Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
N o matter how I try, I cannot stop thinking of him. It terrifies me, which only makes the feeling twice fold.
I am never terrified. It’s a point of great pride for me that I am not easily fazed or frightened, but what I feel for him ... it scares me straight to tears. All this love I have for him – if I cannot give it to him, where do I put it? Who do I give it to? Another ?
No, this love is tailored specifically for him, I cannot re-gift it to another, nor do I wish to.
I am afraid to see him, for what if Shanzay is right, and he does love her? I have never liked a man who did not first like me; this is new territory. What if I make a fool of myself? I so hate being a fool. And I cannot ruin things, for he is family!
At the very least, I eventually decide, I should go apologize. That seems like a good start. I was terribly rude the other day.
I walk to his house, and it is not too hot for the exercise to wind me, but I do feel breathless all the same when I knock on the door, waiting for him to open it.
“Salaam,” he says, stepping aside so I can come in. That must be a good sign.
“Salaam,” I respond. He’s wearing a loose, linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. I nibble my bottom lip, unsure of how to proceed.
“Tea?” he asks, walking toward the kitchen. I follow, sitting down at the island.
“Yes, please.”
He takes out Earl Gray for me and breakfast blend for himself, turning the kettle on. The roar of water boiling crescendos, steam pouring out of the kettle until it finally quiets with a steady bubble of water.
“I wanted to apologize,” I say, as he pours the water into teacups over the bags. He sets them under a tea cozy to brew.
“For what?” he asks, taking out milk, sugar, and honey.
“What I said the other day.”
He blinks, then his lips part as he remembers.
“It’s alright,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
He really seems unbothered by what I said, when I thought he might hate me. I watch as he makes our teas, taking the teabags out, adding milk to both, then sugar to mine and honey to his. He hands me my mug, giving me a small smile.
Relief warms my chest, and I take a sip of my tea, which is perfect. He sips his as well, leaning back against the kitchen counter, facing me.
“It was still ... rude,” I say tentatively. A smile tugs at his lips, and he shakes his head. “What?” I ask, confused.
“I—” He breaks off. “Nothing.”
He steps forward, leaning against the island. His face is somber, and he takes his glasses off to run a hand over his eyes, then slips the glasses back on. “I have been greedy with your father, and it’s true, what you said, that my own is never around.”
He swallows, struggling with the words as a muscle tics in his jaw.
“The harsher truth,” he continues, “is that my father has never loved me the way your papa loves you, or even how Mahmud Uncle loves me.”
His eyes are open with sadness. My heart splinters for him.
“It is why I am always in such a mood when they visit,” he says. “My parents have been separated for years, but even before then, it was always a loveless marriage.”
My mouth drops. “I didn’t know,” I say, dumbfounded. “I never?—”
“Good,” Fawad says. “I’ve always tried to protect Asif from it. I’m sure if he knew, Naadia would, too, and you would, as well.”
“You did a good job,” I say, quietly. To not only endure witnessing his parents in a loveless marriage, but to protect his younger brother from it. It hurts to look at him, but I do not look away. “Fawad, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” he says. “It’s why they stay in Pakistan: they both have their own social circles, and it is easier to avoid one another.” His focus shifts to his teacup. “Actually, I was the one who told them to go, after I graduated college. Things were getting worse, and I couldn’t bear it any longer.”
I want to reach out and hold his hand, but I do not. Instead, my grip on my teacup tightens.
“It’s why Asif and I are so close,” he says, smiling at me now, “and why I am always over at your house. Your papa has always treated me with kindness. He has reminded me that there is love in this world.” He pauses, his hand fidgeting. “At times, I must confess I thought myself incapable of love, just like my father. We are so alike, you know.”
You are not incapable , I want to say, but I do not interrupt.
“Asif is different because he never knew how cruel my parents were to one another, so he grew up with hope,” he says. “But from a young age, I saw there was no love between my parents, so I never believed in it.” He laughs, looking at me. “It is blasphemy, to you, I know, but I always thought love to be one of those cosmic things, happening to a few, never to happen to me. I’ve discussed it at length with my therapist, and I think I’m starting to realize that that isn’t true.”
He pauses, as if contemplating exactly what to say next, and if he should say it or not. I look at him expectantly, taking in the sight of his dark hair, falling over his forehead, the slant of his nose, the curve of his lips. He is so beautiful; I could spend all day staring at him.
“I never used to believe,” he says. Something in his expression changes. He leans closer, voice soft. “But you made me believe, Humaira. You make me believe.”
Time slows, then stops entirely.
My breath catches. I abruptly stand, teacup clinking on the table as I release it.
“I must go,” I whisper. I cannot hear this, whatever it is he’s going to say.
He’ll tell me he is in love—with Shanzay—and I cannot bear to hear it.
Tears flood my eyes. I quickly blink them away as I rush to the front door. I step outside just as he reaches me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, face downcast but concerned. “Subjects of love must be difficult. Are you upset by Rizwan’s behavior at the picnic? He was unkind to Shanzay.” He looks at me carefully. “Is she alright?”
He would ask after her; he really does love her. My heart twists painfully.
“Yes, we made amends,” I say, blinking rapidly. “She’s alright.”
“And—And you?” he asks, voice catching. “Were you ... disappointed?”
I blink, trying to understand what he is saying.
Disappointed? Oh, he must think I am heartbroken by Rizwan’s behavior.
Perhaps I would have seen his rude behavior to my friend as a harsher crime had I been in love with him, but in truth, I have not been interested in him for months.
And the reason stands before me.
But I cannot think that. Not when he is Shanzay’s. I turn away from him and start walking down the driveway, the sun warm on my back. He follows me.
“You don’t have to worry,” I say over my shoulder. “No, really,” I repeat, when he begins to protest. I stop and face him. “I did think I liked him, but I’ve been examining the workings of my heart, and I can truthfully say ... he hasn’t injured me. Or Shanzay, for that matter. We’re both fine.”
Fawad shakes his head. “Rizwan is a fortunate man, for how readily you both forgave him.”
There is an edge to his tone.
“You speak as if you envy him,” I say, confused. He looks at me, stepping closer.
“I do envy him, Humaira,” he says, eyelashes fluttering. “I envy him one thing.”
I don’t understand.
I say nothing.
“You won’t ask?” When I don’t reply, he nods to himself. “You’re wise.” He sighs, then takes a step toward me. “But I cannot be. I have to tell you what you won’t ask, even if I might regret it the moment it is said.”
He must want to discuss Shanzay with me.
“Don’t!” I cry, eyes wide. We are both startled by this outburst. I level my tone. “Don’t say it, if you’ll regret it.”
He nods, stepping back. “As you wish.”
He turns, going back into the house, leaving me alone on the driveway. I watch as he enters the house. He does not close the front door.
I stand still for a moment, heart pounding.
I cannot let him go.
I walk up and into the house, where he is sitting on the staircase. When he sees me, he stands abruptly. I’m shocked to see his eyes are wet.
“I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “We’re friends. If you want to speak to me – as a friend – I’ll listen to what you have to say, about whoever, and give you my honest thoughts.” I swallow. “As a friend.”
He scoffs. “As a friend ? I don’t—” He breaks off, shaking his head, then bridges the space between us until he stands directly in front of me. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he lets out a deep breath.
His strong hands fall to my shoulders, making my knees weak, but I am utterly rooted in place, looking up at him, inhaling the rich scent of his cologne, looking into those dark, beautiful eyes.
“Tell me, Humaira,” he says, voice soft. “Is there no chance for me?”
I don’t understand. He forges on, eyes blazing and brilliant.
“I cannot make speeches,” he says. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. You know what I am – I have lectured you and scolded you ... but you understand? You understand my feelings?”
He asks the questions with fear and hope, drawing closer, until we are breathing the same air, his fingers firm on my shoulders.
“Humaira,” he says. “I love you.”
My heart soars – then sinks. I step back, shaking my head.
“You can’t,” I whisper, covering my mouth with my hand. Shanzay . I cannot break her heart again.
“What?” he asks, not hearing me. I cannot tell him, for I know he will convince me, and I cannot do that to Shanzay. I will not hurt her.
“You don’t love me,” I say quietly, avoiding his gaze. “You love the idea of me, not the truth. No one could love the truth.”
“Look at me,” he says. I do, and see that his brows are furrowed with anger. “What are you talking about?”
“People only love me because they believe I am good and kind and perfect,” I say quickly. “They only love me for what I am to them, because they need me.”
“That’s not true,” he says, voice sure. “Humaira, that is not true. I have seen you be wretched and cruel and petulant and arrogant and spoiled and silly. I have also seen you be kind and attentive and clever and warm and sweet. I have seen – I see you , all of you.” He pauses. “The people who truly love you love all of you. As I do.”
“You can’t,” I say, voice small.
“Why?” he asks.
My voice breaks. “I can’t tell you.”
He shakes his head. “Do you enjoy making fools out of perfectly reasonable men?” he asks, frustrated.
“I do, yes!” I snap, just as irritated, but not by him, by myself.
As if sensing this, his anger melts, and he gives me a small smile.
“I don’t mind, Humaira,” he says, coming close. “Beloved Humaira, I will be a fool for you a thousand times over.”
Oh, why must he say these things! I cannot bear it.
“I don’t – I don’t know what you’re saying,” I respond, flustered. He waits patiently, while I collect my thoughts, but there is nothing to be said to change the circumstance, so I stand in silence, fumbling.
“You’re afraid,” he says. “I understand. Take all the time you need. There is no pressure from me. I wished to tell you that I love you, and I have. I do not expect anything in return.”
I blink at him in response, then finally manage to nod.
With that, it is truly time for me to go, but I do not want to.
Even though we say nothing, I wish to stay here, to stay with him, just to be in his presence, to be with him. I do not want to go, but I must, which only makes the feeling worse.
“I can’t think of anything clever to say,” I admit. He smiles.
“You don’t have to say anything clever,” he tells me. “You don’t?—”
“I must go.”
Silently, we both walk towards the door. As I go to open it, he puts his hand on the door to stop me.
“You don't have to leave,” he says, voice low with misery.
Don’t I? I want to say.
“You can stay as long as you’d like,” he adds quietly.
But that’s just it: I want to stay forever. And I cannot.
I must go. So I do.
* * *
When I return home, my eyes are puffy, my nose running. Papa unlocks the door for me, and as I step inside, I can see him assessing the situation, taking in the fact that I have clearly been crying.
He opens his mouth, as if to say something, then stops. Silently, he retreats back to his office.
Another sob rises within me, and I rush up to my room, closing the door before collapsing on my bed. I curl into a ball, letting my tears soak the pillows, pressing my hands against my heart as if I can contain this.
After some time, I hear soft knocking on my door. Papa slowly opens the door, coming in. I sit up, facing him.
“I won’t bother you,” he says, setting a plate of cut up fruit on my side table. He moves to leave, reaching the doorway.
“Papa, won’t you sit with me?” I ask quietly. He stops, then nods.
He sits down at the edge of my bed, looking around. I do not know what to say, but I want him here with me. I listen to the sound of his breathing, watching the wrinkles in his hands fold as he taps his fingers together.
“Shall I read to you?” Papa finally says. I nod. It is precisely what I want.
When I was a little girl, I loved when Papa read to me. It was his duty to take Naadia and I to the library, as well. He was never fond of reading – he thinks literature is nonsensical and lies – but he took us every other week without fail.
“What’s this?” Papa asks, picking up the book on my side table. It’s The Secret History . Clearing his throat, Papa begins reading, tripping over some of the words. He stops, catching his breath.
“This is not Bears in the Night now is it?” he asks, smiling. I giggle. “You would beg me to read it to you every night.” I recall the memories, lying under my ballerina quilt with Papa beside me, listening to his voice.
“It was my favorite,” I say, rubbing my nose.
“You know, I rather think I still have that book memorized,” Papa says, setting The Secret History down and clearing his throat. “In bed, out of bed ... to the window, out the window...” he recites from memory, managing to recall most of it, then making up the parts he does not.
I laugh.
Papa smiles, then stands. “Try to eat some fruit,” he says. “Your vitamin levels are shockingly low.”
“It runs in the family,” I say. “You ought to eat some, too.”
He snags a strawberry, then leaves. A weight is lifted off my chest.
Papa and I will be alright. But as Papa reaches the door, he pauses, then looks at me. “You must know you are irreplaceable to me,” he says, face sincere.
My lower lip trembles, tears threatening to overcome me once more. “You have been so distant,” I say quietly. “It felt like you didn’t need me anymore, and thus did not love me any longer.”
“Silly girl. I will always love you, even when I do not need you,” Papa says, voice steady. “I didn't mean to be distant. I realized that I do depend on you too much and wanted to change that.”
“I don’t mind doing things for you, Papa,” I tell him. Those are the moments we get to spend together; we are not big on expressing emotions, but making him coffee or listening to his stories is how I show Papa I love him.
“I was trying to give you space,” Papa says.
“Well, I do not need that much space,” I tell him with a slight roll of my eyes.
“Good,” Papa says, a smile spreading across his face. “For I was getting tired of making my own coffee anyway.”
I laugh. “Doubly good, for my car needs an oil change.”
We do not apologize; we just act nice to each other until things are normal again. And this is normal.
After Papa is gone, I read The Piper’s Son , the one with all of Fawad’s thoughts, and it makes me laugh and cry because so many of his notes are precisely what I was thinking.
He and I are so alike, we’re so alike, and he loves me, and I love him – and we cannot be together for the mess I have made of things with my meddling, the very mess he warned me about.
I hold the book to my heart, as if the ink can transfuse his touch onto my skin.