Chapter 2 #2
“I don’t see the reason why a quiet story can’t do well—after all, I’ve read plenty of successful ones,” Emily says. “If the Hallmark crew can write the same formulaic stuff every year, so can you.”
That’s true. Emily and I are big into the festive movies they churn out, where the biggest thing at stake for the characters is not making it home in time for the holidays.
I want to replicate that magic. When I outlined this book about a young woman named Haniya who left her small town to attend a prestigious university against the wishes of her parents and her old boyfriend, only to return having failed to reach her dreams after several years away, I made it a point to write a sweet small-town romance.
I wanted to show brown Muslim girls they can have that, too.
I didn’t want a book full of showstopping events.
Besides, for women like me, culture always adds a layer of complexity that increases the stakes for our characters.
The genuine humanity in that is more important than any superficial drama.
I sink farther into the couch. It’s nice of Emily to help keep my spirits up, but at this point, I want to sulk in my sorrow for a little while longer. I change the subject. “Why’d you have a shit day?” I ask, even though I already have my suspicions.
Her excitement immediately mellows. “It’s about Daniel.” The confidence she had when she gave me my pep talk dies. “We’ve been together for two years. I turned thirty in July. I just casually brought up the idea of us getting married and he…”
“Freaked?” I finished, nibbling on a cucumber slice.
“Yeah,” she answers. “But not in a way where he was mad I brought it up. More like he got clammy and nervous and stammer-y. It doesn’t bode well.” She puts her empty bowl on the coffee table, then gets up and heads over to the fridge. “I don’t know. Do you think I’m wasting my time with him?”
“Daniel loves you, you know,” I remind her. “But maybe he doesn’t feel ready to make such a big commitment yet.”
“It’s been two years .” She grabs a water bottle and closes the door with a little more force than necessary. “He hasn’t made any indication that he wants to break up. How much longer does a guy need to make up his mind if he wants to marry a girl?”
“Unless he doesn’t want to get married.”
“But in our early days of dating, he said he always planned on getting married someday,” she points out, coming back over to sit on the couch.
“Maybe it’s because of your inability to keep any of your plants alive,” I tease.
“Girl, be for real,” she retorts, though there’s a playful tone to her voice. She pokes me in the thigh with her foot. “I haven’t had any plants die recently!”
“Because I water them for you,” I say. “If it weren’t for me, they’d be sad and dead.”
Emily pouts. “Damn. I did think it was kind of suspicious that they were greener than the last batch…”
“You know what? Who needs men or agents.” I hold my hand out to her. “We have each other.”
Emily laughs and grabs onto my fingers. “Hell yeah!”
We give our jostled hands a good shake, then let go. Emily gathers her hair into a bun. “So, your birthday is tomorrow but you haven’t said what you’re doing yet.”
I freeze for a second but quickly recover. “I wasn’t planning on doing much,” I say. I lean forward and place my bowl next to Emily’s on the table. “I’m just going to my parents’ house for dinner and then coming back home.”
“It’s your thirtieth birthday !” she protests, her jaw hanging open. “You can’t spend it doing nothing.”
“I’m not doing nothing ,” I correct. “It’s a weekday, and my family is planning a proper party for me a few weekends from now. Plus, what am I gonna do? I don’t drink, and I don’t go clubbing. I’m a homebody. A meal at my parents’ place sounds nice.”
Emily chews on her bottom lip. “How about this? I was supposed to have plans with Daniel tomorrow, but he’s pissing me off, so I’ll cancel on him, and then when you come home from your parents’, we’ll do something together. We can go see a movie or go to karaoke or something. What do you think?”
My heart swells. “I think you’re the best friend ever.”
“I know,” she says with a grin. Then she claps her hands. “Now, let’s make those sundaes, because I want to be so hopped up on sugar that I can’t feel anything.”
“Good call.”
Emily grabs the dirty dishes and I get up to help her with the sundaes.
I grab the bag of goodies, take the ice cream out of the freezer, and place them both on the coffee table.
I pull the ingredients out of the bag, then frown as I stare at the spread.
Something’s missing. “Em, we had strawberries, right?”
“I think so,” she replies from where she’s getting bowls from the cabinet. “They’ll be in the fridge.”
I’m almost to the fridge when Emily suddenly gasps. She drops the dishes in her hands and dashes over to me. “No, wait! I’ll get them!”
“It’s not a big deal,” I assure her, my fingers wrapping around the handle. “I’m already here.”
I pull the door open just as Emily screeches to a stop, her hands grabbing onto the top of the door a second too late.
The strawberries are in there, but they’re tucked behind what I’m assuming is the thing Emily didn’t want me to see—a gorgeous small white cake covered in red and yellow roses, with my name written on it in cursive.
My lower lip pushes into a pout, and I turn around. “You got me a cake?”
She stifles a sigh at the clearly ruined surprise and lowers her arms. “Yeah,” she answers. “I didn’t have time to bake you one this year, and the good bakery is closed tomorrow, so my only option was getting it today.” She does jazz hands. “Surprise?”
I chuckle. “What was your plan? Keep me away from the fridge for a whole twenty-four hours?”
“It almost worked, didn’t it?” she retorts. “I didn’t let you cook today, and you never have breakfast or pack lunch.”
She’s right. I stare at the cake for a second, then take it out. “You know what? I could use all the sugar I can get. We’re going to have cake and ice cream.”
“But it’s technically not your birthday,” Emily points out.
I shut the door with a shrug. “My birthday’s in three hours. It’s close enough. Besides, all writers drown their disappointments in cake. I’m doing what writers do.”
“Fine,” she allows. “Okay, if we’re going to do this, then I have to get the candles.”
“You got candles?”
“Of course I did!” She runs over to where she left her purse on the kitchen counter.
She rummages through it for a second before producing the box.
“I know we never get them from the actual bakery, but today I had this feeling like I should. The lady at the counter said they’re—” she wiggles her fingers at me, her grin widening “—magic.”
I snort. “Magic? How?”
Emily drops her hands along with the charade. “I don’t know. I think she was just trying to sell them to me. They better be magic, though, because they cost me six dollars.”
My eyes bug out of my head. “Six dollars? You spent six dollars on candles ?”
“Never say I don’t love you,” she teases. “Now, let’s assemble these sundaes and turn on our K-drama. The last episode of My Holo Love we watched had me out of breath .”
* * *
Sometime later, Emily snoozes beside me, her body curled up against the arm of the couch. Our plan was to stay up until midnight for my birthday and have a slice of cake, but Emily has to be dead tired from her 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. shift, especially because she came home and cooked for the both of us.
I’m still awake, but barely; my eyes are open just enough to keep my focus on the TV screen. I don’t know why, because Emily falling asleep means we’re going to have to watch these episodes all over again anyway. I might as well go to bed.
I turn the TV off but leave Emily on the couch. At some point she’ll get up to use the bathroom and end up in her bedroom. I clear the coffee table and take the dishes to the sink. It’d probably wake her up if I cleaned them now, so I’ll do it in the morning.
The last thing I carry to the kitchen is the clean plates we planned to use for the cake. It’s still out on the counter, so I put it back in the fridge. It’ll be just as good tomorrow.
I grab my phone off the couch. When I lift it to my face so I can set an alarm for tomorrow morning, I recognize the telltale blue notification banner telling me I have an email from my querying inbox.
It’s from Rachel Devon, a huge agent in the business.
She’s a dream agent of mine, but because of her fame and the fact that she reps some high-profile clients, I didn’t expect much to happen when I threw my query into her inbox.
I was very surprised when she requested the full book, and now she must’ve made her final decision.
Oh, my God. Okay. Okay. Okay. I inhale deeply through my nose a few times, trying to calm my racing pulse.
There’s no reason for my stomach to feel like it’s going to launch out of my mouth.
Sweat pools in the center of my palms, and I have to wipe them on my skirt a few times before I gain the courage to open the email.
This is just Rachel Devon. Just Rachel Devon, who represents some of the biggest names in romance.
Who asked to read my book. Who is interested in my book!
I hold my breath. It’d be better to wait to do this until the morning.
Because if it’s bad news, I don’t want it to ruin my sleep.
Then again, tomorrow is my birthday, and if it’s bad news, I don’t want it to ruin that.
And I know myself; I will not be able to wait until the day after my birthday to check this email.
Besides, what if it’s a sign from Allah? I had a rejection earlier today, so it would make sense cosmically that this email is likely to be an offer. It’s also ten minutes to midnight; why would an agent reply this late at night if it wasn’t good news?
Okay. Ripping off the bandage it is.