Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
T he next morning, I feel unaligned.
After Fajr, I can’t fall asleep despite having only slept a few hours. I got home late last night, after the wedding celebrations, but I’m not tired. I’m wide awake.
I lounge on the chaise in my bedroom, one of Mama’s shawls wrapped around my shoulders. I am turned backwards to look out the window to my backyard, to see the line of full green trees, the steady trickle of the waterfall into the pond. I watch the sun inch across the sky, dawn spreading its wings to paint the sky pink.
I am ... thinking.
Of him, though I do not wish to admit it. I hope he is mine, for I fear I am already his. And the thought unnerves me. Can it be true? Is that what this is?
It is wholly unexpected. I am ill-prepared, and thus do not know what to do, what to think.
Is he thinking of me? I wish I could see him, though at the same time, I wish to never see him again.
I am pulled from my thoughts at the sound of the doorbell ringing. I sit up, the shawl slipping from my shoulders. I wait, and there it is again.
Who could it be, this early on a Sunday morning?
I put a scarf on and go to answer, bare feet on the cool morning floors, and gasp at who it is.
“Shanzay!” I cry. Her leg is wrapped in a cast. But that isn’t all. She is with —“Rizwan! What on earth happened?”
“Humaira, I’ve had such a night,” Shanzay says, limping inside with her crutches. Rizwan is carrying her coat and purse. I motion them to the living room, where I help Shanzay lay down. I turn to grab a blanket for her, but Rizwan has beaten me to it.
After I’ve gotten her water, and she looks comfortable enough, and I am positively bursting to know the details, she continues the story.
“After the wedding, I got into an accident,” she says. “It was literally crazy. Rizwan was driving by?—”
“Ohmygod!”
“I left something at the hall, and I thought I recognized the car and the person on the stretcher,” Rizwan adds.
“I didn’t have anybody to call – I thought of calling you,” she says, before I ask.
“But I said not to bother you,” Rizwan says.
“So he went with me to the hospital,” Shanzay continues, looking at Rizwan, eyes wide with gratitude. “It was so awful, but Rizwan stayed the whole time. Thank you, again. Really.”
“It was nothing,” Rizwan says.
“It was not nothing,” Shanzay insists to me, then turns to him. “I seriously owe you. I don’t know what I would have done if I had to deal with all of that alone. I’ve never been in an accident before.”
“Shanzay’s right,” I say to Rizwan. “That was really sweet of you. Truly commendable. And thank you for bringing her here.”
“I didn’t want her to be alone,” Rizwan says.
“Aw, Rizwan,” I say, overcome with gratitude, as well. “You’re so kind. A real knight in shining armor.”
Distracted by the commotion and emotions, I did not notice someone else slipping through the open, unlocked door. Shanzay’s gaze focuses on a figure behind me.
“Fawad, you’re here, too!” Shanzay exclaims.
I startle, whirling around. My heart kickstarts as if I’ve run a mile.
What is he doing here? So early?
He looks as if he has slept even less than I, and is still in his clothes from last night. His tie is still pinned straight, his blazer and slacks not the least bit slovenly. The only part of him disheveled is his hair, sticking in all directions, as if he’s run his hands through them dozens of times.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling unsteady.
When he turns his gaze to me, my breath catches. He takes a step toward me, and my heartbeat scatters. His lips part, as if he is about to speak.
Rizwan clears his throat. Fawad blinks and stops suddenly, eyes going from me to Rizwan.
A strange look passes between him and Rizwan, something so quick I cannot decipher it.
“Yes, I—” Fawad begins. He cuts off, as if he’s muddled in the head. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes, trying to collect his bearings.
“Did you hear what happened?” Shanzay asks. He clenches his jaw.
“Yes, I heard a bit.” He does not look at me. Instead, he approaches Shanzay, eyes warm with concern. “Are you alright?”
“I am, now,” she says, smiling.
“Good.” He nods. “You ought to rest. I better get going, then.”
“Me, as well,” Rizwan says, standing beside him.
Why did Fawad come? I wonder, as I go to fluff Shanzay’s pillow. As the boys exchange some commentary about the accident, Shanzay pulls me close.
“I think I am in love, once more,” she whispers into my ear. I can barely suppress my gasp.
“Are you quite sure?” I whisper, pulling back to look into her wide eyes. Her gaze shifts to where the boys are standing in the entryway of the living room and nods just as they exit our sight.
“He was so kind tonight,” Shanzay whispers. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the service he rendered me.”
I get excited, then force myself to calm down. “Shanzay, I have promised to give up matchmaking and never meddle again, so do not say his name. I don’t want to know.”
“I won’t,” she says, biting her lip. “But surely you can guess?”
I nod, and we both giggle. “I approve immensely.”
“You don’t think he’s out of my league?” she asks, eyebrows creasing.
“You deserve the world! No one is out of your league,” I say. She covers her face with her blanket, smiling.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, nervous again. I shake my head.
“No, not at all!”
I must say, I’m actually relieved. Rizwan and Shanzay will be happy together, I am sure of it. He was so attentive to her just now! I haven’t been enthusiastic toward him for a little while now, and once he sees how fond Shanzay is, he’ll surely forget about me and fall for her immediately!
Perhaps I’m so in love with the idea of love that I put my expectations way too high when there is even the slightest glimmer of hope, which I believe is what happened with Rizwan and I.
No matter! He and Shanzay pair well. And I know I said I am done with meddling, but...
“Wait!” I cry, leaving Shanzay’s side. Both boys come rushing back.
“What is it?” Fawad asks, worried.
“What can I do?” Rizwan asks at the same time.
They glance at one another. Fawad’s eyebrows furrow ever so slightly in irritation.
“Will you stay?” I ask sweetly. I look at Rizwan, batting my eyelashes. “For breakfast, at least. As thanks for helping Shanzay.”
“Of course,” Rizwan replies, smiling warmly. “Of course.”
I am about to tell Fawad to stay as well, but he is already gone, his shoulders a stiff line as he exits the door and slams it shut behind him.
My stomach sinks with disappointment. And that still does not answer the question: what was he doing here?
It seemed like he wanted to say something, but he left without saying it. I feel as if I have missed something vital, like that night I fell asleep and he left without saying goodbye.
But I will deal with it later. For now, I must attend to Shanzay and her budding romance.
I go to the kitchen and make breakfast, whipping up some scrambled eggs, French toast, and chai for my guests. We sit together, eating and crowding Shanzay, my little damsel in distress, as she lies on the couch.
She keeps laughing nervously. Then, when the last dregs of our coffee are done, Rizwan stands.
“Time to go, I think,” he says.
“Thank you again,” Shanzay says sweetly. He smiles, then I walk him out, saying goodbye and expressing my own gratitude to him.
After he is gone, Shanzay naps, and I cannot exactly leave her to go see Fawad, so I stay, helping her to and fro. She has injured her left ankle, so she can still drive, but there is the matter of getting her car back, if it is salvageable.
I resolve to help her figure it out tomorrow, and drop her home today.
“You don’t want to watch a movie or anything?” she asks, when I have settled her back in her room and made sure everything she needs is within reaching distance on her side table.
“No, I think you should rest,” I say, handing her a glass of water. I am impatient to return home. “Besides, I have some ... business to attend to.”
Shanzay nods, waving goodbye, and I hurry home.
On the drive back, my phone rings. It’s Asif.
Alarmed, I immediately pick up. Asif never calls me.
“Hey, salaam,” I say, hands tightening on the wheel. “Is everything okay?”
“Uhh,” he replies, drawing the word out. He seems lost. “What did you do to Fawad?”
Relief flows through me for a moment – Naadia is fine – then is quickly replaced by concern.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What’s happened to Fawad?”’
“I popped by the house to pick something up and I found him on the living room floor, his clothes strewn about him, his hand over his face, looking depressed.”
Blood pounds in my ears.
“I don’t see how that’s my fault!” I reply, voice high.
“He didn’t even notice I came in until I kicked him with my foot, and then he just said, ‘ She —’ and cut off,” Asif continues. “And I figured you were the only she who could get put him into such a state.”
A thrill shoots through me. Silly little me? Reducing Fawad – immaculately dressed, always put together, perfectly composed Fawad – to a disheveled mess?
But wait, no – it can’t have been me he was referring to. I haven’t done anything to warrant such despair in him. We hardly exchanged two words this morning, and we were getting along so well last night.
Alarm bells ring in my head. Could it be another “she”? Some other girl in his life? I frown, brows furrowed.
“Well?” Asif asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply crossly. “But I didn’t do anything. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
We hang up, and I continue the drive home in angry silence. Who was this other girl? And how dare she bring Fawad to such a state?!
I need to get to the bottom of this.
I arrive home shortly after, and by the time I manage to leave the house again to walk to Fawad’s, the evening is fast approaching. The weather is lovely, but even with the longer days spring brings, the sun will be setting soon.
When I arrive at his house, my heart is beating quickly, much too quickly, and I tell myself it is due to my brisk pace.
“Hellooo,” I call, opening the unlocked door and entering. The house feels empty; I cannot hear him anywhere. I do catch a slight breeze, coming from the back of the house, and when I go to investigate, the door is opened a crack, and I hear the crunch of a trowel hitting soil.
I know where he is.
Smiling to myself, I head out back, then step down the steps until I find him. There’s a chill in the air that makes me shiver, but when I step into the sun, it’s heaven, and I tilt my head back to soak in the sun.
Then, I see him.
Fawad is gardening. He sits sowing seeds, gloved hands sure and steady, and I watch the tendons in his arm move as he does, brown skin bare from where he has rolled up his sleeves. His dark hair is curling at the nape of his neck from sweat.
“Salaam,” I say. Fawad turns and looks up at me with sunburnt cheeks and smiles as bright as the sun, just as warm, just as lovely. I feel the heat all over me.
“Salaam,” he replies, smiling.
I don’t know why I’ve come, or what to say exactly. What is the plan? I don't know. For a moment, this stops me in my tracks. I am always in control – except when I am with him, apparently. It’s disarming, and my chest twists with the dangerous concoction of exhilaration and fear.
We just look at one another. It seems he does not know what to say either.
Then, it seems as if something turns in his mind, and he stands. Taking his gloves off, he walks towards me, stopping when he is right before me. There’s dirt on his cheekbone.
Instinctively, I lift a hand to brush it aside, then stop midway. Both of our eyes snag on my hand midair, and I drop it to my side.
“Dirt,” I say, rubbing my own cheek. He wipes it away, then smiles, shaking his head.
“Come on, then,” he says softly. He heads inside, and I follow. “Sit,” he instructs, pointing to the living room. I obey, watching as he disappears.
The moment he is gone, it’s as if something in me jolts, and I feel a little ill, my head pounding.
What was I doing here? I must be terribly tired; all that lack of sleep is catching up to me. I can’t get my footing. I feel dizzy.
This was a bad idea. I head towards the foyer and front door, ready to bolt.
Fawad comes down the stairs and sees me. He has something in his clean hands. It is a package, wrapped in brown paper and twine.
“A belated birthday gift,” he says, handing it to me.
“Oh!” I smile. I love receiving gifts! Without preamble, I undo the twine, then rip the paper off and hand it to his waiting hands.
It’s The Piper’s Son. I lift it, puzzled.
“I already have my own copy of this,” I say, amused, “as you might recall, since you borrowed it.”
“Open it,” he says. Puzzled, I do as he’s asked, and then I understand. I flip through the pages; it is filled with blue ink in the margins—his thoughts. “I didn’t want to desecrate your own copy, in case you wanted a version without my intrusions.”
“Good thinking,” I say, voice breathless as I touch the pages. It was excellent thinking, really. I would have had to buy another copy if he had left the notes in mine.
“You said you love discussing your favorite books,” he says, waiting to see my reaction. “This is a bit of a permanent discussion you can access whenever you please.” He hesitates, eyes hopeful. “Do you like it?”
There are notes on nearly every page, underlined portions and clear sticky notes and arrows and exclamation points.
It must have taken him hours .
My eyes well up with tears, and I hastily blink them away. Goodness, what is wrong with me?
“I ... I love it,” I say, meaning every word. It is subtle and sweet and exactly what I would have wanted, yet I never would have been able to voice that want. He excavated it from within me.
“Really?” he says, grinning. “Good.” He nods. “I was going to give it to you on your birthday but—” He breaks off, scratching his neck. “Anyway. I’m glad you like it.”
“I do,” I say, but my head is still pounding. It really is the perfect gift.
What does that mean?! I can’t think straight.
I feel feverish, both physically and metaphorically. Life can be so symbolic sometimes. It must be the weather changing.
As if on cue, I sneeze. Fawad frowns, taking a step toward me. “I hope you didn’t get sick because you refused to wear your jacket properly,” he says, inspecting my face with concern. I avoid his perceptive gaze.
“Oh, pish posh,” I wave a hand nonchalantly.
He shakes his head, laughing to himself. “Pish posh.”
I sneeze again, and he furrows his brows. “Okay, I’m leaving,” I say quickly, turning around. “Thank you for this!”
I hold up the book, then dash out before he can stop me.
Outside, I hold the book to my chest tight, as if that can calm my heart’s beating, but it cannot.
When I get home, I eat a quick dinner then nestle into bed with the book he’s given me, wanting to read his thoughts.
But when I open the first page, it feels too intimate, and I’m afraid of what I’ll feel if I do read it.
I put it aside and instead grab my copy of The Secret History , which I haven’t begun yet, but has been sitting on my bedside table all this time. I start reading. I owe Fawad that much, to read the book he recommended to me.
And, my God, I love it.
I feel a little thrill reading through it, as if he is just beside me, reading over my shoulders. It is as if I can hear his thoughts on certain passages, and it summons something soft in me, like he is in my head, like he is nestled in my heart, and I don’t want him to leave.
I read until late, despite how sleepy I am. I read until I am exhausted and cannot keep my eyes open a moment longer.
Reading it feels like going out to the sea from the sands: at first, the waves are gentle and shy against my feet on the shoreline, lukewarm and sweet; but as I go farther and farther into the waters, the waves crash over me, cold and unrelenting, submerging me, leaving me gasping for breath, until finally, I am drowning in the story.
It’s a bit like falling in love.