by Tahereh Mafi
I’m so happy for my friends. I love them, even when they piss me off. I care about them. I want their joy. But it still hurts a little when it feels like, everywhere I look, everyone seems to have someone.
Everyone but me.
It’s crazy how much I wish I didn’t care. I wish, so much, all the time, that I didn’t give a shit about this sort of thing—that I could be like Warner, a frozen, unforgiving island; or even like Adam, who’s found his happiness in family, in his relationship with his brother—but I’m like neither. Instead, I’m a big, raw, bleeding heart, and I spend my days pretending not to notice that I want more. That I need more.
Maybe it sounds weird to say, but I know I could love the shit out of someone. I feel it, in my heart. This capacity to love. To be romantic and passionate. Like it’s a superpower I have. A gift, even.
And I’ve got no one to share it with.
Everyone thinks I’m a joke.
I run my hands down my face, squeezing my eyes shut as I remember my interaction with Nazeera last night.
She came up to me, I try to remind myself.
I never approached her. I didn’t even try to talk to her again, not after that day on the beach when she made it clear she wasn’t even a little bit interested in me. Though it’s not like I would’ve had a chance to talk to her after that, anyway; everything got crazy after that. J got shot and everyone was reeling, and then all that shit with Warner and Juliette went down, and now here we are.
But last night I was just minding my own business, still trying to figure out what to do about the fact that our supreme commander was slowly marinating in half a pint of Anderson’s best whisky, when Nazeera came up to me. Out of the blue. It was right after dinner—hell, she wasn’t even present at dinner—and she just showed up, like an apparition, cornering me as I was leaving the dining room. Literally backed me into a corner and asked me if it was true, that I had the power of invisibility.
She looked so mad. I was so confused. I didn’t know how she knew and I didn’t know why she cared, but there she was, right in front of me, demanding an answer, and I didn’t see the harm in telling her the truth.
So I said yes, it was true. And she looked suddenly angrier.
“Why?” I said.
“Why what?” Her eyes flashed, big and wide and electric with feeling. She was wearing a leather hood, and the lights of a nearby chandelier glinted off the diamond piercing near her bottom lip. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted. Full. Soft.
I forced myself to look up. “What?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I thought— I’m sorry, what are we talking about?”
She turned away, but not before I saw the look of disbelief on her face. There might’ve been outrage, too. And then, lightning fast, she spun back around. “Are you just pretending to be dumb all the time? Or do you always talk like you’re drunk?”
I froze. Pain and confusion swirled in my head. Pain from the insult, and confusion from—
Yeah, I had no idea what was happening.
“What?” I said again. “I don’t talk like I’m drunk.”
“You’re looking at me like you’re drunk.”
Shit, she was pretty.
“I’m not drunk,” I said. Stupidly. And then I shook my head and remembered to be angry—she’d just insulted me, after all—and I said, “Anyway, you’re the one who came after me, remember? You started this conversation. And I don’t know why you’re so mad— Hell, I don’t even know why you care. It’s not my fault that I can be invisible. It just happened to me.”
And then she shoved her hood back from her face and her hair shook out, dark and silky and heavy, and she said something I didn’t hear because my brain was freaking out, like, should I tell her that I can see her hair? Does she know that I can see her hair? Did she mean for me to see her hair? Would she freak out, right now, if I told her that I could see her hair? But then, also, just in case I wasn’t supposed to be seeing her hair right now, I didn’t want to tell her that I could see her hair because I was afraid she’d cover it up again, and, if I was being honest, I was really enjoying the view.
She snapped her fingers in my face.
I blinked. “What?” And then, realizing I’d overused that word tonight, I added a “Hmm?”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I can see your hair,” I said, and pointed.
She took a deep, irritated breath. She seemed impatient. “I don’t always cover my hair, you know.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said dumbly. “I did not know that.”
“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. It’s illegal, remember?”
I frowned. “Then why have you been covering your hair? And why’d you give me such a hard time about it?”
She unhooked the hood from around her shoulders and crossed her arms. Her hair was long. Dark. Her eyes were deep. They were a light, honey color, bright against her brown skin. She was so beautiful it was scaring me.
“I know a lot of women who lost the right to dress like that under The Reestablishment. There was a huge Muslim population in Asia, did you know that?”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“I had to watch, quietly, as my own father sent down the decrees to have the women stripped. Soldiers paraded them into the streets and tore the clothing from their bodies. Ripped the scarves from their heads and publicly shamed them. It was violent and inhumane, and I was forced to bear witness. I was eleven years old,” she whispered. “I hated it. I hated my father for doing it. For making me watch. So I try to honor those women, when I can. For me, it’s a symbol of resistance.”
“Huh.”
Nazeera sighed. She looked frustrated, but then—she laughed. It wasn’t a funny laugh, it was more like a sound of disbelief, but I thought of it as progress. “I just told you something really important to me,” she said, “and all you can say is huh ?”
I thought about it. And then, carefully:
“No?”
And somehow, for some unknowable reason, she smiled. She rolled her eyes as she did it, but her face lit up and she looked suddenly younger—sweeter—and I couldn’t stop staring at her. I didn’t know what I’d done to earn that look on her face. I’d probably done nothing to earn it. She was probably laughing at me.
I didn’t care.
“I, uh, think that’s really cool,” I said, remembering to say something. To acknowledge the importance of what she’d shared with me.
“You think what’s cool?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You know.” I nodded in the direction of her head. “Your whole—thing. That story. You know.”
That’s when she laughed for real. Out loud. She bit her lip to cut the sound and she shook her head as she said, softly, “You’re not messing with me, are you? You’re just really bad at this.”
I blinked at her. I didn’t think I understood the question.
“You’re terrible at talking to me,” she said. “I make you nervous.”
I blanched. “I didn’t— I mean, I wouldn’t say that y—”
“I think maybe I’ve been a little hard on you,” she said, and sighed. She looked away. Bit her lip again. “I thought—that first night I met you—I thought you were trying to be an asshole. You know?” She met my eyes. “Like, I thought you were playing mind games with me. Being hot and cold on purpose. Insulting me one minute, asking me out the next.”
“What?” My eyes widened. “I’d never do that.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I’m realizing that. Most of the guys I’ve known have been manipulative, condescending jackasses—my brother included—so I guess I wasn’t expecting you to be so . . . honest.”
“Oh.” I frowned. I wasn’t sure if she meant that to be a compliment. “Thank you?”
She laughed again. “I think we should start over,” she said, and held out her hand as if to shake m
ine. “I’m Nazeera. It’s nice to meet you.”
Tentatively, I took her hand. Held my breath. Her skin was smooth, soft against my calloused palm. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Kenji.”
She smiled. It was a happy, genuine smile. I had a feeling that smile was going to kill me. In fact, I was pretty sure this whole situation was going to kill me.
“That’s a great name,” she said, dropping my hand. “You’re Japanese, right?”
I nodded.
“Do you speak?”
I shook my head.
“Yeah. It’s tough. Beautiful but tough. I studied Japanese for a few years,” she explained, “but it’s a difficult language to master. I still have only a rudimentary grasp on it. I actually lived in Japan—well, what used to be Japan—for a month. I did a pretty extensive tour of the re-mapped Asian continent, actually.”
And then I think she asked me another question, but I’d gone suddenly deaf. I’d lost my head. She was talking to me about the country my parents were born in—a place that really means something to me—and I couldn’t even concentrate. She touched her mouth a lot. Ran her finger along the edge of her bottom lip a lot. She had a habit of tapping, often, at the diamond piercing there, and I’m not sure she was even aware she was doing it. But it was almost like she was telling me—directing me—to look at her mouth. I couldn’t help it. I was thinking about kissing her. I was thinking about a lot of things. Pinning her to the wall. Undressing her slowly. Running my hands down her naked body.
And then, suddenly—
Taking a cold shower.
All at once, her smile faded. Her voice was soft, a little concerned when she said, “Hey, are you okay?”
Not okay.
She was too close. She was too close and my body was definitely overreacting to her and I didn’t know how to cool off. Shut down.
“Kenji?”
And then she touched my arm. She touched my arm and then seemed surprised she’d done it, just stared at her hand on my bicep and I forced myself to remain still, forced myself not to move a muscle as her fingertips grazed my skin and a wave of pleasure flooded my body so fast I felt suddenly drunk.
She dropped her hand and looked away. Looked back at me.
She looked confused.
“Shit,” I said softly. “I think I might be in love with you.”
And then, with a seismic jolt of terror, sense was knocked sideways into my head. I bolted upright in my own skin. I thought I might die. I thought I might actually die of embarrassment. I wanted to. I wanted to melt into the Earth. Evaporate. Disappear.
Jesus, I nearly did.
I couldn’t believe I’d said the words out loud. I couldn’t believe I’d been betrayed by my own goddamn mouth like that.
Nazeera stared at me, stunned and still processing, and somehow—through nothing short of a miracle—I managed to recover.
I laughed.
Laughed. And then I said, with perfect nonchalance, “I’m joking, obviously. I think I’m just exhausted. Anyway, good night.”
I managed to walk, not run, back to my room, and was able to hold on to what was left of my dignity. I hope.
Then again, who the hell knows.
I’m going to have to see her again, probably very soon, and I’m sure she’ll let me know if I should make plans to fly directly into the sun.
Shit.
I turn off the water and stand there, still sopping wet. And then, because I hate myself, I take a deep breath and turn on the cold water for ten, painful seconds.
It does the trick. Clears my head. Cools my heart.
I trip getting out of the shower.
I drag myself across the hall, forcing my legs to bend, but I’m still moving like I’m injured. I glance at the clock on the wall and swear under my breath. I’m late. Warner is going to kill me. I really need to spend an hour stretching—my muscles are still way too tight, even after a hot shower—but I have no time. And then, with a grimace, I realize that Warner was right. A couple extra hours to myself this morning would’ve done me a lot of good.
I sigh, heavily, and move toward my room.
I’m wearing my sweatpants, but I have only a towel draped around my neck because I’m in too much pain to pull a shirt over my head. I figure maybe I can steal one of Winston’s button-downs—something I can slip on and off more easily than one of my own sweaters—when I hear someone’s voice. I glance back, distracted, and in those two seconds I lose sight of where I’m going and slam into someone.
Someone.
Words fly out of my head. Just like that.
Gone.
I’m an idiot.
“You’re wet,” Nazeera says, wrinkling her nose as she jumps backward. “Why are you—”
And then I watch her, watch as she looks down. Looks up. Scans my body, slowly. I watch her look away and clear her throat, and suddenly she can’t meet my eyes.
Hope blooms in my chest. Unlocks my tongue.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” She nods. Crosses her arms. “Good morning.”
“You need something?”
“Me? No.”
I fight back a smile. It’s strange to see her flustered. “Then what are you doing here?”
She’s squinting at something behind me. “Do you—um, do you always walk around without a shirt on?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Up here? Yeah. Pretty much all the time.”
She nods again. “I’ll remember that.” When I say nothing, she finally meets my eyes. “I was looking for Castle,” she says quietly.
“His office is down that way”—I gesture with my head—“but he’s probably made his way downstairs by now.”
“Oh,” she says. “Thanks.”
She’s still looking at me. She’s still looking at me and it’s causing my chest to constrict. I take a step forward almost without realizing it. Wondering, just wondering. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t know if I managed to screw everything up last night. But for some reason, right now—
She’s staring at my mouth.
Her eyes move up, meet mine, and then she’s staring at my mouth again. I wonder if she knows she’s doing it. I wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing to me. My lungs feel too small. My heart feels both fast and absurdly heavy.
When Nazeera meets my eyes again she takes a sudden, sharp breath. We’re so close I can feel her exhalation against my bare chest and I’m overwhelmed by a disorienting need to kiss her. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her, and for a moment I actually think she might let me. Just the thought of it sends a thrill up my spine, a dizzying feeling that inspires my mind to jump too far, too fast. I can picture it with terrifying clarity—the fantasy of having her in my arms, her eyes dark and heavy with desire. I can imagine her under me, her fingers digging into my shoulder blades as she screams—
Jesus Christ.
I force myself to turn away. I almost slap myself in the face.
I’m not this guy. I’m not some fifteen-year-old boy who can’t keep his pants on. I’m not.
“I, uh, I have to get dressed,” I say, and even I can hear the unsteadiness in my voice. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
But then Nazeera’s hand is on my arm again, and my body stiffens, like I’m trying to contain something beyond myself. It’s wild. Desire like I’ve never known it before. I try to remind myself that that’s all this is, that it’s like what J said—I don’t even know this girl. I’m just going through something. I don’t know what, or why, but I’m just, like, clearly infatuated. I don’t even know her.
This isn’t real.
“Hey,” she says.
I hold still.
“Yeah?” I’m hardly breathing. I have to force myself to turn back an inch, meet her eyes.
“I wanted to tell you something. Last night. But I didn’t have the chance.”
“Oh.” I frown. “Okay.” There’s something in her voice that sounds almost like fear—and it clears my head i
n an instant. “Tell me.”
“Not here,” she says. “Not now.”
And I’m suddenly worried. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”
“Oh—no— I mean, yeah— I’m fine. It’s just—” She hesitates. Offers me a half smile and a shrug. “I just wanted to tell you something. It’s nothing important.” She looks away, bites her lip. She bites that bottom lip a lot, I notice. “Well, it’s important to me, I guess.”
“Nazeera,” I say, enjoying the sound of her name in my mouth.
She looks up.
“You’re freaking me out a little. Are you sure you can’t tell me right now?”
She nods. Shoots me a tight smile. “No need to freak out, I promise. It’s really not a big deal. Maybe we can talk later tonight?”
My heart constricts again. “Sure.”
She nods once more. We say goodbye.
But when I glance back, not a second after I’ve started walking away, she’s already gone.
Disappeared.
THREE
Warner is definitely pissed.
I’m super late, and Warner is waiting for me, perched carefully on a stiff chair in a conference room downstairs, staring at a wall.
I managed to snag a muffin on my way down, and I wipe quickly at my face, hoping I haven’t left evidence around my mouth. I don’t know how Warner feels about muffins, but I’m guessing he’s not a fan.
“Hey,” I say, and I sound out of breath. “What’d I miss?”
“This is my fault,” he says, waving a hand around the room. He doesn’t even look at me.
“I mean, I already know it’s your fault,” I say quickly, “but, like, just to be clear—what are we talking about?”
“This,” he says. Finally, he looks at me. “This situation.”
I wait.
“It’s my fault,” he says, pausing dramatically, “for thinking I could depend on you.”
I make an effort not to roll my eyes. “All right, all right, calm down. I’m here now.”
“You’re thirty minutes late.”
“Bro.”
Warner looks suddenly tired. “The children of the supreme commanders of Africa and South America are here. They’re waiting in the adjacent room.”