.
Harun grins back, his whole face brightening in a manner that makes my heart dance inside my ribs. Like Columbia, he’s still a bit of a wonder.
Or more than a bit.
“Hey.” The word ghosts across my lips as he dips his head to kiss me, bringing up his palm to cup my cheek. I lift my own arms to wind around his neck and pout when he draws back, until he adds, “Man, I’ll never get tired of that.”
My brows arch. “Oh? Then aren’t you glad I—”
“—hunted me down, shouted that I was being a ‘chauvinistic douche-waffle’ outside my window until my entire family practically threw me out to talk to you, and then convinced me it would be the biggest mistake of my life if I let my insecurities get in the way of our chance at a happy ending together?” he finishes, eyebrows arched. “Yeah, how could I forget? You ever gonna let me live that down, Khan?”
“Nope,” I reply, beaming up at him angelically.
Some would say the night of the proposal wasn’t my finest. After semipublicly dumping one boy, who just proposed to you in the most dramatic fashion humanly possible, it’s not exactly the smartest move to go profess your love for another equally as publicly, but sometimes grand gestures work.
It’s about fifty-fifty.
Although I’m pretty sure Harun’s neighbors recorded me and I became a meme for the second time that night, I’ve forbidden Arif, Ximena, and the Tahir girls from sharing any of their internet sleuthing with me, ever, until I die.
I know the Zahra I used to be would be proud of the one last summer transformed me into: a Zahra with a boyfriend I adore, family and friends I love, a class I enjoy, and dreams worth fighting for. Who is loved and cherished in return.
Who says women can’t have it all, am I right?
“Much as I hate to interrupt your gloating, because it’s actually adorable,” Harun deadpans, “should we start making our way over to the library? We’re kind of standing in front of the hall and getting a whole lot of dirty looks. I don’t need the bio students leaving dead rats on my doorstep or something.”
“Couldn’t Rabeardranath eat them?” I reply innocently.
He shoots me an unamused frown. “Rab is a bearded dragon, not a snake.”
“Okay, fine, we can go to the library,” I relent, “but I have a surprise for you first.”
“A surprise?” His dark brows vanish into the thick foliage of his curls, which have only gotten more unruly since he moved away from home and Pushpita Khala’s coddling. They’re exactly as fluffy as I always secretly hoped, though. “Uh… those haven’t exactly gone well for us. Historically speaking.”
Although he’s joking, I take a step back from him, suddenly feeling nervous as I nudge my backpack off and start rifling through it. My fingers find the thick sheaf of papers that Dani and Dalia printed for me when I told them the news.
I hold it out to Harun with both hands. “I finally finished my book and… I wanted you to be the first one to read it.” A flush blooms in my cheeks. “Except, of course, for Professor Liu. Because I had to give it to her. But you were the very next—”
His hand around my wrist stops my babbling. I glance up to find him smiling down at me, eyes sparkling in the midday sun. Without a word, he accepts the manuscript from me and runs reverential fingertips over the title, my name, the spiral binding.
Then he opens it up to the dedication page. I hold my breath as he takes in the words inscribed on it:
To Harun, my very own love match.
Harun gasps, soft and breathy. I might have wondered if I’d imagined it in another second, if not for the way his full lips press together like he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry.
He does neither.
He sets his bag down and places my manuscript on top of it like something precious. I emit an “oomph” when he throws his arms around me again. He tucks his chin over my head and swallows hard. I can tell he’s a little choked up when he says, “I love you an incalculable amount, Zahra Khan. Thank you.”
I smile into his cozy Columbia Henley.
The stories I grew up with, the stories I’ll always love, almost always conclude with a wedding. A wedding at the end of a natok means that the characters have overcome all other obstacles and can live happily ever after at last.
Harun and I won’t end in a wedding. At least, not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
After all, our story is only getting started.
Yet as my arms rise to enfold his broad shoulders, bringing him ever closer, I feel like we can get through anything—quarreling families, meddling aunties, heck, even plotting princes—as long as we’re together.
Harun frowns against my smiling lips. “You’re scheming again, aren’t you?”
“Always,” I whisper back.
Because we’re no longer pawns in this game of love. We’re a matched set, and I’ll be damned if I let anything else tear us apart again.
This time, I’m writing my own happily-ever-after.