Chapter 15 #2
“Hi, everyone,” Courtney said, taking the mic. “Thank you for your patience while we shuffled things around today. We are excited for the nikkah tomorrow, where Khaled and Lulu will finally make it official!”
The audience cheered, and Hena joined them in applause. Courtney held out the mic for Irum, but Irum’s eyes were fixed on her phone.
“Okaaaaay,” Courtney said slowly. She turned to the crowd. “Well, this has been such a fun week celebrating our bride and groom, but tonight we’re flipping the script. Khaled and Lulu put together something special—not about them, but about you. Thanking you for being part of their journey.”
The lights dimmed. The monitor hummed to life and music swelled through the hall as a video overlaid with nostalgic music played.
The first photo was of Khaled grinning toothlessly in front of a birthday cake with his parents.
Khaled’s family clapped. They laughed at the other photos popping up.
His parents in Star Wars outfits for Halloween alongside seven-year-old Khaled.
His cousins and him in jerseys at a YMCA basketball game.
His aunts and uncles at a reunion party.
Soon the photos shifted to Lulu’s side of the family.
Khala’s eyes glistened as she looked at the photo of herself from twenty-one years earlier, gazing down at baby Lulu swaddled in pink.
There was Hena, barely in the double digits, pushing Lulu’s stroller down their sun-drenched sidewalk.
Her mother appeared on-screen next, regal in her sleeveless sari and smiling down at her beloved Lulu, then a toddler, tightly holding her hand.
Lastly, her father. His wavy hair was parted to the side. Words appeared over his photo: Gone, but never forgotten.
The audience clapped. Hena kept her expression blank, willing her face not to betray her.
The video ended. The lights flipped back on.
The wedding planner informed them the buffet lines were open for dinner.
As Hena made her way toward her mother to see if she could fix her a plate, the lights abruptly turned off again.
Against the same wall, a white screen appeared, with black text in a vintage typewriter font:
There’s more.
Laughter bubbled from the crowd—good-natured. Curious. Courtney was a few paces away from her. She frowned at Irum.
“I didn’t do this part,” she said. “Did you add something?”
Irum didn’t respond.
Another click.
There are people who make us. But there are also the people who break us.
Another click.
The Truth About Hena Mirza.
Hena’s breath caught.
There she was. Smiling into the camera. She was wearing the red veiled gown from her wedding day. These were professional photos she’d taken that morning. The caption beneath it:
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Hena.
The next photo.
And a boy named Nasir.
There he was. His hair brushed back. In his mehndi clothes—light gray, a white vest. What was happening? Why was this projecting on the screen? Her shoes felt made of lead. Why couldn’t she take a single step toward the projector to unplug this nightmare from the wall?
She tore her gaze from the screen and looked at Lulu, who stood equally frozen—her attention riveted to the footage.
Photos of Nasir and Hena flashed by. There they were at a Princeton college basketball game.
A selfie from the Mumford & Sons concert during her junior year.
At a Dolphins playoff game when they’d moved back to South Florida.
There was a photo of them on the shoreline when he asked her to marry him—the ocean waves in the backdrop frozen in time. Her arms draped around his shoulders.
She’d scrubbed these photos from the internet when she deleted her social media accounts three years ago. But here were those very pictures. Blasted on this screen for the world to see.
She had to shut this off.
She rushed to the projector. Yanked the plug from the wall.
Nothing happened.
Her heart pounded. She looked around frantically. The images were coming from somewhere…
There.
The stream of light projecting from a high window on the back wall. She was racing toward it when a hand roughly gripped her arm.
Irum.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Irum, you don’t understand. This is—”
“Let it play.” She fixed a glare on Hena, as though daring her to say another word. Something cold lodged in the pit of Hena’s stomach.
A new image appeared.
Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Tale as old as time. But there’s always more to every story.
The next slide was not an image. It was a video.
Filmed at a high angle, it was grainy, as though pulled from security footage. There she was in her wedding red. Nasir wore scuffed pants. A plain shirt.
Her stomach lurched.
It was footage from the boathouse.
The morning she last saw him.
Her arms were clamped against her sides, her eyes narrowed at Nasir, who was studying the ground. She knew this moment. She’d never forget it. It was seconds after she’d learned what he had done. What he had taken. What he had cost them.
“I’m sorry,” said Nasir.
“Sorry?” she repeated. “Sorry isn’t good enough.”
“Hena.You have to understand—”
“I don’t have to understand a fucking thing, do you hear me?”
He moved toward her. She took a step away.
“Don’t touch me.” She wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Tell me something. Did you ever even care about me? Or was it always about my money? Was that what all of this was about?”