Chapter 33 #2
He just looks at me, one brow raised. His protests are on the tip of his tongue, not out of unkindness but to gently remind me of what we’ve already agreed to. But he won’t say it out loud, which I know because of the lingering flicker in his eye—hope.
I quickly check the stove again, and while it’s still 11:59, who knows how many seconds are left.
“Listen,” I start, turning my head back to face Aashiq.
“If this doesn’t work, then I’ll go back to my laptop, and type THE END .
You’ll disappear, and that’ll be the end.
But if it does work…” I trail off because I don’t need to finish the sentence. We know what this could lead to.
All our wants. All our dreams.
His gaze turns to the candle. As he sucks in a breath, he suddenly lifts his head to me. “No matter what happens,” he says, “I’m so proud of you. And thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
I frown. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Yes, you have.” He touches the pad of his thumb to my chin. “You gave me the chance to love someone.”
My heart swells, but the warmth quickly dissipates in place of rising anxiety because we’re running out of time. Thankfully, Aashiq sucks in a breath and blows as the clock shifts to 12 a.m. The flame extinguishes, and little spirals of smoke swirl upward into the air.
We stare at the burnt candle for a moment before I nod. “Right. Time to see if it worked.” I march back over to the couch, sit down, and pull the laptop close to me again.
With steady fingers, I type.
THE END.
Three Years Later
The bookstore that hosts my book launch spares no detail.
Cookies with tiny edible versions of my cover on top.
A huge display of my book in the front window for everyone to see when they walk by.
They set up a few rows of chairs right in front of the small area where I’ll sit and discuss the book with my conversation partner, a more established romance author named Zahra Butt.
Though judging by the hordes of people who stand behind the already-filled chairs, the seating wasn’t enough to accommodate everyone.
And best of all, there’s a giant boarded poster of my book cover, with its brown-skinned characters proudly on display.
The Manahil on the cover holds a pen in her hand and cradles a stack of papers to her front.
She stands back-to-back with Junaid, who stares over his shoulder at Manahil with an energetic smile.
Manahil herself peeks at Junaid from the corner of her eyes, and it’s clear that whatever’s going to happen between them will be juicy.
The title, My Lovely Muse , is bold on the bottom in white.
And best of all, my name stretches across the top in the softest shade of pink.
In the back area of the bookstore, where I’m waiting for the official time of the event to begin, I sit on the couch, tapping my fingers in my lap.
I was told to wait here by the store manager, Kyle, but then he left to check on something, so I’m alone.
Nerves prickle my entire body, and my legs bounce in response to the restless energy.
My gaze searches around the whole room before it lands on the table next to me, where a stack of my signed books sit.
Giddiness spreads through my veins, and I pick up a copy.
My fingers run along my name. Ziya Khan. There was always a tiny, tiny part of me that wondered if I’d ever see this day. But by the grace of Allah, here I am.
This is for present-day me. And teenage me. And child me. But also for all the girls and women who look like me. This whole time, I wasn’t the only person I was writing for. I was writing for them, too, and now we all get to celebrate.
“Ziya!” I hear, and I lift my head to see Emily poking her head through the doorway. She grins and steps all the way through, shutting the door behind her.
“Emily!” I scold, but a grin of my own stretches my cheeks as I stand. I put the copy of the book I was holding back on the table, then meet her halfway. “What are you doing back here? You could get in trouble with the employees.”
“Like they’ll kick me out. I’m the author’s best friend.
” Emily wraps her arms around me, pulling me in.
It’s a bit awkward on account of her medium-sized baby bump, but we make it work.
“I just wanted to come and wish you luck! And congratulate you again.” She breaks the hug. “You look amazing, by the way!”
I peer down at my outfit. I chose a pleated black skirt with tights, and on top I wore a burgundy turtleneck. “Thanks,” I say. “It took me so long to figure out what I wanted to wear, but I decided it was best to go for simple chic.”
“Perfect choice.” She jostles our entwined hands. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
Laughter bursts from my throat. “Me, either!”
“No, I’m serious.” Emily shakes her head. “With all you’ve told me about how slow publishing can be, and after so many years of nothing, to suddenly have everything happen all at once is wild.”
She’s not wrong about that; my experience this time around has been incredibly out of the norm.
Compared to the years I spent drafting and revising and slogging in the query trenches, I finished the first draft of My Lovely Muse quickly and revised with the help of some beta readers I found online.
This happened within a handful of months, and despite the short timeline, I felt confident enough in the book to send it out to agents.
I got interest immediately, which didn’t get my hopes up, because that’s happened before only to be followed by a slew of rejections.
But within a month I had my first offer of representation, and then I gained two more before deciding to go with the second offering literary agent.
We spent the next couple of months doing revisions, and then we were on submission to editors at publishing houses.
I expected to be on sub for months—and luckily, I had law school, as well as the new friends I made there, to keep me distracted—but to my shock, within one month I had my publishing offer.
I was lucky in that my agent had a history of fighting for diverse authors, and my editor was a new one who was hungry for new and underrepresented voices.
Flash forward two years, and here we are on release day.
It all happened so fast I can’t quite believe it.
“It may have taken a long time,” I begin, “but I’m glad to be here now.” I squeeze her hands, then peek over her shoulder. “Is everybody here?”
“Yup,” Emily confirms. “I saw your parents in the very front row, and your siblings are both here, but I think they’re finding something in the children’s section to keep their kids distracted during your event.” Her eyes brighten. “I even saw your coworkers in the audience. Your boss, too.”
“What?” My jaw drops. “I definitely didn’t think Colin would come. Nothing can tear him away from his office at this time of the year.”
“Nothing except your success,” she corrects. “Also, the one with the black hair is cute.”
I poke her in the stomach. “Hey, you’re a married woman now,” I tease. “Your eyes should only be for your husband.”
“Fine, fine,” she relents. “Enough chitchat. We should get out there. I think they’re almost ready to get started.”
Just as she says this, the door opens. Kyle pokes his head through. “We’re ready for you, Ziya!”
Excitement flushes through my body. I nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Emily lets go of my hand and walks ahead.
I follow her, but Kyle and Emily both move faster than me, and I end up trailing behind them.
Despite the joyful anticipation that runs in my veins, with each step I take closer to the audience area, anxiety creeps along the sides of my body.
It builds so much that eventually I stop walking and duck into the teens section.
I press my back against the wooden shelves and suck in deep breaths.
It does little to even out the nerves, though.
I cover my eyes with my hands, trying to regulate my breathing.
It’s weird to think I’m scared about something I’ve wanted my whole life.
When you build something up in your head to be the most magical and magnificent thing you could ever do, what happens after that?
How do you live? I guess you pick a new dream, but it’s not easy to find one.
What if I never do again? What if once this is all over, I have nothing left?
“You’re spiraling,” a new voice says. A pair of hands touch my own, lowering them from my face. “And this is too big a day for me to allow you to spiral.”
I peer up, and my lower lip sticks out in a pout. “You’re late.”
Aashiq squeezes my hands. “I know, I know,” he acknowledges. “But you wouldn’t believe how long the line at the bakery was. I thought I could pop in and grab the cookies I wanted and then pop back out. I didn’t realize it’d be so busy.”
“It’s holiday season,” I reason. “You should have figured it’d be busy.”
“I know,” he relents again. “I really do miss having my powers. I could have just conjured all the cookies and then been here on time to catch you before you started freaking out.”
Three years ago, on New Year’s Day, Aashiq’s wish to become real came true.
After typing THE END in my outline, I waited for him to disappear.
I hoped so hard that my plan would work, but I guess I was more convinced that it wouldn’t than I thought I was, because after we waited a few moments and Aashiq’s form became fully solid, the relief that coursed through my body hit me like a truck.
I jumped to my feet and embraced him, and the two of us cried.