Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
I decide to throw a tea party.
It’s the usual group: Naadia, Asif, Fawad, Shanzay, Rizwan and I, plus Sadaf, though not Haya and Zahra, who are busy with some wedding preparations.
We encounter trouble when Papa ends up mentioning it to Mahum Phuppo, who mentions it to Yasmin—sorry Jasmine —who invites herself and Emad over. Dreadful woman.
Though I will not let her ruin my day. The menu is perfect and consists of various sandwiches, shrimp cups, chicken patties, and mushroom tartlets for savory, cardamom buns, mini sponge cakes, orange ricotta pound cake, and coconut cookies for sweet.
Naadia comes over early to help me, but I do mostly everything on my own because I like to be impressive.
I wave her away, thinking I can handle it, but then regret it when everyone has arrived and I am still kneading the coconut cookie dough. At least I got ready first, but everyone is sitting out on the patio, enjoying our backyard – the verdant greenery and lush flowers, the bright sunshine, the beautiful waterfall and our little pond – while I’m stuck inside.
“Naadia!” I call from the window. She is laughing with Sadaf and does not hear. I groan, trying to telepathically communicate with her, and for a moment, I actually think it works when I hear the backdoor opening.
“Finally you hoe, come and help me,” I say.
I hear a laugh that is distinctly not Naadia’s. Oopsies.
“The hoe in question is occupied, but I can help,” Fawad says, coming into view. He is wearing a gray suit sans tie, which is quite flattering with his black hair and eyes.
“No, that’s okay,” I respond quickly, my heartbeat jumping off kilter.
Ordinarily, I would have no qualms about Fawad being my sous chef, but today, I am nervous. I have decided I am too comfortable around Fawad, which is a bad thing. I am afraid of what I will say or do; I do not know how to behave when I am so thoroughly disarmed.
Ignoring me, Fawad enters the kitchen, discarding his blazer and rolling up his sleeves. I stare at the movement, eyes glazing over the veins of his forearms. Oh, it is not looking good for me…
His gaze travels to my face, and he cocks his head to the side. I snap my eyes up, confused as he inspects me.
Pulling something out of his breast pocket, he approaches.
“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed. I step back.
“Stand still,” he scolds, coming closer. He lifts his hand and wipes the soft cotton of his handkerchief across my cheek. I feel the imprint of his fingers through the cloth. Heat spreads through me, pooling in the pit of my stomach.
“Flour,” he informs me. He did not even directly touch me, but I feel weak in the knees. Goodness.
“You can assemble the shrimp cups,” I say, clearing my throat. “Over there.”
I point far away from my counter. The things are already taken out. He nods. As he walks over and begins his work, I press my fingers against the pulse in my throat, willing myself to calm down.
We complete our tasks in comfortable silence until I need the vanilla extract (goddamn the vanilla extract!) which is right in the cabinet in front of him.
“Excuse me,” I say softly. He sidesteps, giving me room, and I open the cabinet, then stifle a groan. Naadia put it on the top shelf! I swear this woman is testing me.
I stretch to reach, on my tip-toes, and just as my finger grazes the bottle, a warm body crowds me, a hand coming up just beside mine. I freeze, coming down until my feet flatten.
He stands so close, I feel the breath of his exhale against the fabric of my scarf, fluttering against my neck like the wings of a bird. My heart pounds.
“Thank you,” I squeak, turning to take the bottle. He holds it up in the minimal space between us, right between our hearts. I grab it and swallow.
I lean back so not to be in an embrace, gripping the cold countertop, looking up into those impossibly long eyelashes as he looks down at me.
We do not touch, and it’s as if that is worse. He is close enough to kiss; it would be so easy, really. I imagine myself grabbing a fistful of his immaculate shirt and pulling his face down to mine.
The idea of it sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I bite my lower lip.
“You’re welcome,” he says pleasantly, then steps away. I release a breath as he returns to his work. Trying to get a grip, I shake my head.
What! Has gotten! Into me!
I return to my task, assembling the dough, then pouring it onto the clean counter to knead. Before I work the dough, I go to wash my hands, and as I do, I walk past Fawad’s back.
For a moment, I have the strange impulse to rest my cheek between his shoulder blades. Just for a moment. Just to rest. I would fit so perfectly. I even slow just behind him as I walk past.
Then I shake my head again, fanning myself with my hands as I look up, entreating the Good Lord to have some mercy on my feeble heart. The heat must be getting to me.
I need to focus. I return to my counter and start kneading the cookie dough. It is enough to divert me. The steady back and forth centers me, and my heartbeat regulates as the dough forms.
Until my blouse sleeve unrolls, getting in my way. With an aggravated sound, I try to push it up with my cheek, seeing as my hands are buried in sticky cookie dough. It does not work. I try again, meeting the same result.
“Fawad,” I say, calling his name as if by instinct.
Too late I realize I need him to stay far away from me before I do something untoward.
“I got it,” he says, seeing my struggle.
“Actually, it’s okay,” I say, as he comes close. I squirm away, but he tsks.
“Hold still,” he orders. Standing just beside me, he reaches and takes hold of the edge of my sleeve. He drags it past the delicate skin of my wrist, then up my smooth forearm. The fabric glides across my skin like a caress, stopping above my elbow as he folds it in place.
As he does, his finger brushes against my bare skin. My entire arm tingles.
My breath hitches violently, and I snap my mouth shut.
But not quick enough.
He hears and turns to look at me, still holding my sleeve, fingertips hovering just above my skin.
Feeling brave, I look up at him. He stands close enough that he must turn his chin downwards, but I cannot tell if it is my eyes or my lips that have ensnared his sight.
His eyes are molten as he looks at me, and there is his gaze, flicking once more to my mouth. I am sure he can hear my heart, it is beating so fast.
We are both frozen in place, holding our breaths.
Then the door opens and I hear a sigh; I am not sure if it is his or mine. He steps back, and I automatically shiver from the cold air enveloping the space his body has left behind.
“What’s taking so long?” Naadia asks, entering the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
I consider throwing a ball of cookie dough at my sister’s face, but I can barely stand.
“Is there anything else you need?” Fawad asks, clearing his throat. His hands are behind his back, his biceps flexing as if he is holding his hands together very tightly.
“No, you go,” I say, clearing my throat. I offer a bright smile. “Keep Rizwan company; tell him I’ll be out soon.”
I don’t know why I say it, but the effect is immediate. Fawad’s face shutters, and all the warmth from earlier is truly gone.
“Got it,” he says. He leaves, his back stiff. Naadia turns to me, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, avoiding her gaze. “Make the chai.”
“Okie dokie,” she sing-songs, hip-checking me as she passes. I hip-check her back.
I have no idea what is going on, but it would help if my heart would stop beating so fast. I feel like my ribs might actually break. I quickly scoop the cookie dough out into balls and roll them in coconut flakes, setting them to bake as Naadia cooks the chai.
I can feel her watching me.
“No lasan?” she asks hopefully. I make a face. What sane person puts ginger in their tea?
“I am not nearly as depraved as you are.”
“Boo, you suck.”
When the chai is done, Naadia helps me bring all the food out, since the weather is so lovely. Shanzay and Sadaf help, too, and we set everything up on the outdoor dining table, the food under the shade of the umbrella.
Everything is a massive hit. I receive many compliments, much to Fawad’s chagrin, I am sure, as Rizwan fawns over me.
After we eat, I avoid the boys, feeling a little unhinged, and instead sit with Naadia and Sadaf. We lounge on the outdoor sofas, taking off our sandals and pulling our feet up.
Shanzay is with us, as well, but she is frighteningly quiet, probably due to Jasmine and Emad feeding each other and being generally disgusting.
I’m glad Sadaf is here to regale us with stories from work. She’s a speech therapist.
“My boss slept with the secretary, isn't that awful?” she tells us.
“Of course it is!” Naadia balks. “If my husband were to have an affair, I'd hope he’d be more original than sleeping with the secretary .”
Asif makes the mistake of walking by just then.
“Asif!” Naadia calls him over. I try to motion for him to flee, but he does not see.
“Yes, angel?” he asks.
“If you were to hypothetically have an affair, you wouldn't sleep with your secretary, would you?” she asks, tone innocuous. “I’d hate to think you were a cliche.”
“It would actually be the worst blow,” Sadaf added, biting into a cookie, “to find you married a cliche.”
“Exactly,” Naadia agrees. “You get me.”
Asif looks between us girls, panic in his eyes. “I’m ... sensing this is a trick question,” he says.
I discreetly call his phone, and he holds it up when it rings. “Gotta answer this.” He bolts.
We all laugh.
“I like to keep him on his toes,” Naadia confides.
“Men are always best kept on their toes,” Sadaf agrees, all bravado.
“Bari ai,” Naadia says, smacking her. She snorts. “You’ve had a crush on the same boy for years and have accomplished approximately nothing.”
Sadaf chokes on her lemonade. “My God, don’t attack me.” She presses a hand to her heart. “I admire from afar. Besides, what can I do if he lives in California?”
“He does visit often to see his sister,” Naadia sing-songs. They’re talking about Ahsen Paracha, Zahra’s older brother, and the second half of Sadaf’s long-time will they, won’t they?
“Didn’t he stay here for an entire month that one time, after you graduated?” I ask. “Did anything substantial happen then?”
“And isn’t he coming for Haya’s wedding, too?” Naadia asks.
“I literally have no idea what you guys are talking about,” Sadaf says, fanning herself with a napkin. “Besides, all men are trash, you know this.” She waves a hand nonchalantly, but Naadia and I aren’t convinced and still giggle at her flustered state. Sometimes, love takes its time. “And Mama has me talking to this rishta, who might even be a little promising…”
She trails off, going into details, but I am distracted as Rizwan comes over, sitting beside me. I turn to face him, smiling politely as a good hostess should.
He asks me what television I’ve been watching and while we discuss various shows, my attention strays to Shanzay, to ensure she is alright. Rather than being alone and quiet, as she was before, she has moved to now be sitting with Fawad, who is listening tentatively as she launches into a story, words tripping over one another.
I furrow my brows. That’s strange.
Something sharp pierces in me as Fawad laughs. Surely Shanzay is not saying anything that funny…
“Do you agree?” Rizwan asks. I realize I haven’t heard a word he’s said but smile brilliantly in reply, anyway.
“Yes, completely,” I say, turning my attention to him. “I think it’s a very interesting concept, in general, and liked how they explored it.”
“Exactly!” he says. “We’re so similar. I find it fascinating how the director…”
He goes on, and I listen carefully, not exactly to the words he is saying, but to him : the way his eyes light up as he speaks, the way his voice sounds, the feel of him sitting close to me.
It’s easy and comfortable to be with him. But I don’t think I Love him, and I don’t know if I ever will. Shouldn’t this be more exciting? Why do I feel vaguely … bored?
It feels like I’m waiting for something to kick in, and every time I see him, I get this little jolt of excitement, in case this is the moment, this is it, but then – nothing.
Perhaps I put too much pressure on True Love. And there is no such thing? Fawad would be the first to tell me so.
But the worse fear that comes creeping in from time to time is that love is real, and the problem is within me and my malfunctioning heart.
As if I’m incapable of love.