She was the girlfriend who, ten years from now, someone would refer to obliquely, saying, ‘Remember that model you dated that time. What was her name again?’ And he might not even remember.
“C’mon, slow pokes!”
At the front door, Regan finally paused to wait for them, extending a hand to Deuce which he realized with horror she expected him to take. Kal walked past him and draped an arm across Asha’s shoulders and together they went inside.
“I’m going to try not to make a fool of myself when I meet your father,” Regan said, leaning against his side when he was next to her. “Nudge me in the arm if I start to gush.”
“I don’t know if you’ll meet my father,” Deuce said. “He might not be around.”
Regan’s shoulders sagged. “Really? But I thought …”
“Deuce.”
So, he’d been wrong. His father was there. Having just greeted Kal and Asha, he was now looking in Deuce’s direction, and taking in Regan from the top of her well-coiffed head to the soles of her stilettoed feet. Something like confusion flashed in his eyes, and Deuce realized that he had never discussed Regan with his father. Would never have had cause to.
And since he hadn’t brought her over, there was a good chance his dad didn’t even know that he and Zora were no longer together.
“Mr. Scaife …” Regan stepped forward, a hand extended. “It is so … it’s great to finally meet you,” Regan said.
Her voice was doing that squeaky thing it did when she was nervous or excited.
“Good to meet you, too.”
His father was looking over Regan’s shoulder at Deuce, his eyes questioning.
“This is Regan,” Deuce said. “Regan, this is my …”
“I know, silly.” Regan gave a brief laugh. “Of course I know who this is.” She was already gushing.
“Some of your guests are here. And the filmmaker as well. Showed up about an hour ago to set up.”
“Cool,” Deuce said, trying to ignore Regan, who was standing with her mouth partly open, just watching his father with a hand to her chest like she was meeting the Pope.
“And ahm … Zora’s here as well,” his father added, meeting his gaze.
“Okay. Cool,” he said again.
But something in his voice must have changed, because at that, Regan tore her eyes away from his father and looked at him.
“Who’s Zora?” she asked.
“She’s the filmmaker’s cousin,” Deuce said. “And … my ex. My ex-girlfriend.”
Regan’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and then she smiled again.
“Well, why don’t we head in?” she said.
Straightening her posture, she extended a hand and after a moment’s hesitation, Deuce took it.
~~~
He didn’t spot her right away because the home theater was more crowded than Deuce expected. He’d sent out a simple email message and made some calls to a little over two dozen people, friends of his from Bedford, and some from Jersey who had over the years gone to the various expensive camps and extracurricular activities his mother enrolled him in. He hit up everyone he could think of who might be interested in donating to the arts, baby philanthropists who had been raised with the understanding that some of their wealth, either for altruistic or tax purposes, had to be contributed to charitable causes.
And because they were all still in their early twenties, their giving tended toward the trendy—artists, filmmakers, and environmentalists were the trifecta. This was especially so for this crowd, the New Money crowd, whose parents were hedge fund billionaires, performers and as in Deuce’s case, entrepreneurs.
Next to him, he sensed Regan’s step hitch a little. She squeezed his hand a little tighter, probably smelling the money in the air, along with the subtle scent of expensive perfume and a hint of even more expensive liquor.
To make the event as attractive as possible, Deuce had arranged for it to be catered, and a bar set up off to the side where the faux concession stand that was part of the room stood. There was even a popcorn machine, and a glass case where there was usually an array of different candy to be had. Tonight, the popcorn was black truffle and sea-salt popcorn, and instead of candy, there were artisan-style chocolates on display. Servers circulated the room handing out sliders, satay, charred brussel sprouts and plump fire-roasted prawns.
“Are these all your friends?” Regan leaned in and whispered in his ear.
“Something like that,” Deuce returned. “Used to be. Yeah, I guess.”
He glanced at the rows and seats and saw that Kal and Asha were already seated, near the rear of the fifty-seat theater and surveying the room with interest, and in Kal’s case, bemusement. And next to Asha’s seat, at the end of a row, Zora was crouched. Her hair was out, an orange headband holding it back from her face. And she was wearing a black t-shirt with a slogan across the front, and jeans. In her ears were large gold hoops. In one hand, she held a glass of white wine, from which she sipped while talking to Asha.
“Well … are you going to introduce me to any of them?” Regan asked.
Deuce looked at her. She had pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin a little, preparing to present herself.
“Yeah,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Zora. “Sure. Let’s …”
“Wait!” Regan hissed, as though he was prematurely about to open the curtains before a performance. “I need something to drink.”
“Okay, let’s go get …”
“Deuce! My man!”
Before they could take another step, he was accosted by Stevie, one of his high school friends. They had been tight at one time but were in touch less frequently since Deuce’s junior year at Penn State.
“Stevie!” Deuce returned the hug and there were introductions.
Then there were more people coming up and more introductions. By the time he and Regan finally made it to the bar, she had met just about everyone in the room so far. Except for Zora.
Finally, Deuce got her a drink and excused himself, leaving her with Bella Sanyal, one of his perennial friends-with-benefits from back in the day. He found Asif in the control room behind the screen, messing with the AV equipment, and pacing back and forth like someone preparing for a championship game.
“Hey, man,” he said looking up as Deuce entered. “Can’t thank you enough for …”
“It’s fine. You’re welcome,” Deuce said as they dapped. “Just let me know when you’re ready to roll, and we can do this.”
“Tell me a little more about who all is in the room?”
“Trust fund babies,” Deuce said baldly. “Most of ‘em progressive to a point. Socially progressive, fiscally conservative. They want to do good things in the world but want to keep their money.”
Asif laughed. “I feel you. And what you think? Make a pitch for support at the end, or …?”
“No,” Deuce said extending the vowel. “I’ll do that part. Rich people don’t like being asked for money except by other rich people. I’ll do the ask when you’re done. But I’ma let you do a little thing in the opening, describing your vision, and I’ll close us out. How long a reel is it?”
“I got thirty minutes that feels solid but could do another fifteen if the room seems like they want it.”
“Let’s keep it at the thirty, and …”
“All set back here?”
Deuce turned at the sound of Zora’s voice and she was there, standing in the doorway, a hand on her hip and looking spectacular in skin-tight jeans. She had one of those nature-defying bodies that managed to look both slender and full at the same time. Especially in jeans like this, the lush curvaceousness of her thighs and backside were accentuated, though her legs were long and slender. She was no more than a buck twenty but managed to give the appearance of being full and ripe.
Deuce let his eyes roam her length in a way he thought was discreet, but clearly hadn’t been, if Zora’s dropped gaze was any indication.
“All good,” A
sif said.
“Do you need anything before we get started?”
Zora kept her eyes on her cousin and had yet to acknowledge Deuce at all, but he could tell she was as painfully attuned to him as he was to her.
He could read from the vaguely awkward stiffness in her body language that she was acutely aware of being watched and watched closely.
“Nope. I’ll eat after,” Asif said taking a deep breath.
“It’ll be fine, Seef,” she said reassuringly. “You do amazing work.”
“I know I do,” Asif said, making a scoffing noise. “You just never know whether anyone else’ll agree with you.”
“They will,” Zora said with certainty.
Deuce smiled a little wondering if she was ever as sure as she sounded. She was like this for him as well, banishing his self-doubt with a single decisive phrase. In the weeks after graduation, when he had finally been given a date to meet with Jamal Turner to make his final pitch to start his own label, he’d been driving himself—and probably her as well—crazy, talking about all the reasons that Jamal would shoot him down.
I don’t even know what makes me think I should do this, he told her the night before the meeting. I don’t know why I even think I can.
Of course, you can, she told him, sounding almost insulted. Do you know who you are?
Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he felt like what people said he was—Chris Scaife’s kid. And not much more than that.
But Zora would hear none of it.
“Well, I’m going out there to sit with everyone else,” Zora said, hooking a thumb in the direction of the door.
“I’ll come with you,” Deuce said seizing the chance at a moment to talk to Zora alone. “Asif, gimme a signal when you ready.”
He put a hand on Zora’s shoulder, and they were just about to cross the threshold when they collided with Regan.
Smiling, her eyes flitted to Deuce’s hand on Zora’s shoulder, and then away again.
“Where’d you disappear to?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
From the moment she and Asif arrived, Zora had been bracing for when she might have to face Deuce and his girlfriend. She considered not coming at all, but her cousin wouldn’t hear of it. And then she argued with herself, that she couldn’t avoid Deuce or his girlfriend, or seeing them together, forever. When Asha hadn’t mentioned it, and she found Deuce alone with Asif in the control room, she allowed herself to hope that he hadn’t brought Regan along after all.
But no such luck. Here she was.
Zora felt herself smiling through the introduction and Deuce’s hand dropped from her shoulder. She barely knew what was being said to her, or what she said in return but was aware of her mouth moving, and words coming out.
Regan was smiling back at her while she proprietarily looped both her arms around one of Deuce’s and leaned against him. She flipped a mane of silky dark hair over her shoulder and her soft pink dress moved a little. She was slightly overdressed, but was also Instagram-model flawless, there was no denying that. When she spoke, she widened her long-lashed eyes slightly, as if surprised that coherent sentences were coming out of her mouth.
No, that was catty. She was probably just trying to make the most of her fake eyelashes with that wide-eyed stare.
Also catty, but Zora couldn’t help it.
She exhaled silently and offered Regan one last smile. She didn’t look at Deuce.
“Anyway, I think I’ll go see if I can grab a seat right up front for me and Seef before they all get taken,” she said.
She smelled Regan’s perfume as she brushed by. And God … even her scent was pretty.
Just as she resurfaced into the main theater, Zora caught Asha’s gaze and her friend’s lips turned downward. She leaned over to say something to Kal then made her way down toward Zora. When they were standing directly across from each other, Asha sighed.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a stage-whisper. “I didn’t know how to say … and I didn’t know whether you’d want me to, with Kal there, and …”
“No, it’s fine,” Zora said offering her a bright smile. “I figured he might not come alone.” She shrugged.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She gave a firm nod. “And anyway, I …”
She stopped midsentence when a familiar face emerged from the crowd. He was smiling, and she did too, with relief.
“Nicolas.”
Asha turned to see who she was talking to and watched as Nicolas and Zora exchanged hugs and kisses on the cheek.
“I didn’t know you were coming.” She put a hand on his shoulder and urged him forward. “Nicolas, this is my friend, Asha. Asha, Nicolas.”
Just as their greetings were completed, Deuce was there again, Regan still glued to his arm. He reached across Zora, extending a hand.
“Deuce Scaife.”
“Ah.” Nicolas nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
“And you are …?”
“Nic. I’m hopefully scoring the film,” Nicolas said, “and I’m a friend of Seef’s. And Zora’s.”
That last bit—“and Zora’s”—was said with particular emphasis, the kind that men did not miss.
Deuce looked at Zora for a few beats and then back at Nicolas. He took him in with more interest, noting the Kelly-green pants, the oxford with the busy, whimsical print and the brown pork-pie hat.
“I’m Regan.”
She stepped forward, breaking the tense silence.
Nicolas smiled and shook her hand as well, giving her a nod.
“So, where’s the man of the hour?” he turned to address Zora again.
“I’ll take you to him,” she said, grateful for the reprieve.
Taking his arm, she smiled at everyone and pulled him away.
“So, how’re you?” Nicolas said when they were a short distance from the others.
This was the first time they had seen each other since he sent her the text message breaking things off. And if it had been under any other circumstances, Zora was sure it would have been awkward. But as it was, she felt nothing but pleasure and gratitude that he was there.
“I’m good,” she said, smiling at him. “I didn’t know you scored this. I didn’t know there was a score. I thought this was just a reel of raw footage.”
“Was supposed to be, but Seef thought he might as well go all in since he might not get in front of a group of big-money donors like this again anytime soon.”
“I’m kind of excited. I haven’t seen the rough cut.”
“I did,” Nicolas said, looking at her closely. “It was … eye-opening.”
“Was it?” She looked at him with interest now. And a little curiosity.
He nodded, a slow up and down bobbing of the head, his eyes fixed on hers.
“Yeah.”
~~~
When Asif walked to the front of the theater, directly in front of the screen, Zora felt the room shift. She had always thought of his presence as the kind that was mostly interesting to women, but as soon as he cleared his throat, there was silence.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice a low rumble
There were murmurs as people returned the greeting.
“My name is Asif Diallo. I’m a kid from Detroit, Michigan, home to the largest Muslim population in the United States …”
He went on to talk about how, because he was from Detroit and surrounded by so many people of his faith, he didn’t feel like an ‘other’. Not until September 11, 2001, when he was seven-years-old.
“That was when my world, just like that of most Americans, shifted on its axis,” Asif said. “Except for me, and for most Muslims, it was a little different. It was then, I think that the notion of dual-identity began to take on meaning.”
Zora leaned forward. The only sound she heard was the soft intake of breath next to her. Nicolas, giving a soft gasp, as though someone other than him was speaking his thoughts aloud.
Asif continued, delivering his lines with eloqu
ence that Zora was ashamed to find surprising and unexpected, about how the journey of making the documentary was also one of self-discovery and learning.
“… about the multiple identities that many of us take on—sometimes by choice, sometimes by imposition—just by being Muslim in America.”
He stopped speaking and there was a pause, then he went to cue up the film, and the room fell into darkness.
The first clip is of a girl laughing as she sheds a jacket, revealing her bare arms. She runs her hands over them and smiles at the camera.
‘You have to realize just how subversive this is,’ she says, but it is clear she is only half joking. ‘Bare arms, bare head. And you’re not my husband, nor my brother … nor …”
From behind the camera comes Asif’s voice.
‘If you’re uncomfortable …’
‘No,’ the girl says, her tone defiant. ‘No, I’m not.’
But it is clear from her eyes that she is, though she is struggling not to be.
Across the screen the words appear: Muslim Womanhood.
At that, Zora leaned back again, her shoulders tense.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
After the first girl, who told Asif her name was Maheen, there is Yasmin, whose interview Deuce and Zora sat in on.
Yasmin talks about what she calls a ‘slow amble’ away from her faith. She says she feels a sense of loss but doesn’t know how to make her way back. She reflects on when she believes the first departure happened—the day she removed her hijab.
As that interview ended, Zora held her breath, waiting, hoping against hope that Asif hadn’t …
When her face appears on camera, she is sitting on the sofa in her and Asif’s living room, gathering her large books into a neat pile.
The room looks different on camera. What Zora was used to thinking of as drab and unimaginative instead looks like a well lived-in space, cozy rather than crammed, busy rather than disorganized. It looks like the home of artistic intellectuals.
‘What’re you doin’, cuz?’ Asif’s voice asks.
‘Torturing myself,’ she responds, smiling up at him.
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