It makes me feel uneasy. I don’t like loose ends.
My eyes trail behind us, to the dozens of tables filled with guests, most of whom I don’t recognize—friends and family of the Maliks, I guess—though I do spot Cara and Rebecca and Rizwana, chatting with Haris under one of the archways, and Hamza chacha hanging with Nani by the buffet. And my cousin Adeem, who’s face-first in a bowl of biryani.
But my eyes eventually land on a familiar face, one that stands out among the others: Deen. Guess he opted against wearing a shalwar; instead, he’s wearing a dark blue suit that brings out the warmth in his skin, adorned with a black-and-gold tie. His sharp jaw is set tight. Purposeful.
“You okay?” Asher asks softly.
I shrug. “Does it really matter now?”
Asher’s forehead creases. He opens his mouth to say something, but a loud tapping sound swallows his words.
Onstage, Imam Obaid has a microphone to his lips. He smiles, and the ballroom falls to a hush. My heart skitters nervously.
“Bismillah al Rahman al Rahim,” Imam Obaid begins. His warm voice resonates through the expanse.
“On behalf of these two beautiful souls, I thank you all for coming and bearing witness to their marriage, God willing. I have had the privilege of working closely with Sister Amira and Brother Faisal for the past six weeks, and although it has only been a short while, I feel confident that these two have exactly what they need to move ahead on this journey they have committed to undertake, together.
“So what are the tools one needs on this journey? you may wonder. In a world of instant gratification, the very concept of marriage and the level of commitment required to maintain one feels . . . tricky. Like too big of an investment. After all, marriage is so much more than a partnership. So much more than sunnah. So much more than the thing we do to get the items we can’t afford on our registries. There is a magic to it, a metaphysical weight to it. We know this to be true, in the movies we watch, the books we read.
“But though the key to a successful marriage has a hidden depth to it, it is also very simple:
“To marry—to love—is to be vulnerable. To have a mutual willingness to put it all out there in every moment without hesitation. To promise to knock down the walls you keep up for other people. To vow to no longer allow the past to remain as a shackle of shame and regret, but the place from which your shared future springs.”
I glance over at Deen. We catch each other’s eyes, let them linger, until I feel a bloom of heat on my cheeks and turn away.
“To be vulnerable together is the only way we see the best of humanity: patience and understanding, communication and trust. Whether it be a fight over who forgot to do the dishes, or learning to comfort one another after the loss of someone dear.
“That is love. That is marriage. And tonight, these two beautiful souls have decided to be vulnerable in front of everyone they know: their family, their friends, their peers. Which, in times such as these, is truly a miracle.”
Onstage, Amira and Faisal stare at the floor, as if afraid to look up. I wish I could tell what Amira was thinking.
Imam Obaid puts his hands together in prayer. “Baarakallaahu laka, wa baaraka ‘alayka, wa jama’a baynakumaa fee khayrin. May God bless you, and shower His blessings upon you, and join you together in goodness,” he says.
The entire ballroom murmurs in assent.
Imam Obaid grabs the nikah papers off the table, hands Amira and Faisal their own pens to sign. Dad and Faisal’s dad watch over, acting as witnesses, per tradition. The Imam whispers something, gaining a hesitant smile from the bride and groom. I want to look away, but my eyes are glued to Amira as I watch her pen move across the paper.
And then, at least in the eyes of Islamic law, it is done.
Haris hops onstage, all smiles as he takes the mic from Imam Obaid. “Now, if you’ll all join me in a round of applause for the happy couple!” The roar that follows puts me in a daze. “Next, we’ll have a few words from the esteemed Dr. Margaret Kline, Amira’s professor and mentor. But first.”
He searches through the audience. Spotlights graze the center of the room. And that’s when it dawns on me.
It’s time.
I look down at the table, where a small printed program—the ones I printed for the wedding—laid out on my plate spells it out clearly:
7:30. Dance.
Across the room, Deen gets to his feet and begins walking toward the dance floor.
“I’m going to throw up,” I mutter, dread settling in my stomach.
“I almost threw up the other day,” replies Asher, side-eyeing me. “You know, when someone decided to hire a stripper without telling me.”
“I need you to make me feel better, not worse,” I whine.
He smirks. “My advice? The sooner you get it over with, the better.”
And with that, Asher yanks the chair out from under me and I stumble off it.
I barely manage to catch myself in time. Ignoring the curious stares around me, I throw Asher a dirty look, smooth down my lehenga. He gives me a thumbs-up.
I march toward the dance floor with all the enthusiasm of a person walking to a guillotine. It’s not like I haven’t danced in public before, obviously—I danced at the dholki, and before that, I’ve danced at a couple of smaller events. Except, that’s just the thing: they were smaller, like thirty or forty people, tops. And I’d usually be dancing alongside Mom. Here, though, there are easily over five hundred. And I’m not dancing with Mom.
The spotlight fades as I step onto the edge of the dance floor; Deen approaches from the opposite side.
My heart begins to pound.
I can’t read his expression, which only makes me more uneasy. But Deen reaches his hand out toward me. I stiffen.
“Nervous?” he asks, amused. “After all the practice we’ve done?”
“How are you not nervous?”
“Other things on my mind, I guess. Come on.” He pulls me onto the center of dance floor.
“We just have to get through tonight and then . . .” A sad smile flits across Deen’s face. “You might not have to see me again for a while.”
My eyebrows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He stands next to me. There’s nothing but silence, save for the rapid pounding in my chest. I try to ignore all the confused looks in the crowd or, worse, the judgmental glares. This was supposed to be a dance-off; I was supposed to be alone. But I’ll deal with it if it means I finally get the truth.
The music bursts into life.
Except something’s off. The beat is still the same, but—
“Wait, this song . . .” I spin to face him, panicking. “This isn’t the right song!”
“Isn’t it more exciting this way?” he asks, a laugh teasing his mouth.
My eyes widen. Of course he’s behind it, the troll. “Why the hell would you change it at the last—” I stop and listen. “Wait. This song.”
It is the right song, sort of. The familiar thrum of the tabla intertwining with electronic strings and synth, a splice of East and West. A remix?
Another familiar melody begins, and I recognize it now. It’s not a remix. It’s a mashup. He’s mashed up a song from Devdas with “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”
What the hell? Is he trying to mess with me?
I stare at Deen, confused. He grins, his eyes taunting, daring me.
The vocals kick in. I don’t have time to ask questions and I certainly won’t let Deen get away with trying to throw me off, not in front of all these people, several of whom stare at us disapprovingly. Deen’s mom—I shudder—is one of them.
My body responds to the music.
We fall in step, spinning away from each other. As we begin to move, my nervousness and tension fall away like flecks of old paint. My limbs feel light. His feet fall back, mine give chase; when I retreat, he hunts in kind. Our arms sweep in opposition, mirroring each other, two halves to a whole. His arm encircles my waist
, hovering just without touching—I arch my back before he whirls me away again, my hair whipping around me; as the song quickens, with every movement, my lehenga floats in a fan shape around my legs. My body is a conduit for the waves of music flowing through me; I take it in and send it back out. If I don’t, I’m sure I’ll explode. And there’s Deen, propelling me through it all.
Our dance feels different this time, and it’s not just the song. The audience, the stage, everyone and everything—it’s like they don’t even exist. It’s just me and Deen, goofing off side by side in our own little world. I can’t put a name to the warm tension between us, and honestly, I’m afraid to, but it crackles, a living, uncontrollable thing. Playful. People will talk. I don’t even care.
Deen shimmies over to me with an exaggerated hip sway and grabs my dupatta, yanking me back, and I laugh because it’s ridiculous. We’re hardly keeping up with the original choreography. I don’t care. I’ve never felt so loose, so open, so free.
The music begins to slow, and even though my muscles burn, I never want it to end.
Finally, it stops. I fall back limply, sinking into Deen’s hand supporting my back. He holds me up and his dark eyes glitter with that unnamed something. I’m hyperaware of the closeness of his lips on my cheek, especially as the people around us come back into focus. Oh God. Embarassment and maybe a little shame rise up in me like a bad burp. This was a mistake, what are people going to say, why did I—
“Kas,” he whispers.
My eyes snap to his. He pushes me back up.
I blink hard. My head’s gone numb. “What did you just say?” I ask shakily, rounding on him.
Suddenly, the whole room explodes in applause. Someone at a table near us lets out an ear-piercing whistle; I look over, and it’s Asher. Deen’s parents can’t seem to manage hiding their scowls, but they do manage half-hearted claps to keep up appearances. Onstage, Amira and Faisal are standing, Amira cupping her face in shock, revealing only her crinkled eyes, and Faisal is smiling wider than I’ve ever seen him. He hops offstage and runs toward his brother before enveloping him in a bear hug.
But Deen—did I hear him right . . . ? No. I couldn’t have. He must have said something else. Like . . . gas. Or mass—because I’m heavy? Or badass?
“Deen—” I start, but the crowd storms him, most of it made of unfamiliar aunties—perhaps wondering if he’s taken, fishing for his biodata. I can’t see him over the throngs of people. I’m completely shut out. Talk about a double standard.
Haris takes to the mic again. “Well, that was a heck of a surprise performance from none other than the bride’s and groom’s younger siblings, Kiran and Deen! And hopefully that excitement’s riled up your appetite because we’ll be serving dinner before letting our next speaker, Dr. Margaret Kline, say a few words for the couple,” he says, mostly ignored.
I stand alone, dumbfounded. I want to ask Deen. Something about the way he’s acting tonight feels off. And then to hear him say Kas . . .
I’m being ridiculous.
It’s like Deen said. After tonight, after he finally tells me the truth about what happened three years ago, we won’t really have a reason to see each other. Other than the occasional Thanksgiving. After tonight, we’ll go back to being strangers. Whatever spell we were under during the dance, it’s broken. Or maybe I imagined it.
I leave Deen to be swallowed by the crowd.
Chapter 31
Kiran
Sunday, August 22
Amira and Faisal’s Wedding Day
I MAKE A STRATEGIC RETREAT to the bathroom. I need to wash my face, and it’s the only place I can get a moment of privacy. A place where I can cool my head.
One of the waitstaff, who is busy serving dinner now, gives me directions, so I leave the ballroom and find the hallway that leads to a separate restroom area. But when I turn the corner, I hear an angry, familiar voice and am hit with a sense of déjà vu.
“Why are you here?” Faisal growls. “How did you even find out?”
A woman’s voice. Timid and soft. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to reach you, but you never call me back or respond to any of my messages.”
It’s quiet. Like Faisal’s thinking. “No, I—I’m sorry. But you can’t be here,” he pleads. “Please. You could ruin everything.”
I can’t see the woman’s face; Faisal’s shoulder is blocking it. But I can hear her redoubling her efforts. “If you’d just listen to me—”
“No. This isn’t the time or place. Look, I still care about you, but it’s my wedding, for God’s sake. If my parents find out you’re here . . .”
“I’ll leave. I promise. I just wanted to talk.”
“I can’t,” says Faisal. “Not anymore.” He backs away from her. “Please leave.”
He moves toward me, so I press myself against the wall, blending in with the shadows. He passes me, so close I can smell the roses wafting from the garland around his neck.
I peek over the edge of the wall.
My heart shoots up to my throat. I recognize the woman’s face immediately.
It’s Leah.
She looks better than she did in that photo I saw of her: her eyes are clearer, and her cheeks have filled out a little more, with a tinge of color, of life in them that wasn’t there before. She’s wearing a simple mauve wrap dress, and her strawberry-blonde hair is tied in a neat ponytail.
But why is she here?
I fish for my phone in my purse and open my Facebook messages. There it is, the message I’d been avoiding sending until last night: I’m so sorry to cancel on you last minute, but circumstances have changed. Again, I’m really sorry.
And beneath that, a new message, from her: I’m here.
I inhale, steeling myself. Then I step out of my hiding spot.
“Hi, Leah,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “. . . Kiran?”
I nod. “I wasn’t expecting you to come. Did you not get my last message?”
“I, uh—” She rubs her arm sheepishly. “I didn’t see it until late. Not that that would have changed anything.” She sighs before looking at me, her blue eyes glimmering. “I needed to talk to Faisal. You just happened to come along with exactly where I could reach him. I just . . . didn’t realize I’d be crashing his wedding. All you gave me was a time and location. It wasn’t until I came in and saw the sign that I realized what this really was.”
“I’m sorry you wasted your time,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
“Me too.” Her shoulders dip. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. He hasn’t replied to a single message from me in years now.”
I bite my lip. I know I should probably talk to Deen first, but Leah is here and Deen’s probably busy meeting aunties’ daughters and curiosity’s getting the better of me.
“Why won’t he talk to you anymore?” I ask.
Leah smiles weakly. “It’s a long story.”
“No one will notice I’m gone,” I reply, shrugging. I hate to admit it, but Deen has a certain charisma about him that draws people in and keeps them there. For now, people will be focused on him and dinner and the other speeches. The bride’s plain little sister stuck in limbo? Entirely forgettable.
Leah hesitates. She closes her eyes, like she’s digging deep in her head for memories.
She starts to speak:
“I met Faisal in high school. Back then, he was a completely different person. A human beanpole. Super quiet, awkward. I don’t think a single day passed when he wasn’t bullied.
“There were two boys at school in particular who used to bully the crap out of him. It started with the typical stuff: stupid, hateful comments in the hallway, tripping him in the hall, destroying his textbooks, that sort of thing. But over time, it got worse. They’d beat him up, threaten him if he even thought to tell anyone about it. One night, they went to his house and graffitied the front door with something . . . something disgusting. Something Islamophobic.”
My fists clen
ch.
“The worst part is,” she continues, “one of those boys? That hateful, evil monster? He’s my older brother.”
My eyes widen in horror. “Seriously?”
“I wish I was kidding,” Leah murmurs. “That’s how Faisal and I met, actually. I felt bad for him. My brother was always a bully, but he went extra hard on Faisal. I couldn’t stop him. So instead, I’d leave bandages or an ice pack in Faisal’s locker, or give him my spare change so he could buy lunch. Pathetic.” She chuckles self-deprecatingly.
“I thought eventually, my brother would stop, get bored of bullying Faisal. Move on to someone else. But it kept escalating. At the same time, I think Faisal was also getting a lot of pressure from his parents. I haven’t met them, but they sound super . . . obsessed with their image. More than they care about Faisal, maybe. That’s when Faisal and I started to get closer.” Leah sees my reaction and waves her hands. “Not what you’re thinking, though! We were just . . . friends. Or maybe the more accurate term is accomplices.”
“Accomplices?”
Leah’s eyes grow dark. “I started taking Adderall. My own family situation, as you can probably imagine, was pretty fucked up. My parents were assholes to everyone but my older brother and treated me like I was nothing. I couldn’t focus on school. But the meds helped.
“So I started giving Faisal Adderall, too. At least, enough so he could keep his grades up, please his parents. It also helped him . . . forget.”
The drugs. Of course. I can feel the pieces aligning in my brain. What Faisal said in his journal entry, something about the drugs in his system—he’d been referring to Adderall?
I feel . . . sorry for him. I’d been imagining shady back-alley deals, tiny bags of white powder, Faisal driving away in a convertible with trunks of cash. Not a kid just trying to survive under pressure.
Not this.
It All Comes Back to You Page 26