Amira takes a hard inhale after we crawl out of Riz’s car, like bugs through molasses, into the humid afternoon air. “Oh man, do you smell that?”
“What?” I ask.
“Home.”
“Home,” Riz repeats, deadpan. “We drove an hour from home, to . . . home?”
Amira pouts. “Home in like, a spiritual sense! The home of our ancestors! The home of our blood.”
Riz snorts. “Calm down. It’s just Edison.”
We follow Riz down the main road, passing storefront after storefront. The architecture in Edison is plain—mostly crammed row-home-type buildings from the sixties and seventies, flat storefront paneling made of a hundred shades of white and beige. But what the architecture lacks in color, the signs and awnings more than make up for. Bright oranges and greens and reds, bold lettering, made only more striking against an overcast, somber gray sky. To Amira’s point, there is that familiar smell wafting through the air, an intoxicating combination of spices and overripe fruit and charred meat that seeps through the store windows.
When I woke up this morning, Amira and Riz suggested coming with them to go dress shopping. Dad said he’d be busy with work anyway, so I jumped at the chance. It feels like it’s been ages since the three of us have just hung out, even if it is to get Amira’s wedding dress. Still. Days like these are starting to come less and less. And if Amira actually gets married to Faisal, they might end altogether.
With the gentle chime of a bell to welcome us, we enter Bebak Boutique. It’s a clothing store but probably one of the coolest clothing stores I’ve ever been in. The lights are dim, first of all, with tiny spotlights on the ceiling that shine directly on giant wall-to-wall poles, from which hundreds of glittering lehengas hang, layered from floor to ceiling. The gold-painted walls are carved with Mughal-style flowers, and the entire expanse of the floor is carpeted with an ornate, plush Persian design. Unlike most desi clothing stores, which smell like mothballs, this one smells faintly of jasmine, and I see why: there are huge, jungle-green pots in every corner of the store, brimming with fresh jasmine flowers. Mom would have loved it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just order a dress from Pakistan?” Riz asks. “I have the names—Kiran, stop trying to steal the flowers!—of a few designers who would be perfect for you.”
Amira walks down the line of lehengas, occasionally running her fingers down the embroidery. “Except they cost a fortune. It’d be cheaper buying a ticket to Pakistan, getting one made at some tailor, and buying a ticket back.”
“Tell your rich in-laws to pay for it, since they keep insisting on controlling everything else.”
Huh? Are Deen’s parents giving Amira a hard time?
“I can’t do that! I can pay for it myself, but it’s just—money like that is better spent elsewhere.” Amira pauses at a traditional red lehenga. Her voice lowers. “Speaking of which, I was kind of thinking, if Kiran’s okay with it—”
I pull my face away from the bouquet of jasmine flowers.
“I was thinking of wearing Mom’s wedding dress.” She stares at the floor, her eyes downcast. Like she’s afraid of my reaction.
I smile. “Of course you should wear it. Mom would love that. Just promise me you’re not going to, like, chop off the sleeves to make it more modern or something.”
Amira laughs and I feel warm. I think she’d look beautiful in Mom’s dress, to be honest.
Just not getting married to this guy.
The bell on the door chimes again and I turn around.
My heart sinks. It’s Faisal. And then my heart dive-bombs right into the floor.
Because behind Faisal is Deen.
“You made it!” Amira bounces into Faisal for a hug.
Faisal looks surprised for a moment, then hugs her back, hesitating. I feel my jaw twitch in annoyance. I don’t detect an ounce of awkwardness between them. Did they patch things up, or is Amira pretending everything’s fine?
“It was only a thirty-minute drive from M&D’s,” Faisal replies.
Amira’s eyebrows furrow. “M&D’s?”
“Mom and Dad’s,” Deen interjects. Then he grins at Faisal, like it’s their own private joke. I guess despite their differences, they really are siblings. It’s weird, thinking about it; Deen had been so secretive about his family; I still haven’t quite wrapped my mind around the fact that he has a brother—that he, too, has inside jokes with him, memories with him, like Amira and I do. And secrets. Definitely secrets.
“Didn’t know the guys were coming,” I say. “I thought it was just gonna be us.”
“Sorry,” Deen says. “Not sure about our taste with this kind of stuff, but we wanted to help pick things out. Hope that’s okay?”
I don’t answer him; only stare at him with unbridled annoyance.
He’s wearing a white T-shirt and some jeans, and his hair, which normally looks painstakingly combed and product’d and lovingly spoken to, is a wild, untamed mess of black strands. Today he’s even sporting a little stubble around his chin, and I can’t tell if it’s because he didn’t get to shaving, or he missed a couple spots.
He seems . . . genuine, though. Or maybe he just wants to play nice in front of Amira and Faisal.
“All right, people,” says Rizwana, clapping her hands together, “we need to get proper outfits for the mehndi. But we also need to find a sweets vendor because I am not allowing stale laddoo to be shoved in Amira’s face on my watch. So, divide and conquer: Amira, Faisal, you stay here since, you know, I need you to try on outfits. But Kiran, I need you to be my taste tester.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll go with her,” Deen says suddenly. “I’d be no use here.”
Something in my chest does a horrible panic dance, like my heart’s walking on coals.
“All right, all right, but”—Riz wags her finger at Deen—“don’t even think you can get out of trying on shalwars. Just head to Raj of Sweets on the other side of the road. Check it out, make sure it’s still good; my cousin catered from them last year and it was pretty decent, but you never know. Then come straight back.”
“Fine,” I say with a resigned sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
Amira throws me a friendly wave, and I march out of the clothing store, not bothering to check whether Deen’s following me.
“Say you’re there for the Noorani-Malik mehndi!” Riz calls out. “They know you’re coming.”
I scowl. Noorani-Malik. I hate the sound of it.
Outside the store, Deen trots up behind me.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asks once he’s matched my pace.
“Do you?” I snap, which shuts him up.
Except I can feel his eyes on me, a smile tugging at his mouth while they dig into me.
“So, if you’re helping your sister,” he finally asks slowly, “does that mean you finally approve of the wedding?”
“I bet you wish,” I say. “Just wanted to get out of the house.”
“Our little bachelor party thing is happening on Friday,” he says. “I’m super excited to talk to Asher.”
The way he says Asher’s name makes me tense.
“For someone you’ve claimed to be your best friend,” he continues casually, “it sure is a shame I never met him earlier. You know. When we dated.”
I abruptly stop and stare at him. “Why? Are you jealous?”
He stops a few steps ahead. Then he looks over his shoulder, smirking. “Oh, so we’re both sharing our wishes now?” He looked tired earlier, but now there’s this living glint behind his gaze, a tiny flame, that brightens his whole face. It’s annoying not being able to read him. And to think I was once so sure I knew everything about him. What a joke.
I keep walking, narrowly missing him with an elbow.
We find Raj of Sweets about a half mile away from the boutique, on the other side of Oak Tree Road. It’s not exactly as grand as the name implies; it’s a small hole-in-the-wall, with cracked linoleum fl
ooring and bizarrely textured walls that might have been white at one time, but are now the color of expired milk. Over the whirring fan and hum of the row of coolers, old Bollywood tunes play on the dusty stereo, and the owner, an older, wispy-haired man in a stained cotton-white shalwar kameez, has to keep slapping the top of the stereo with a rolled-up newspaper when it skips.
But the place smells like rose water and sugar, so thick I can practically feel it coating my skin.
I approach the counter, channel my inner Rizwana. Take charge, Kiran. Don’t let Deen see you sweat.
“We’re here for”—I swallow—“the Noorani-Malik order?”
The wispy-haired store owner doesn’t get up from his stool. “Atcha. Kya aap dulha aur dulhan hai?”
My Urdu is garbage, but I recognize the words dulha and dulhan. Groom and bridegroom.
I feel my face burn. “O-oh no, no, we’re not—”
“Nahain, janab,” Deen steps in, “wo humare bhai aur behen hai.”
“Ahh, theek hai, theek hai,” the man replies with a little head bob. He finally gets up from his stool and rummages through one of the coolers.
I raise an eyebrow. “You still know Urdu?” Deen doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s in touch with his culture. He’s more the kind of person who’s ashamed of it, even, which pisses me off. And yet, his Urdu is still better than mine. Which pisses me off even more.
Deen shrugs. “Yeah, well. It’s not something you forget.”
The wispy-haired store owner pulls out a white cardboard box and opens it on the counter, revealing an assortment of different desi sweets: marigold-colored laddoo, glittering topaz jalebi, pink and white chum chum. I can already taste the sweetness on my tongue, and my mouth starts salivating with barely controlled greed. Let the record show that I would not be against having a permanent rose-flavored sugar syrup IV drip. I freaking love this stuff.
“Try it,” the store owner says, and I decide I love him, too.
“Want me to feed it to you?” offers Deen, breaking me from my reverie with a fake sweetness that almost puts me off my appetite.
I snort. “Sorry, the only person who gets to feed me mithai is my future spouse. On our wedding day.”
“And waste all that time waiting for Mr. Right when I’m Mr. Right Here?” He tuts. “Shame.”
I roll my eyes and reach for a pink chum chum, a small, coconut-flake-covered, oval-shaped dessert made of curdled milk soaked in sugar syrup. I take a bite down the middle and get a burst of syrupy rosewater-flavored goodness.
Ohh, sweet Lord!
Beside me, I hear Deen snort.
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re certainly enjoying yourself.”
I swallow. “What? People can’t enjoy things?” I snap.
“No. I’m just . . . never mind.”
His mouth quirks up in a smile that ignites the glow in his eyes, familiar and heart-aching all at once. A real smile. An echo from the past. It catches me off guard.
Panicking, I quickly open my purse and rifle through it to find my wallet. “I’m gonna buy some for my dad,” I say.
What is wrong with me?
Deen translates the order for me before peeking into my purse. “What games do you play?” he asks, eyeing my Switch.
He suddenly feels way too close. “A little bit of everything.” I wonder if he remembers that time I brought my Nintendo 3DS to the masjid. It feels like centuries ago.
“Hm.” He stares at the floor, deep in thought. “You play any MMOs?”
I feel my back straighten defensively. I hand the store owner some cash. “Sometimes,” I reply hesitantly.
The store owner slides the bags of samples and my order for Dad toward us.
“Come on,” Deen says briskly, swiping the bags off the counter. He props open the door for me. “We should head back before Amira’s friend kills us.”
I glance at the counter, expecting another bag.
But he’s carrying them all.
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[CAMBRIA: THE EVOLUTION EXPANSION PACK]
[ROANA GUILD CHAT ROOM]
* * *
Devynius Foxx: soooo
Devynius Foxx: any updates on that enemy of yours?
Devynius Foxx: you fight em yet
Devynius Foxx: challenge em to a duel
Devynius Foxx: better yet, challenge one of those ol western showdowns
Devynius Foxx: you know, with the pistols and the tumbleweeds and the long jackets
Kasia Coribund: Those showdowns require fast reflexes
Kasia Coribund: If my enemy challenged me to a western showdown, I would fumble, drop my gun, and promptly burst into tears
Devynius Foxx: ooo yes, MIND GAMES, good strategy
Devynius Foxx: make them feel like a total dick!!!!
Kasia Coribund: I don’t think that would work tbh
Kasia Coribund: my enemy’s Mind Game game is too powerful
Kasia Coribund: like the other day . . .
Devynius Foxx: uh-huh . . .
Kasia Coribund: they were being . . .
Devynius Foxx: yes . . . ????
Kasia Coribund: . . . nice?
Devynius Foxx: NO!!!!!!
Devynius Foxx: the WORST
Devynius Foxx: NOT . . . NICE!!!!!!!!!!!
Devynius Foxx: ANYTHING BUT THAT!!!!!!
Kasia Coribund: . . .
Devynius Foxx: That sick bastard . . .
Devynius Foxx: What are they planning?!?!?!?!
Devynius Foxx: Is it all part of their sick mind game?!?!!?!
Kasia Coribund: . . . I . . .
Devynius Foxx: you gotta fight the motherfucker
Devynius Foxx: end their reign of tyranny!!!!!
Devynius Foxx: let them know their kindness will not stand!!!!!!
Kasia Coribund: OKAY BUT SERIOUSLY, IT’S VERY CONFUSING
Devynius Foxx: OMG WHAT IF
Devynius Foxx: you really fucked with their head
Devynius Foxx: and you . . .
Kasia Coribund: I . . . ???
Devynius Foxx: hear me out . . .
Kasia Coribund: I’m listening . . .
Devynius Foxx: you . . .
Devynius Foxx: were nice to them BACK
Devynius Foxx: REALLY throw them off!!!!!!!
Devynius Foxx: THAT’LL SHOW EM
[Kasia Coribund has logged off]
Devynius Foxx: I WAS KIDDING, COME BACK!!!! T_____T
* * *
Now
Sunday, July 25
11:53 P.M.
KIRAN: So, I have one more part for you to play for my Save Amira plan
ASHER: oh no
ASHER: I thought you said I was done
ASHER: What do you need now?
KIRAN: Uhhh
KIRAN: Please don’t mad
KIRAN: But I need you to take a picture for me
ASHER: . . .
ASHER: A picture of what exactly?
Chapter 20
Deen
Friday, July 30
23 Days Until the Wedding
“DO YOU THINK THEY HAVE mozzarella sticks?” asks Vinny, opening a leather-bound menu.
Across the table, Asher stares at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t think it’s that kind of restaurant,” he says slowly.
The Laughing Bard is more than a restaurant; it’s an experience. The ambience is staid and classy: Victorian architecture, dim lighting, extravagant paintings in gilded frames, red leather seats that pop against black walls. The second floor is home to a massive, hand-carved oak bar—something the Laughing Bard is apparently famous for—that sits in front of a wall of glittering bottles of vintage scotches and whiskeys. We’re in a private room on the first floor, themed to look like some rich nobleman’s library. It smells vaguely of cigars and hypermasculinity.
The restaurant was Asher’s choice. I’ll admit, it’s not a bad one for a pseudo bachelor party.
Vinny pouts. “Aw, man. You might be right.
They didn’t even laminate their menu, which means they probably update it, like, weekly. That’s some bourgeoisie shit.” He sets the menu down and longingly eyes Faisal’s mojito. “Bet the drinks are killer.”
Faisal laughs. “You won’t want this one. This is nonalcoholic.” He gives his drink a swirl. “I think they call it a Gentleman’s Tonic? Weird aftertaste, but they’re good; this is my second one already.”
Vinny gives him a puzzled look. “What makes it a Gentleman’s?”
“No idea, but one of the waiters recommended it when I asked for nonalcoholic drinks.”
“They serve it to you with a ‘here you are, old chap,’” I reply.
Vinny grins. “You mad lad, how absolutely cheeky of you.”
There he is. My own grin widens. “I admit to enjoying a good bit of drollery hither and thither.”
Vinny and I share a loud, mirthful guffaw, and for a moment, things don’t feel so . . . off between us. He’s always wanted to meet my brother, but with the way things have been, I wasn’t even sure he would show up. I still haven’t talked to Vinny about Amy yet, and I don’t know if he’s heard anything from her. It’s not exactly a conversation I’m looking forward to. I mean, how do I even start? Hey, old boy, you know that girl you’ve been fancying? Well, it appears she fancies me instead! Blimey!
So yes, I’m putting it off. I have too much on my proverbial plate, anyway. The only thing I want to see on my plate tonight is fish and chips.
Haris clears his throat. “Shall we toast?” he asks, sitting to Faisal’s left at the head of the table. “To the man of the night?”
Everyone stands awkwardly and raises their drinks. Pretty sure none of us have ever been to a bachelor party, most of us being Muslim and all, and I think it shows.
It All Comes Back to You Page 18