Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Twinkle lights frame the golden Meta Sushi sign. We are sitting on the patio overlooking the Chattahoochee River. There’s a veritable feast spread out before us. Spicy tuna and two rainbow rolls. Twelve different pieces of nigiri. Edamame. Dumplings. All placed at the center of the table and served family style. Looking around, I can almost pretend this is an ordinary night out. Which it is, I remind myself. The danger is behind us. How many times will I need to say this to myself before my body actually believes me?
“I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner,” Darcy says. “I feel like I’m bringing Samir over to meet his in-laws. Nura is like a sister to me at this point.”
“I’m still processing everything that happened.” Azar’s voice catches. “Thank you, Darcy. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Me either.” I look at her. “You’re a hero.”
Darcy winces. “Come on. No more of that. I’m serious. You would’ve done the same for me, Nura.”
“What’s next for the rescued couple?” Samir asks. He leans back, one arm resting on Darcy’s chair. He’s still got on his work clothes. Gray slacks. A navy-blue tie. A starched white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“I spoke to Lena again a little while ago,” I say. “The public response has been overwhelming. Oprah’s in talks with Lena’s management team to do a one-on-one sit-down with them about the whole ordeal. First things first, though, they’re getting married.”
“The wedding venue is offering a redo of the nuptials. Baudelaire Country Club is going to host a new mehndi celebration too, on the house,” says Darcy. “That photographer Jade offered to do their photos for the nuptials. Karma’s stock is skyrocketing.”
“And bonus,” I add, “Tanvir’s getting his elephant for the wedding after all.”
“After everything they’ve been through, I’m glad things are looking up for them,” says Azar.
“How is wedding prep going for the two of you ?” I ask the couple. At this, they simultaneously break into a smile.
“Samir survived the latest round of cuts,” Darcy says. “And guess what? He surprised me a few hours ago and put down the rest of the deposit for the Georgian Terrace! Looks like we’ll be getting married there after all.”
“Darcy, that’s fantastic!” I exclaim.
“I told Samir he didn’t need to do that. What if his work blindsides us again with another round of layoffs?”
“The Georgian Terrace was your dream from the start, Darcy,” Samir says. “Why not make this dream come true?”
“Hmm, maybe because debts don’t pay down themselves?” Darcy elbows him teasingly.
“You’re not in this alone anymore, remember?” he says. “You deserve the perfect day you’ve always dreamed of. If this ordeal has any lesson for us, it’s that life is unexpected. May as well lean in to the moments that matter while we can.”
Over dessert, Azar asks Samir for stock market advice while Darcy fills me in on the menu options they’re whittling down. As we talk beneath the twinkling lights, the rush of the Chattahoochee rumbling in the distance, my shoulders start to soften. This is what normal feels like. An ordinary meal with my friends, suddenly so precious. It’s over. I’m safe.
“It’s been nice to chat,” Samir says as the bill arrives. He grabs it and hands the server his credit card before any of us can protest. “Maid of honor is no small task. I hear you’re throwing her a mehndi too?”
“A bridal shower–mehndi combo. I thought it might be fun.”
“How did I find a girl more into desi culture than I am?” Samir groans.
“Considering you’re not into it at all,” Darcy says, poking him, “the odds were high.”
“I’m into the culture! It’s just our never-ending weddings,” he protests. “The whole rigamarole of dholkis, sangeets, bangle ceremonies, and all the rest of it—it’s exhausting.”
“How can you turn down an opportunity for a proper South Asian wedding? You take all the cultural things for granted,” she says. “I have a real appreciation for desi culture.”
“No one’s debating that.” Samir grins and pulls her close. He glances at us. “Did you know that she even tried to convince me to ride to the wedding hall on a horse? A horse .”
“I want it to be perfect, that’s all. Hopefully your mother will see that eventually,” Darcy says. “I’m not the Indian bride she was hoping for, but I’m doing my best.”
“She’ll love you. Give her time.” He kisses her.
“No one needs time to love Darcy,” I protest.
“No argument from me there,” Samir says. “It surprised my mother, is all. She was over the moon when I told her I’d signed up for the Piyar app.”
“Then dumbstruck when you brought me home,” Darcy adds.
“Love finds who it will,” I say. “You’re a great match, and I should know. Your mother will realize it soon enough.”
They gaze at each other. Their love surrounds them like a warm halo. Looking at them, I can see why some people do go through the effort. Putting themselves out there repeatedly. Braving terrible date after terrible date in hopes of finding the one who makes them smile like Samir smiles at Darcy. I can see the allure of wanting to come home to someone other than an aging feline. I guess I can see why someone might try.
—
“?‘I have a real appreciation of desi culture,’?” Azar says, mimicking Darcy. “More like a real appropriation .”
“Azar!” I toss a pillow at him. We said our goodbyes over an hour ago. Now I’m at Azar’s place. “She saved my life!”
“So I can’t call her out? How is that fair?” He pauses. “Actually, that’s completely fair. Duly noted. No more picking on Darcy.”
“She’s really nice. You just have to get to know her better.”
“She is nice, but she can be a lot, don’t you think? A horse for the wedding? Really?”
“Fine, a horse is a bit much.” I laugh. “She’s just really immersed in the culture, with all the weddings she’s helped throw. Most of our clients are desi.”
“I know.” He stops and considers. “I guess what gets to me is she can put it all on when she wants to. The clothes and jewelry are fun, but she can also take it all off. Brush out that blond hair and she’s back to being cozy in her privilege. She gets to have it both ways.”
“I think you have to know Darcy to understand. When she’s in on something, she goes all in. We started chatting at the coffee shop because I was obsessed with her foam latte creations. I’d watch her while I waited for my order. Every day a new design. Hummingbirds. Tulips. Roses. When I finally asked her about it, she told me if you’re going to do something, you may as well give it your all. She even invited me to come by after the shop closed to teach me how to make them myself.”
“That explains the latte machine gathering dust in your kitchen pantry.”
“Yep. She had a rough life growing up. Her dad fled the scene in her toddlerhood, and her mom’s a poster child for how not to parent. Darcy basically raised herself. I think ‘going all in’ is how she’s learned to cope.”
“Well, great. Now I feel bad.”
“I get it. If it were anyone else, I’d definitely side-eye it, but it’s…it’s just Darcy.”
I slip off my heels and curl up on the sofa, grabbing the cashmere throw I’d gotten him as a housewarming gift years ago and wrapping it around myself as he opens and closes cabinets in the kitchen. In contrast to my century-old historic home in Morningside, Azar’s got a three-story stucco townhome in the trendiest part of Brookhaven. Compared to my ancient fireplace and original nineteenth-century wooden floors, his home is a portrait of sleek contemporary cool. Black dinner table and chairs. Dark frames with black-and-white art on the walls. A white sofa. White bed. The red teakettle on the stove—which I gave him for his last birthday—a welcome spot of color. Looking around, I don’t see any sign of Zayna. No sweater left over from a visit. No slippers tucked on the shoe rack. Not yet at least.
“Do you ever really use that teakettle?” I ask.
“Of course not. I only pop it up when I know you’re coming.”
“You knew I was coming over?”
“I was covering my bases.”
“I’m glad Darcy insisted on the outing,” I tell him.
“I was surprised you were up for it,” he says.
“I wasn’t. But it was good to get to know Samir. And to get out of my own head. Our next outing should be with Zayna. We keep meaning to get together for a hangout.”
“Hmm? Oh, sure. Chai?” he asks, opening the cupboard next to the stove.
“Yes, please.”
He pulls out a box of tea leaves, fills up the kettle with water, and places it on the stove. I glimpse his laundry room through the open door.
“No. Way.” I get up and walk over and press the door wider. The basket on the washer is stacked with neatly ironed and folded clothes.
“You iron your scrubs now?” I trace a hand over his minty-green work outfits.
“What else am I supposed to do?” he calls from the kitchen. “Toss them in a heap?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do! I think you’re getting worse.”
“I’d argue better,” he protests.
“Hmm. Maybe I’m jealous. You’re so organized.”
“Just built that way.”
The space smells like cinnamon and cloves when he flicks off the stove. I head back to the couch as he brings over the steaming cups and sits next to me on the sofa. Reaching over, he grabs the remote and flips on the television.
“Hold up!” I protest as he clicks the History Channel app. “I haven’t even started the latest season of Wild yet. You’re already on episode six.”
“You didn’t miss much,” he replies. “No one’s tapped out of the competition yet. They’re all starving. Lots of rabbits getting out of snares. It turns out mushroom soup can make you sick. There, now you’re all caught up.”
“Azar! Those are called spoilers.” I take a sip of tea. “Hey. Good chai.”
“I added star anise, how you like it.”
“It’s way too late for caffeine. But somehow chai is exactly what I need right now.” I settle against the couch.
My mother drank chai at night.
The memory comes to me unbidden. The two of us sitting at the two-person table wedged in the corner of the kitchen overlooking Dolores Park. She took her tea with one spoon of sugar. A dash of milk. She’d nod along, smiling, her head leaning against the window, her hair falling just past her shoulders, as I prattled on and on about the minutiae of my day. She’d stop me to interject questions now and then. In all my memories of her, she was always smiling. I was too young to have understood how much she’d been carrying.
“Where’d you go just now?” Azar asks.
“I’m still here. Just tired. It’s been a long day.”
I look down at my cup. Steam rises, warming my face.
“You looked a bit distant through dinner,” he says. “I get it. Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“I want to forget that whole moment on the lawn.” I shiver. “When I saw Lilah with my purse standing on the front porch and ready to rush over to me, I didn’t know what I was going to do. What would have happened if things didn’t line up the way they did?”
“But things did line up the way they were meant to,” he says. “That’s what matters, doesn’t it?”
I trace a finger around the rim of the teacup. He rests his own beverage on the coffee table.
“Is there something else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” I force a laugh.
He doesn’t smile back. His eyes are filled with concern.
How does he know? How can he always tell? It’s always been this way.
“I swear you should’ve skipped med school and joined me at the agency. We could use a clairvoyant.”
“Only when it comes to you, Nur.”
I swallow. If I change the subject and move back to critiquing everyone’s homemade structures on the show, he’ll move on too. He’s not one to keep poking. But slowly, I tell him about that evening with my khala. Why I’m newly a stranger inside my own skin. I’d only meant to outline the broad strokes of what I learned. But as I start telling him about it all, everything tumbles out of me. Fiaz. And Madiha. Every sordid detail.
When I’m finished, I feel shaky. Azar rises and leaves the room. He scoots closer when he returns. Hands me a tissue. Only then do I realize I’m crying.
“I’m so sorry.” His arm that had been draped across the sofa behind me moves to my shoulders. I draw closer to him. “That’s an enormous amount of information to take in.”
“It’s making me question…everything. About my family and who I am. What about me is real and what’s not.”
“Whatever your name was—whatever your origin story—you’re still you, Nur.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. I just…it’s hard to wrap my head around it. All those years. Khala had a million opportunities to tell me the truth.”
“I’m guessing she didn’t know how.”
“That’s what she said, but as hard as it might have been, at some point I was owed an explanation.”
“You’re right, Nur. She should have told you long ago.”
We sit quietly for a short while. I am grateful to him for this silence.
“You know what I think? You need a break,” he finally says. “Tell the team to hold down the fort. You’re trying to keep on keeping on like nothing happened, but no one can handle everything you’ve been going through and be fine. You need time to rest and recover.”
“I can’t just take time off whenever I want. I have a client coming by tomorrow for an intake meeting. My inbox is a disaster.”
“You can always reschedule the client meeting. And inboxes are always a disaster. Ignore it.”
“Sometimes I feel like you don’t know me at all,” I tease him.
“I do know you. That’s exactly why I’m saying this. You’re tired. I can see it on your face. You need to take a full week off at the very least.”
“I can’t take that much time off. I have a wedding this Saturday.”
“Skip it.”
“No way.” I shake my head. “There are at least four potential clients I promised to meet with there.”
“Your job can’t take precedence over you .”
“My job isn’t like yours. This agency, it’s a part of me. It doesn’t take precedence over my life. It is my life.” I give him my most winning smile. “But if you came with me to the wedding, it’d definitely feel less like work. For old times’ sake?”
His smile fades. Right. Zayna. What was I thinking? Our dinner tonight had been so relaxing and warm, I got a bit too comfortable.
“Forget I said anything,” I say quickly. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
The television drones low in the background. After a few moments, he turns to me. “Actually, count me in.”
“It’s probably best you don’t,” I say. “I’m pretty sure Zayna hates me, and this won’t endear me to her.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” he says. “And…I don’t love the idea of you going there alone.”
“Farhan’s gone,” I tell him. “You don’t need to babysit me.”
“It’s babysitting to eat samosas and chicken tikka?”
“This one’s a Greek and German wedding. No samosas, I’m afraid. They will have a chocolate fountain made with Porcelana cocoa, though.”
“Then I have to go, don’t I?”
“Zayna really won’t mind?”
“She’ll understand.”
But will she? Because sitting as close as we are, his breath warm against my skin…if Zayna knew what I was thinking right now…
“You know what?” I tell him. “I’ll take the rest of the week off until the wedding. And if you change your mind about going with me, or Zayna would rather you not, I can do it on my own.”
He looks at me intently. “I’ll be there, Nur.”