Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
O n Saturday night, we’re hosting a nice fancy dinner.
It’ll be a good chance to push Shanzay and Emad together, and a good chance to see Rizwan again.
Naadia comes over to help, and we cook desi food and a pasta dish. Phuppo is bringing kheer (I’m not that skilled at Pakistani desserts yet) and I make flan. The last thing to do is make magic bars today, which are always a hit.
I shuffle through the cupboards but find we’ve run out of vanilla extract.
This cannot be happening.
“Naadia!” I scream.
“What!” she screams back from upstairs.
“Did you finish the vanilla extract?”
“Uhhhhh…” Her prolonged pause is enough answer. I groan.
“I am going to sue you!”
“My husband is a lawyer!” she shoots back.
I do not have time for this ridiculous conversation.
Luckily, Fawad is good for something, and that is his house being closer than a grocery store. I grab my coat and dash out. It isn’t so cold that I can’t walk, though it looks like it will rain soon. The sky is filled with stormy gray clouds, the sun nowhere in sight.
With a brisk pace, I am at the Sheikhs’s house in a few minutes. I knock on the door and as I do, find that it is already partially open.
“Hellooo,” I call, pushing the door open. Asif must have just stepped out. “Anyone hooome?” I sing-song, entering. Just as I do, Fawad comes down the stairs to meet me.
“Coming!”
His hair is wet from a shower, tufts of hair falling to his forehead like curved blades of grass weighted down by dew in the soft sheen of early morning. Droplets of water fall from his hair and land across his collar, which is open at the neck.
My eyes snag on the long line of his throat, the bare skin of his exposed collarbone.
I am so used to seeing him with a tie and blazer that he looks practically undressed to me. My stomach twists violently. A bead of water drips down his neck and I watch its slow descent as it disappears into his shirt.
My lips part open. I am momentarily stunned.
As Fawad comes closer, I get my wits about me and clear my throat.
“Should I close the door?” I say.
“I got it,” he says, going to close the door, but my hand is already there, and his hand covers mine as we push it closed together.
His hand lingers for a moment, just a moment, his palm warm against my cold fingers. Something skitters across my chest. I fidget, restless.
Before I can think anything of it, he withdraws his hand. I find I rather miss the point of contact.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asks, heading to the kitchen. I shake my head slowly, as if in a daze. For fuck’s sake. I must be losing it!
“No, I actually came to see if you have any vanilla extract,” I say, following him in.
“Yes, I do,” he says, taking it out and putting it on the countertop. I slip it into my coat pocket as he pours coffee into two mugs, carrying one to the fridge. “Caramel creamer?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He puts in just the right amount, then hands me the mug. I look at him warily. He seems to be in a wonderful mood as he takes a sip of his own coffee, which he takes black.
“I’m glad you came. I wanted to talk to you anyways,” Fawad says, leaning against the countertop across from me. He crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles flexing as he does so. I take a pointed sip of my coffee for fortification.
“What’s up?” I ask, sitting down on one of the seats in front of the island.
“You know my tenant, Huzaifa Malik?” he asks. Oh God. Maybe I shouldn’t be sitting. “I have always gotten along with him, and he often comes to me with advice regarding investments and other such things. Recently, he asked me for advice on a new opportunity and told me that he was looking to take care of his family and a wife sometime in the near future.” He pauses, clearly enjoying the expression on my face before continuing. “I would say that your friend Shanzay can expect to hear from him soon.”
“Why would you say that?” I say, sipping my coffee. He has made it just the way I like, which unnerves me further.
“Because I know he has an attachment toward her,” he replies. “I’ve seen it myself.”
“Hm?”
Fawad grins. “Have I surprised you? I must say, when Huzaifa was telling me, I was only thinking of you. Are you not pleased?”
“I am not surprised,” I say casually, putting my coffee mug down on the island and stepping away. “Shanzay already told me.” I pause. “And she has refused.”
Fawad blinks, taking this information in. The joy from a moment before vanishes. Then something dawns on him.
“Please do not tell me this is another one of your matchmaking ploys.” Something must show on my face because an irritated sound escapes him. He pinches the bridge of his nose before taking a deep breath and fixing me with a fierce look. “Humaira, you must stop meddling!”
“I am not meddling!” I reply, appalled at the accusation. “And I detest that you think I am.”
“Why else would she refuse?” he asks, voice harsh. “Is she brainless?”
My anger stirs. “You would say that! Men think any woman is brainless to refuse an offer of marriage.” I scoff. “You think so highly of yourselves.”
“You must be mistaken, as you usually are,” Fawad says, shaking his head. “I am sure she wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“I am not mistaken, as I usually am not,” I reply, indignant. “Shanzay called him right in front of me.”
“In front of you?” he repeats, tone livid. “You mean to say you persuaded her!” I roll my eyes, walking away. He follows close behind me. “I’m sure you did! You never could lie to me.”
“Huzaifa is not her match,” I reply, tone clipped as I turn back to him. We stand in the foyer, our loud voices echoing through the empty house. “I know it because she is my close friend. She can do much better than Huzaifa.”
“No, I don’t think she can,” Fawad replies. “They are well-suited, both from simple families, both building their lives from the ground up. Huzaifa at least has the love and support of his family here with him, while Shanzay’s family will probably never come to America.” I make a face, not listening to him as I head toward the door to leave. “Moreover, moreover , Shanzay is pretty and good-natured, but unrefined. Thus, she will do well with Huzaifa, who does not care for frivolity or high society.”
I whirl on him. “I don’t see why she should settle for Huzaifa when apparently any man will want her! She is just the wife a man wants: pretty and good-natured, like you said.” I make a small sound of derision. “If you ever marry, I am sure your wife will be the same!”
“What?” he asks, lethally close. His mouth is a hard line. He stands so close, I must look up to meet his eyes with mine, which I do with a furious glare.
“Men do not like women who argue!” I cry. “Who quarrel and have thoughts of their own!”
His eyes gleam murder. He opens his mouth as if to say something, the perfect rebuttal to my claim, but he snaps his mouth shut, releasing a long breath through his nose. With an indignant sound, I approach the door.
“My God, it’s better not to have a mind than to use it the way you do!” he shouts at my back.
I laugh. “Are you not proving my point?” I open the door, then turn back. “And why should Shanzay accept the first proposal she’s offered? She’s at the beginning of her life. I am sure she will receive better options.”
Fawad shakes his head. “I used to think your friendship with her was a detriment to you, but now I see it is a detriment to her. How can you say she is your dear friend yet behave in such a manner? Do you even know what Shanzay wants? Or it doesn’t matter so long as she nods and agrees with everything you say? So long as you’re right?”
My jaw drops. He has no idea what he’s talking about. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a response. With one final dirty look, I leave.
The second I step outside, the wind blasts against my cheeks, freezing and wet. It has begun raining. Thunder rumbles above me, the sky a marbled gray and white.
Raindrops pitter-patter onto my shoulders, increasing in intensity until the drizzle has turned into a downpour. The steady fall beats in tandem with my heart. I cross my arms, pulling my coat close as I stalk away down the driveway.
A moment later, I hear him follow, the door slamming shut behind him.
“Men of sense do not want stupid wives!” he shouts above the rain.
“Well, she has made her choice now and must stick with it!” I shout over my shoulder. “I don’t have that much influence, really, so stop blaming me!”
“Your love of matchmaking blinds you,” he cries. He has not reached me.
I turn around and walk down the street toward him this time. His coat is open at the front, his white shirt translucent from rain to show the brown skin beneath. I shiver.
“So that is what this is about,” I say, voice calm. He stands so near that I can see the mist wetting his eyelashes. I lift my chin to meet his eyes.
Rain wets my face. I blink the water from my eyes angrily, breathing fast.
Droplets of rain fall down my lips and onto my tongue. His gaze moves to my mouth. He is standing very, very still, scarcely moving at all, as I step closer. “You gave your advice and I gave mine, and you are upset because you were wrong and I was right.”
He starts back. This wounded him, more than I intended. His dark eyes flash with hurt.
His voice is low when he speaks next. “If you truly think so little of me, there is nothing left to be said.”
He turns, walking away from me, the stiff line of his shoulders a slash of black coat that rain falls against.
Ugh ! I hear the crunch of gravel as he recedes back into his home and I start the walk back to mine.
Then, the sound of footsteps reverses and becomes louder rather than lighter, and he is there when I turn around once more. He is breathless, cheeks red from the icy wind, dark hair drenched. His eyes are blazing.
“You would not dissuade her unless you had someone else in mind,” he says, “and if it is who I think it is, you should know Emad will never marry her. He thinks too highly of himself.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he holds up a hand.
“Shanzay and Huzaifa are not dolls, your little playthings, to set up and discard – they are people,” he says, his words barely a whisper, but he is close enough for me to hear the severe tone imbued in each word. “You will bitterly regret this.”
In his dark eyes, I see disappointment beyond anything I have seen before. He has never scolded me like this.
Without waiting for a response, he dismisses me, evenly walking home. Heart hammering fast, I watch him go, his hands tight fists at his sides.
A gust of wind pushes against me, and I turn to go home. Suddenly, my eyes flood with tears and they spill out, mixing with the rain. I hastily wipe them away, pressing my palms against my cheeks and eyes before entering the house.
“Are you coming from outside? It’s raining!” Papa immediately asks, mortified. His office is just by the front door, so one cannot enter or leave without his notice. “Why are you not wearing a neck scarf? Where did you go?”
“Papa, please ,” I say, kicking off my shoes. I pull off my wet headscarf and throw it on the floor. Even my hair is damp. I am in no mood.
“It is no wonder your face is all red and your eyes are tearing,” he replies. “You really ought?—”
I walk away before I say something I regret, pushing my anger down. When I walk to the kitchen, Naadia is there making herself a latte with the vanilla syrup she made using the last of my vanilla extract. I set the vanilla extract down harshly and she cringes, making an oopsies face.
I do not want to speak to her; I do not want to speak to anyone.
My throat is closing, so I rush upstairs and go to take a long, scalding shower, and I cry.
I do not know why I do, but I just cry and cry, Fawad’s scolding voice ringing in my ears over the rushing water, his hurt face before me even as I clench my eyes shut.
Why must he ruin everything?
I cannot even properly focus on Rizwan for all the irritation Fawad is causing me. It is unkind and unfair. This is the beginning of what could be Rizwan and I’s love story, and Fawad keeps meddling his way into my mind! It is insufferable! Unbearable!
He is the bane of my existence.
I stay in the shower until my heart calms.
Then, afterwards, I lounge in my bathrobe, doing a face mask to lessen the puffiness.
As I paint my nails, I reassure myself that Fawad is overreacting. I am right, as I always am, and there is nothing to worry about.
My mood has long since cooled off: the anger never lasts, it quickly fades, but gives way to something worse, to acute melancholy.
But no matter. We have guests arriving soon. I go to get ready.
Naadia and I are wearing velvet outfits from Farah Talib today: her suit is a deep green kurta and trousers, while mine is a deep red patiala shalwar and kameez.
We used to hate matching when we were younger (her more than me) but since we’ve reached adulthood, we wear complimentary outfits. We are each other’s best accessories (until she got married, but I still think I’m a better partner for her than Asif).
“Humaira, check on the oven will you?” Naadia says, sliding jhumkas into her ears in the bathroom. “I’m almost ready.”
“Okie,” I say. Nothing like dressing up to put me in a better mood. Something about it makes me feel closer to Mama, who was always dressed up in the best three-piece shalwar kameez suits and gold jewelry and pretty khussas to match.
Of course, with my hijab on, I am not as pretty as I am with my hair done, and the scarf does cover my earrings, but that is sort of the point: to privatize a woman’s beauty so they are sought after for something other than their physical looks, like their intellect and heart.
It is all I want: for a man to see me, to see my soul. To truly know me. And then it will be all the more fun for him when I turn out to be stunningly gorgeous without my hijab (and without clothes on for that matter).
I head downstairs, and everything looks good. The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle outside. I am just lighting some more candles when the doorbell rings.
Checking my appearance in the mirror to assure I look just as good as I did a moment ago, I go to greet whoever has arrived.
The guest list includes our phuppos and whichever of their children and grandchildren can make it, plus Shanzay, plus Rizwan.
“Salaam, ao, ao,” Papa says to Mahum Phuppo and her husband. Behind them is Emad.
“Salaam!” I say cheerily, kissing my elderly phuppo’s cheeks, then greeting Emad. Before Papa closes the door, Asif arrives as well, and Papa lets him in with a curt nod of his head.
“Sir,” Asif says.
Papa takes the elders to the other room, while I am with Emad and Asif. I expect to see Fawad behind Asif, but he is not there.
He would not refuse to come, would he?
My heart sinks at the thought, but before I can think of it further, I realize Emad has been talking to me.
“Emad,” I say, tone warm, “Shanzay has had a bit of a tough week. Would you be a darling and spend time with her to make her feel better while I host?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emad says, frowning.
“She’s such a dear friend; I cannot bear to see her upset. You will help me, won’t you?” I bat my lashes.
“Of course! Of course,” he replies, then lowers his voice. “Anything for you.”
“Thank you, I do appreciate it,” I say, smiling one of my winning smiles.
“I’m so glad we’re seeing more of each other lately,” Emad says.
“As am I,” I reply. “Funny is it not, that we were never very close before the past few months? And I have a feeling we will only get closer.”
Emad is pleased by this comment, and I am sure he is mostly in love with Shanzay already. I knew I was not wrong to push him and Shanzay together.
“Something to drink?” Emad asks me.
“A Coke please,” I reply, and off he goes to get them. I rub my temples. All that crying has given me a headache, and now Fawad is not even here for me to scold him for it.
“Humaira, bestie,” Asif says, voice hesitant. I startle. Goodness, I had forgotten he was there.
“Yes, dear Asif,” I reply, confused by the strange look he is giving me.
“Why are you being so encouraging to Emad?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Your manner with him is very ... spirited.” He bites back a smile. “He might get the wrong idea.”
“What?” I balk. What a preposterous notion. “Asif, really you are so silly sometimes.” I wave him off. What has gotten into these brothers today with their ridiculous ideas? “Where is Fawad, by the way?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No idea.” He shrugs. “He’s been in a wretched mood all day.” My heart stills at that, but I ignore it. “Our parents are coming mid-January,” Asif says. “Naadia is stressed, but you have to tell her not to worry.”
“Yes, but in-laws can be quite frightening to manage, especially when they are only around for a month or two in the year.”
“She knows my parents adore her, just like I do,” he says. I smile. Asif really is such a dear.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I will console her. And remind her not to be crazy.”
“Thank you, Humaira,” he says. “What would we do without you?”
Yes, what would they?
Shanzay arrives shortly after. I spend time with her and Emad, watching their interactions. Emad is quite animated and very attentive. The best part of the evening occurs when he takes out his phone and is holding it up very blatantly so we can see his phone case.
And in the phone case is the polaroid of him and Shanzay.
Shanzay and I exchange a glance, eyes wide with excitement. I feel vindicated. A confession is surely forthcoming, it is only a matter of time.
Fawad really was wrong.
Speaking of, he does end up coming (quite late might I add) after dinner has already been served, and then proceeds to ignore me! I would feel more terrible about it if I was not annoyed with him. Every time I seek him out, he deftly avoids me.
Not that I am so preoccupied with him. I have Rizwan to entertain me, and entertain me he does. He is quite attentive and pleasant to talk to.
I am sure the only reason I cannot be as vigilant in my company to him is because I have a headache.
Then, finally, as most people are leaving, I find Fawad sitting alone by the fire in the living room, which is still blazing. I intend to give him a piece of my mind.
When I enter the room, he looks up, firelight dancing across his features, shadows drawing attention to the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He says nothing. His attention is averted to baby Aizah, who sits on his lap, most comfortable since no one is trying to teach her how to crawl.
His silence sobers me. Any anger I felt dissipates.
“Please, let’s not fight,” I say, coming to sit beside him on the couch. Heat from the fire warms my skin. “For some reason I find I cannot bear it.”
“What, you cannot handle anyone being upset with you?” he asks, tone cold. He does not look at me when he speaks, instead focuses on baby Aizah’s hands wrapped around his slender fingers.
“No, it isn’t that.” I have always been well-liked and think it is the fault of others if they do not like me. But that is different – that is with people who scarcely know me.
I cannot bear for Fawad, who truly knows me, to dislike me.
I inch closer to him on the couch, looking at him until he finally turns his gaze upon me. “As irritating as you are, you are a … friend. And Naadia’s brother-in-law. We will know each other for the rest of our lives. It will not do to be fighting.” I smile sweetly, batting my eyelashes for full effect. “Please?”
He releases a resigned breath, rubbing a hand across his beard. “Well, there is nothing to be done now anyways,” he concedes. “Huzaifa called to tell me of Shanzay’s response.”
Despite myself, I still. “I hope he was not too disappointed?” I ask, voice quiet.
“I have never known a man to be more so,” he replies, looking down.
I do feel bad, but there is nothing to be done. I swallow the lump in my throat and brush a finger against baby Aizah’s cheek.
“You must do better than your Humaira Phuppo,” I instruct her.
This gets a smile out of Fawad. He shakes his head, looking at me. His dark eyes are warm, flickering with firelight and some emotion I cannot decipher. I feel my heart rate quicken.
Fawad lifts baby Aizah’s little hand up and presses it to my cheek.
“Your face is flushed red from the fire,” he says, voice low.
I press the backs of my cold hands to my cheeks. They are unbelievably hot.
And it is not just from the fire.