Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
A fter work that Monday, I invite Shanzay over. She has recovered from her cold, and I must tell her the dreadful news. How I wish I did not have to tell her about Emad, but I know I must.
I wait until we’ve had a delicious meal of tomato soup and grilled cheese and are sitting cozy in front of the roaring fire before I do.
“Shanzay, at the party…” I begin.
After it is done, she is in a state of shock.
“O-Of course,” Shanzay says, swallowing hard. “It was silly of me to imagine... Of course he loves you.” Her lower lip trembles like a child’s. “You are so much prettier and refined and cleverer?—”
“No, no,” I say, taking her hands. I want to cry, but hold off. This isn’t about me; it’s about her. “Shanzay, he will regret this, he will . There is no one better than you! I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you for saying that,” she says, eyes welling with tears. “I just feel so foolish.”
My chest tightens. “I am so sorry for the pain I have caused you,” I say. “I want you to be happy, and I was so sure of his feelings for you…”
“No, it isn’t your fault,” Shanzay says, shaking her head. “You were only trying to help, and I appreciate it so very much.”
But she is heartbroken all the same. She is crying and trying very hard not to.
“God, this is all my fault,” I say, feeling wretched. “Shanzay, I’m so sorry. Come, let’s make you feel better.” I think for a moment about what’s to be done. “I can call the spa!” I offer. “We can get facials and massages and pedicures, then go to the mall …. or out for afternoon tea! That always cheers me up. Then?—”
“No, there is no need for all that,” she says. I think she is just saying that for takaluf’s sake, and I want to say I’ll pay for it all, of course, but I can see she means it.
I am reminded of something someone in college said to me once: You can’t use money to solve all your problems! To which I replied, Why ever not?
Perhaps this is one of those situations.
“What can we do then?” I ask. I realize I do not know what to do to cheer her up.
I miss Mama fiercely at that moment. She would know what to do. And despite not being the one rejected, I feel awfully sad as well. I wish Mama was here, even if not to give me advice, but just to lay my head in her lap, the way I used to.
I would set the pillow down on Mama’s lap and cuddle against her. Once, she went to lay a hand down to my hair but missed and ended up smacking my face.
“Ah, Ama!” I whined, but it made me laugh.
“Oops, sorry, gudiya,” she replied, pinching my cheek. She moved to stroke my hair, tucking it behind my ears. “Teek?”
I nodded. “Hmm.”
I miss moments like that: simple and filled with love.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Shanzay says, voice trailing. She nibbles on her bottom lip.
“No, no, we must,” I say firmly. I reach for her hands and squeeze them.
“Well ... we could stay in?” Shanzay suggests. “Maybe eat junk food and watch movies?”
“Excellent idea,” I say. Thank God. Something I can do . “Consider it done.”
I instruct Shanzay to pick the movie while I grab all the unhealthy food I can find. Unfortunately, when I return with cookies, chips, popcorn, and chocolate, I see Shanzay has picked a horror film.
“Is this alright?” she asks, cocooned in blankets and pillows. I do not have the heart to tell her I hate horror films and never watch them.
I simply nod, smiling brightly, and suffer through it.
And she does not stop with one. Apparently they are her favorite type of film, which I did not know because previously whenever we had movie nights we would watch my favorite type of movies: period dramas.
But Shanzay is positively obsessed with horror movies. We marathon three in a row, breaking for prayer and pizza.
Despite closing my eyes and ears through most of them, the few moments I am watching, I end up screaming from jump-scare moments and even upend an entire bowl of popcorn. At the very least, Shanzay seems to be enjoying them, her eyes wide, enthralled. She’s made of stiffer stuff than I realized; she does not scream once.
It is a good distraction.
“Thank you for tonight,” says Shanzay, after the movies are done and it is quite late. She actually looks relaxed, whereas I’m too frightened to even get up from my position on the sofa in case there’s some monster hiding beneath the rug.
Why do we have so many windows in my house? To let all the murderers and rapists know just where in the house I am?
The entire house is dark. It creaks from the wind, and I startle. Does the house always sound like this? And why is it so big ? A dozen robbers could be hiding in various closets, waiting to attack, and I would be none the wiser!
“Shan, please turn on the lights,” I say, peeking out from beneath my blanket. “All of them, thanks.” She does, and I dash up quickly out of sight of the windows to walk her to the door.
“I better get going now,” she says, grabbing her purse. Oh God, she’s going to leave me alone!
“Why don’t you sleep over?” I ask, tone casual. “You can leave early in the morning to make it in time for class.”
“That’s sweet, but I don’t have any of my things.”
“You can borrow mine!”
She laughs. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“No, no ... no,” I say, waving a hand. She raises a brow.
“Okay…” She makes a quick motion towards me. I shriek and jump back. “You are afraid!”
I scowl at her. “Okay, fine, I am afraid! What type of sadist enjoys those movies?!”
Shanzay laughs. “I really can’t stay, but you’ll be fine,” she says. “Just go to bed. I’m sure your dad will be here soon.”
I pout, but she really must be off. She gives me a hug, then leaves, and I lock the door behind her, watching from the side window to make sure she makes it to her car without being abducted. Then I am well and truly alone.
I know I should go clean up the mess in the family room where we were sitting, but there are too many windows there. I don’t even go to turn the lights off. I feel like going into hiding so I head to the safest place, my room.
I settle into bed, leaving my side lamp on as I am too afraid of the dark. I lie flat on my back, too afraid to turn to one side.
I close my eyes, trying to sleep, my thoughts slowly drifting towards unconsciousness…
The house creaks. My eyes fly open.
Did I lock the door?
Oh God.
It does lock automatically, but did I hear it lock? What if the automatic lock is broken? Anyone could come in! My heart hammers against my chest. I reach for my phone and quickly dial Papa’s number.
It’s nearly midnight, why isn’t he home yet?
“Papa, when are you coming home?”
“I’ll be home in an hour or so, the Hoffman plans are all wrong, and there’s no one around to fix them, so I must do it myself—wait a minute.” He pauses. “Why are you whispering?”
“Oh, no reason,” I say, increasing my voice only a little and staring warily at my bedroom door.
“Is everything alright?” His tone is worried. “I can come home now…”
“No, no, the Hoffman plans are due tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I was just wondering?—”
The house creaks again. I gasp, a little scream escaping my lips.
“What is it?” Papa asks, alarmed. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” I say quickly. “I watched a scary movie with Shanzay so I am just a little jumpy and can’t sleep, that’s all.”
“Beta, you know you shouldn’t watch those movies,” Papa tsks. “You have no stomach for them.”
“I know, I know, I’ll be more careful next time.”
“Go drink some warm milk with honey,” Papa instructs. “You’ll fall asleep in no time.”
But that would require going downstairs. After hanging up the phone, I contemplate what to do, and after about fifteen minutes of debating, I decide some action is better than none.
I get out of bed and edge towards my door, opening it slowly. I know it’s silly, and of course the house is just as safe as it is every other night, but I am thoroughly spooked and must take my precautions.
The coast clear, I run down the stairs and dash to the kitchen, where the lights are thankfully still on. I am just pouring honey into a mug of milk when I hear something.
At first, I imagine it is the house settling, but then the noise grows louder.
It’s the front door. Opening.
I hold my breath, waiting for Papa to call out salaam like he always does, but his voice never comes. I still.
I wonder if I should call out, then think better of it. Heart beating fast, I tip-toe to the knife drawer and pull out the biggest knife we have.
This is ridiculous, I tell myself. Who would be stupid enough to attempt robbing us!
“If you’re a robber, I kindly suggest you leave right this instant,” I call out, trying to keep my tone level and confident. “We have a very proficient security system installed with cameras recording your every move, and the police have already been notified. If you leave now, you might be able to escape.” I swallow the lump in my throat, knees shaky. “Besides, most of the valuables are in the bank.” A horrible thought strikes me. “And I am very ugly!”
I hold my breath, ready to throw up.
Then, the most befuddling thing happens: I hear laughter. Laughter!
“I must agree with the last bit,” a voice says.
You have got to be joking me.
All the fear vanishes. Within me brews a deadly concoction of relief and anger, and my eyes well with tears.
“Don't come over here!” I yell, when I hear him growing closer. “I’m indecent.”
Letting him marinate with that image for a moment, I go to find a scarf hanging in the pantry and throw it on to cover my hair. When I go to meet Fawad in the foyer, his cheeks are suspiciously pink, and he is staring intently at his shoes.
I look for something to throw at him but can find nothing.
“Just a second,” I say, heading to my shoe closet. I take out a pair of loafers and throw one at his back.
“Ow!” he cries, turning around just in time to get hit in the chest with the other. “Hey!”
(I don’t feel bad because they’re Gucci and thus very soft leather.)
“I cannot believe you would frighten me like that,” I say, giving him my deadliest glare, though the effect is rather lost as he takes in the sight of my matching flannel pajamas, decorated with candy-canes. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in?” I demand, then remember he knows our keycode. Drat.
“Uncle called and told me to check on you,” Fawad says, rubbing his chest where I hit him. Hm, he has a rather solid chest. Noted. “And I know the keycode, in case of emergencies. Such as this.”
“Papa called you?” I repeat, fingers pressing into my throat. My pulse races against my palm. He nods.
Papa must really trust him, or he would never have asked Fawad to check on me at such an hour. I am still a girl, and he is still a boy, and we are both alone in this great big house. I’m not even wearing a bra, for God’s sake! Remembering such a detail, I surreptitiously cross my arms across my chest.
Why such a potential-ripe opportunity must be wasted on Fawad is beyond me. Though even I must admit, I feel a little breathless.
But I am sure it is due to the intense emotions of the last few minutes rather than this alarmingly handsome off-duty look with ruffled hair and sleepy eyes behind his glasses. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black sweatpants. Damn my weakness for a good black-on-black combo.
“Well, sorry to have wasted your time, but I am perfectly fine,” I say.
“Yes, you had the situation well under control,” Fawad agrees. “You provided a very compelling argument as to why I should not attempt to rob or harm you.”
His eyes are amused. I scowl, but the anger is gone in a flash, and I pout.
“Don’t make fun,” I say, voice small. “I was actually scared.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening. He comes closer, face tender. “I should have called out. I just didn’t know if you were asleep or not.” He pauses, staring intently at my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my tone petulant, but I am tired.
“What made you so spooked?” he asks, heading towards the kitchen to pour a glass of water. I follow him. He hands the water to me, and I drink it, releasing a long breath.
“Shanzay was upset, so I watched some horror movies with her,” I explain.
“You hate horror movies,” he states, then hesitates before asking: “Why was she upset?”
“Emad.”
“Ah.”
“I had to tell her what happened, of course.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Please don’t be insufferable.”
I give him a pleading look, and he holds his hands up. There is not a trace of wretchedness on his face as he leans against the countertop.
“I am sorry she was hurt,” is all he says.
“Me too,” I reply miserably. It hurts twice-fold because I do hate to be wrong.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures me, “she’ll recover, and no one will think any less of you.”
I nod, his words placating me. Now all that is left is exhaustion.
I should apologize to him, seeing as he might have been sleeping, and he came all the way over just to check on me after I became frightened by something so silly, but it’s just Fawad. I don’t mind being an inconvenience to him.
“You can go now,” I finally say. “Seeing as I am perfectly fine.”
“No, I’d rather stay,” he replies, heading towards the family room. “You know, in case a real robber comes.”
I follow behind him and watch as he settles onto the sofa. A small smile plays on my lips.
“Will you protect me, then?” I tease.
“Always,” he says, but there is no mirth in his voice. His eyes burn into mine, steady and sure. My breath catches, and I look away.
“Stay if you’d like,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m off to bed.”
“Sleep tight.”
But as I retreat upstairs, I do feel rather bad about leaving him. After fixing my scarf, I return back downstairs with two books in my hands. I go to the family room, where he’s sitting on the couch.
Fawad’s eyes are closed. I observe him unabashedly for a moment. The fan of his dark eyelashes, the cut of his cheekbones, his rather full, cushiony lips. The column of his throat.
Then further down, his wide chest, tapering to his thin waist, his hands folded in his lap, the silver signet ring, the long, slender fingers. To be touched by those hands…
Something stirs low in my stomach.
I shake my head, cheeks flaming. Goodness . It must be the late hour.
I throw a book onto his lap, and he opens his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asks, looking at me curiously as I sit on the other end of the sofa.
“Giving you backup,” I say breezily. “You know, in case a real robber comes.”
Leaning against the corner so I am facing him, I pull my legs up and set my own book on my knees. I do not look at him, I simply begin reading, and from the corner of my eyes, I can tell when he has picked up his book and begun reading as well.
I’ve given him my copy of The Piper’s Son by Melina Marchetta, the book I recommended to him at dinner a few days ago. In my own hands, I have my copy of The Secret History by Donna Tartt, the book he recommended to me. I haven’t started it yet, but even now as I try to read, I find I cannot focus at all.
My gaze sneaks away from the page to linger on his face: the dark shadow of his beard, the glint of his glasses, his warm eyes half-lidded and enraptured as he reads his own book.
His hair is disheveled, sticking out in all directions, and I want to bridge the gap between us, to tip his head up and smooth his hair with my hands. I focus back on my book, but reread the same passage a dozen times, sneaking a glance at the end of each, imagining his soft hair between my fingers.
Good Lord. What has gotten into me?
He is doing nothing to warrant such attention. We sit in comfortable silence, and yet…
It must be the hour, muddling my senses. He is a man, and I am a woman, after all, and with him sitting so close, smelling of rich leather and amber, it is easy to be distracted.
Too easy. He does smell lovely, and the couch is so comforting and warm, and after all the fear of the past hour, the exhaustion and sadness of the entire day, it is easy to nestle deep into the pillows, my eyes dropping languidly with each blink, dropping ... dropping…
I wake to Papa shaking me gently.
“Humaira, wake up now, jaani,” he says. I blink away the confusion, looking around. I am in the living room, my book on the table.
There is a blanket across my lap, tucked around my legs; when did that get there? The room has been cleaned as well, all the stray popcorn and chocolate picked up and disposed of.
“Go to bed, jaani,” Papa says.
“Did Fawad leave?” I ask, voice scratchy with sleep.
“Yes, just now when I got in.”
My heart squeezes. I press a hand to my chest to push back the strange sensation. It hurts.
I feel as though I've missed something vital while I was asleep, and I have no way of recovering it.