It All Comes Back to You

by Farah Naz Rishi

“To Faisal!” I say. “Congratulations to you and Amira, and khuda hafiz to his virginity.”

  Faisal’s eyes widen in horror, while Haris and Vinny burst into laughter.

  I smile. It feels good, being this much closer to his dream. Like it might actually happen. Just a few more weeks, and he’ll be in California. Free of M&D, free of his past. Just, free.

  “So what’s the plan?” asks Haris after we all settle down. “After dinner, should we catch a movie or, I don’t know . . . go bowling?” He looks at Faisal. “I genuinely don’t know what’s fun anymore.”

  “Question: Is this a bachelor party or a ten-year-old’s birthday party?” asks Vinny.

  “How about we just see where the night takes us?” Asher offers quietly, taking a sip of water. He seems like a pretty chill guy, but he’s been kind of reserved since we got here. Maybe he feels out of place; he’s been distracted by his phone a lot.

  I watch Faisal from the corner of my eye, who’s been pretty quiet, too.

  Hopefully Faisal’s silence is the result of wedding planning nerves, and not something else.

  A waiter comes in with plates of deviled eggs, a cheese platter, marinated olives, and Welsh rarebit, and our table becomes a mess of passing plates and bumping hands. The waiter takes Faisal’s empty glass of Gentleman’s Tonic and swaps it with another full-to-the-brim drink.

  Haris looks at me and smirks. “So, Deen, I hear you have to do a wedding dance. How’s practice going?”

  Ugh. I sink in my chair. “Practically nonexistent.”

  “It’s true,” says Vinny, mouth full of egg. “I saw him practice once and it was Sad, capital S.”

  “Uh, not to be the bearer of bad news,” says Haris, “but . . . the wedding’s in three weeks. Is that enough time to get it down?”

  My forehead throbs. “Don’t remind me.” I wonder if I should just accept the inevitable: that Kiran is going to do some spectacular dance and I’ll be following up with a “Hey, look what I can do!” and make fart noises with my armpit or something.

  Across from me, Asher puts his phone down, eyes glazed over, like he’s lost in thought.

  “That sucks.” Haris reaches for a slice of bread. “Everyone’s going to be expecting it, right? I mean, you can’t have a South Asian wedding without dancing. And with you and Kiran being the only siblings of the bride and groom, the pressure is all on you.”

  Faisal sits up in his chair suddenly, spilling some of his tonic. “But not too much pressure. Amira’s friend Rizwana said she and her sisters might do a dance, too, so if you don’t want to do one, that’s totally okay.”

  “No! No. It’s fine. I want to,” I say. Faisal gives me a lopsided smile that forces a smile to my own face.

  And it’s true. I do want to do this. It’s rare that I get the chance to do anything for him, and this is certainly nothing compared to half the sacrifices he’s made for me. He’s always been looking out for me, taking the brunt of Mom and Dad’s harshness. The only reason why they’re not on my case for school these days is because he’s there at home, fending them off. Even if he did slip for a couple of years in college, can I really blame him? With everything he’s been enduring, he deserved a little slip. He’s more than made up for it since. So if he tells me to jump, fuck yeah, I’ll ask how high. If he asks me to dance for his wedding, well . . .

  I’ll figure it out.

  Haris is asking Faisal about Rizwana when I feel Asher staring at me.

  “Can’t keep your eyes off me?” I ask.

  “What? No. I was just thinking.”

  “About me?”

  “Ha. Kiran did mention you were like this.”

  I don’t ask what he means by that, and honestly, part of me doesn’t want to know.

  Asher’s gaze flicks to Vinny, Faisal, and Haris, who are busy chatting away.

  “I was thinking,” he says softly, careful not to be overheard, “you and Kiran, you’re both overcomplicating things. And not just with the dance. Kiran told me you two used to be a thing.”

  My muscles tense. I guess she went back on our pact to keep things secret. Then again, I guess I can’t completely fault her—it has been three years. I’m just annoyed she had to go and tell this guy.

  Asher continues: “There’s all this anger, and a lot that’s been left unsaid. But why don’t you just . . . tell her you’re sorry? I get that there’s a whole other side to the story that I don’t know. But I don’t think you’re a bad person. It’s just, Kiran’s hurt. You can get where she’s coming from, right? It might be good to acknowledge the elephant in the room, before someone gets hurt even more. Maybe I’m wrong, but . . . I think she’d forgive you. Hell, I think you could be friends.”

  “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if she has friends like you, then why the hell would she need me?”

  Asher’s thick eyebrows crinkle, like he’s about to say something else, but Haris’s voice snaps me to attention: “Whoa, you okay, big guy?”

  At the head of the table, Faisal’s head droops.

  “Huh?” Faisal blinks. “Yeah, I just got really sleepy all of a sudden.”

  “Does someone need a nippynap?” Vinny asks.

  Faisal laughs. But it’s not his normal laugh. It’s more like a loud, hysterical giggle, uncontrolled and sloppy, as if he were—

  Oh no.

  I stand up. “Hey, can someone call the waiter in?”

  Something like understanding flashes in Haris’s eyes; he throws open the velvet curtains that hide the door to the rest of the restaurant and leaves the room. A few minutes later, he returns with the waiter.

  “These are nonalcoholic, right?” he asks, pointing to Faisal’s empty Gentleman’s Tonic glass.

  The waiter’s eyebrows furrow. “No. Why? He’s over twenty-one, right? Did Mark not check his ID?”

  “He’s over twenty-one, but he—” Haris pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit. How many of these has he had?”

  The waiter thinks. “Uh, not sure. Four? I think? Sorry, I’m not the one who took the order, so . . .”

  Vinny snorts. “Yooo, someone’s gonna have fun tonight.”

  My jaw tightens. “Faisal doesn’t drink.” Faisal’s gone respectably sober for the past few years, and for good reason. He’s been really proud of it, too. How did he not taste something off? Have all those protein shakes destroyed his sense of taste? Shit. What if Kiran finds out and tells Amira?

  I glance at Asher, suddenly suspicious, but he doesn’t notice. “Get some water,” Asher orders the waiter. “He barely ate anything, so could you also bring a soup or something?”

  The waiter leaves without another word.

  Faisal bangs the table with a loud, crack-of-thunder slap that makes us all jump. “No, guys, guys. I’ve never felt better. Everything’s great!” he says, his words slurring. He can barely keep his eyes open. “You know, I haven’t felt like this in ages. It’s been so long since I’ve just had fun with my boys, you feel?”

  On some level, this is the funniest thing in the world. I’ve never actually seen Faisal drunk before, and I gotta say, this happy drunkenness is an adorable look for him, even if it is completely wrong. But I’m worried. Amira can’t find out about this. It’s not exactly a good look for Faisal to get wasted out of the blue when he’s supposedly straight edge.

  “I’ve just been feeling so stressed with the wedding—not the planning, ’cause I’m useless at that, but—I just wanna make Amira happy, you know? She’s great. So great, you know? So fuckin’ great.”

  Haris rubs his back. “All right, big guy, just hang tight.” He looks at me and shrugs.

  I shrug back.

  Good thing I don’t have class tomorrow.

  There’s a knock at the door. The waiter?

  “Come in,” says Asher tiredly, and the door opens.

  Someone pushes apart the curtains and struts into the room. Panic hits me like a h
ot iron, flattening me to the ground.

  It’s a police officer.

  She’s wearing dark aviator sunglasses. Blonde curls pop against the trench coat layered over her gray-and-black uniform. She looks around the room, taking us in without a word.

  Haris is already backing away. “Did someone freaking call the cops on us?” he mutters.

  “It’s either that or the haram police,” I mutter back. “Wait, aren’t you a lawyer?”

  “You think that matters?” he snaps.

  After a painfully long stretch of time, Asher finally speaks. “Can we help you?”

  The police officer rips off her sunglasses, revealing big eyes framed by even bigger fake lashes. Dim light reflects off shimmery pink lips.

  Then it hits me.

  Vinny’s eyes go wide. “By Jove, old boy,” he says, his jaw slack. “She’s a stripper.”

  “Oh hell no,” I hear Asher mumble behind me.

  “Fay-zal Malik?” she asks, in a booming, authoritative voice.

  Faisal blinks blearily, and raises a hand. “I’m Faisal.”

  “You’re under arrest.” The woman smiles and strides up to him, the heels of her boots clicking. “For getting married.” She whips out a pair of fuzzy red handcuffs.

  Haris is stunned, as if a stripper mere inches away from grating her ass on his very Muslim friend’s abs right in front of him isn’t much better than the sudden appearance of a cop. Vinny whoops. “Yeah, read him his Miranda rights!”

  But Asher gets to his feet, a vein in his forehead twitching. He looks . . . strangely pissed.

  “Ma’am, pardon me,” he says, moving between the woman and Faisal. “What’s your name?”

  “Trudy.”

  “Hi, Trudy.” Asher gently pulls her trench coat back over her bare shoulders. “Look, I’m very sorry to have wasted your time, but I don’t think we’ll be needing your, uh, services tonight.”

  “But I was hired for the hour.”

  Asher licks his lips. “Well, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. Let me walk you to your car and I’ll write you a check.”

  I round on him. “Did you hire her?”

  “No! No. Not—it’s complicated. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Asher grits his teeth. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

  Vinny laughs. “Dude, you’re amazing.”

  “That’s one word for it.” My voice lowers. “I guess you didn’t get the memo, Asher, but my brother’s as straight edge as they come. We don’t even usually have bachelor parties. Especially not like this.”

  Vinny stops laughing. “Yo, don’t shit on sex workers. My cousin paid her way through college as a call girl. Now she’s an econ professor.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Am I getting paid or what?” Trudy asks.

  But Asher’s barely listening; instead, he’s looking at his phone. He’s taller than me, the asshole, so I can’t get a good look at his screen, but he looks like he’s texting someone. He wipes at his brow.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, irritated. My suspicion’s growing.

  “Nothing, just—getting a Lyft.” He puts down his phone. “Something tells me bowling isn’t going to be happening tonight.” He smiles weakly.

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  “I’m going to escort Ms. Trudy out of here and pay her. Just make sure your brother gets some water in him, okay?”

  “Fine. Just, don’t tell anyone about what happened tonight, okay?” I look at him in a way I hope is intimidating to show that I mean business . . . even though he’s a little taller than me.

  Asher raises an eyebrow. “Obviously. I’m not an asshole. Is he always so distrustful of people?” he asks, addressing Vinny.

  Vinny nods solemnly. “Yes.”

  “Sounds like someone I know.” Asher grabs his wallet off the table, pats down his pockets, and prepares to follow Trudy through the curtains to the main restaurant area.

  Before he leaves, though, he pulls me aside. “Hey, Deen?” he says in a low whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  “Just . . . reach out to her, okay?”

  His eyes catch mine and hold them. Like he’s serious. Like he’s pleading.

  I stare back, confused, before exhaling.

  “Sure,” I reply. “I will.”

  Loading

  [CAMBRIA: THE EVOLUTION EXPANSION PACK]

  [ROANA GUILD CHAT ROOM]

  * * *

  Kasia Coribund: Was there something absolutely bonkers you wanted to be when you were a kid?

  Kasia Coribund: Like a total pipe-dream job?

  Kasia Coribund: Like you know how most kids want to be an astronaut or president when they’re young

  Kasia Coribund: before reality slaps them in the face?

  Devynius Foxx: Ha

  Devynius Foxx: I think I wanted to be a judge

  Devynius Foxx: I like the idea of getting paid to judge people

  Devynius Foxx: Still do, tbh

  Devynius Foxx: What about you?

  Kasia Coribund: I wanted to be a ballerina

  Kasia Coribund: That was before I saw how mangled their legs and feet get after years of intense practice

  Kasia Coribund: But yeah, definitely a dancer of some kind.

  Kasia Coribund: A ridiculous pipe dream.

  Devynius Foxx: Dancer, huh

  Devynius Foxx: Is that really such a pipe dream?

  Kasia Coribund: Doesn’t exactly pays the bills, unfortunately

  Devynius Foxx: What about teaching dance?

  Devynius Foxx: Wouldn’t that be more stable?

  Kasia Coribund: Those kinds of jobs are rare . . .

  Kasia Coribund: In any case, that was a childhood dream

  Kasia Coribund: I’ve got something else I need to do now.

  Devynius Foxx: Well, if you ever change your mind, Teach, let me know.

  Devynius Foxx: Would love to be your first student ;D

  Kasia Coribund: Unfortunately that would be . . . a little difficult, given the circumstances

  Kasia Coribund: But I’ll teach you the first rule of dance

  Devynius Foxx: Which is?

  Kasia Coribund: There are no rules.

  Devynius Foxx: . . .

  Devynius Foxx: I want my money back.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  Kiran

  Saturday, July 31

  22 Days Until the Wedding

  I’M IN THE KITCHEN, WRANGLING some leftover rice and dal into an old Donald Duck cereal bowl when my phone buzzes.

  Thinking it’s Foxx, I snatch the phone. But it’s Asher. And I’m in trouble.

  What the HELL were you thinking???

  I cringe at my screen. To be fair, I knew he wouldn’t like my stripper idea. Which is why I didn’t tell him all the details.

  Any chance you took a picture of the lucky lady? I type.

  OF COURSE NOT, he replies, and I can practically feel the flames coming off him.

  Jesus, woman

  I don’t like what this is doing to you

  Hiring a stripper? Really? Isn’t Faisal religious? Not cool, Kiran.

  Hey, you said you would help, I text back. Step two, remember? Build distrust between Amira and Faisal. It’s a worthy cause.

  Not if it means springing a sex worker on an unwilling participant. You should know better, Asher says. I swallow down what feels a lot like shame. Then I remember the crucial question:

  Did anyone figure out who hired the stripper?

  Don’t worry, I’m not going to rat you out. As much as you deserve it, Asher adds.

  Good ol’ Asher. Even though he’s mad, he still exudes big brother energy.

  There’s a pause before Asher’s next response:

  I appreciate and respect your loyalty to Amira, but I feel like you’re going overboard. Are you sure this isn’t personal?

  I feel a sourness in my belly worse than cramps. I don’t like the insinuation. But Asher’s mad at me. No,
scratch that. He’s not mad at me. He’s disappointed. And everyone knows that’s worse.

  I start typing I’m sorry, but delete it, replace it with a diplomatic Thanks for your help, Ash, and put my phone back on the kitchen counter.

  A part is me is sorry—for disappointing Asher, for making him question my reasons for doing this. But Asher doesn’t have any siblings of his own. He could never really understand the lengths I’m willing to go to protect mine. Even if it means asking him to take pictures of Faisal with a stripper.

  No matter, though; I don’t need the pictures, anyway.

  Amira bounds down the stairs and lands in the kitchen with a graceful hop. Her long hair is tied in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing a cream-colored pullover, sleeves folded, over dark red leggings. Casual, but somehow still high fashion.

  “Hey. Dad said we should clear out some stuff in our rooms,” she says. “He’d like us to get started on Mom’s closet, too.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, not really paying attention. I flatten my rice with a spoon until it becomes almost paste-like.

  “He’s called in some junk collectors to come in next week, so we have to be quick.”

  “Junk collectors?” That’s random. “Why? Late spring cleaning?”

  She shrugs. “No idea. He mentioned it on the way out to work, so I didn’t ask. You know, I feel like Dad’s working way too hard these days.” I feel her eyes graze over my face. Her forehead creases. “What’s up? You’re making a face.”

  I let out a long exhale. The thing about lying is it never gets easier. I think in order to lie well, you need to be okay with ripping your soul into tiny pieces—especially when you lie to people you care about. I imagine that every time you do, one of those pieces of soul—one more little reason to like yourself—dies. It’s the price you pay. And the more you do it, the less there is left.

  Although, ever since Mom died, I haven’t been good about keeping track of those pieces anyway.

  “Just got a text from Asher. Apparently the bachelor party was last night.”

  Amira’s eyes gleam. “Oh God. A Muslim bachelor party. It sounds like an oxymoron. So? What’d Asher say? Was it any fun?”