My throat aches too much to say anything.
“I know this all sounds like it’s moving absurdly fast, but honestly, Kiran, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. And trust me, I’ve thought about it a lot. He was there for me. When Mom died. The work we did gave me something to hold on to. He gave me something to hold on to. . . . Kiran?”
I’m squeezing the edge of my chair, digging my fingernails into the wood. The sound is gone: the jazz music, the clattering, the hiss of the espresso machine. Everything is just a dull ache in my ears as the room spins around me.
California? What about job searching in Philly? What about our new apartment, the Crock-Pot, the late nights, the macarons? What about visiting Mom’s grave together and crying together to make up for the grieving I couldn’t do because I was waiting for her? What about Dad, and living together as a family again, like Mom wanted—does that mean nothing to her?
What about me?
Touché, New York. You’ve bested me yet again, and now your buddy California’s come to beat me with a flip-flop while I’m down.
I look past Amira, trying to focus on anything but her sitting across from me, looking at me rosy-cheeked and in love and worst of all, conflicted, waiting for me to end her life with a word. My eyes settle on a single light bulb on the iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and I stare until it burns.
“I’m happy for you,” I eventually say, my voice grating through my throat. “I really am.”
Amira lets out something that sounds like a sob. “Really? Because I’d love for you two to meet. I want you two to meet. I know you’ll love him, too. Nothing is final unless you approve. I swear. And if I move to Cali—if I do—I’ll visit you all the time, I promise.”
She’s talking a mile a minute—about us all meeting next weekend, about not telling Dad yet, I think. I’m numb.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” I ask finally, shoving the folder back in my backpack. The papers crumple at the bottom.
“Faisal,” she replies. “Faisal Malik.”
For a moment, time stills.
“He has a little brother, too,” Amira continues. “About your age, actually.” A slow, conspiratorial grin breaks across her face. “His name’s Deen.”
I short-circuit. Shatter. And inwardly, I scream, and the whole world screams with me.
Because I know exactly who Deen Malik is.
Of course I know who he is.
As much as I want to—and trust me, I really do—I could never forget the name of my one and only ex.
Three Years Ago
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: hey
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: are you going to the Eid dinner on Sunday?
KIRAN: ?? Who’s this?
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: oh sorry
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: it’s Deen Malik
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: from Sunday school?
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: I got your number from the six flags field trip a month ago
KIRAN: oh yeah lol
KIRAN: best Sunday school field trip e v e r
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: unless you’re me
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: and you get lost in the arcade for like an hour
KIRAN: lolllll
KIRAN: “lost”
KIRAN: we all know that was your excuse to ditch us and play Mario Kart
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: what can I say, I know how to live
KIRAN: an inspiration to us all
KIRAN: anyway yeah, I’m going
KIRAN: to the Eid dinner, I mean
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: cool
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: just wanted to know if there’d be anyone I knew there
KIRAN: are none of the other guys coming?
KIRAN: Imran? Hassan?
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: Imran’s visiting fam in Bangladesh
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: and Hassan’s celebrating Eid in Virginia
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: I’m still kinda new here too, so
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: don’t really know a lot of people
KIRAN: ah
KIRAN: makes sense
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: yeah
KIRAN: well fear not
KIRAN: I’ll take you under my wing
KIRAN: unfortunately for us, the masjid is woefully unequipped for video games
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: shocking
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: and slightly blasphemous?
KIRAN: lollll
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: but yeah, cool
[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: I’ll see you there, then
KIRAN: yeah
KIRAN: See you there.
Chapter 2
Deen
Friday, June 4
“DEEN, WHY DID YOU DECIDE to take summer classes?”
Professor Pryce stares at me from behind his desk. It’s just the two of us in the classroom, Intro to Poli-Sci having ended five minutes ago. He’s leaning back with his hands behind his neck, the posture of choice for all professors who seek to give off an air of casualness and calm—the whole I’m not like other teachers because I’m like a friend shtick. Except today, he’s wearing a serious expression behind his perfectly round wire-framed spectacles.
“Deen?”
The only people I’ve seen pull off those kinds of glasses are Korean pop stars. Does Professor Pryce think he’s more attractive than a Korean pop star? The nerve. He does have a nice jaw, admittedly. He’s pretty young for a professor, too, but he’s already got the beginnings of salt-and-pepper hair at his temples, which I’m pretty sure is one of those weird things that everyone agrees is a sign of Hotness. Like dimples or rolled-up sleeves.
Whatever. I fold up my sleeves to expose my brown, sinewy forearms. I’m not feeling insecure or anything. It’s just warm in here.
“Deen?”
I sigh. “Professor—hey, can I call you Jeff?”
“No.”
“Wait, didn’t you say on the first day of class that we could call you Jeff?”
Professor Pryce’s face remains stony.
“Got it.” I clear my throat. “Not sure how it matters, but I’m taking summer classes because I wanted to get ahead. Get a head start on sophomore year. This is NYU, man—I mean, sir. So like any student who has thrown an exorbitant amount of cash into securing the privilege of entering our nation’s wonderful capitalistic system of higher education, I wanted to take advantage of the incredible and diverse course load that’s offered here.”
I flash a smile. It’s not entirely a lie as much as it is a conveniently flexible stretch of the truth. Taking summer classes was the easiest way for me to avoid being at home this summer. Living on campus, I told my parents, would ensure I’d stay focused on school. I could concentrate better here. And my parents bought it hook, line, and sinker. But who am I kidding? At the end of the day, they don’t give a damn what I do, as long as I don’t “totally screw up like Faisal.”
If only they knew.
“Uh-huh. Right.” Professor Pryce folds his arms—arms that are definitely not beefier than mine—across his chest. “Well, it’s my experience that students who claim they want to get ahead usually come to class on time.”
“But consider this: I was in the library, studying before class, and lost track of time.”
I had actually been in the rec room at Brittany Hall, playing wingman for Vinny, with his crush, Amy, and some hot junior bio major named Rachel, or Raquel, who was kicking my ass in pool. But damn. The way she was bending over the pool table, I’d let her kick my ass any day. And before that, I pulled an all-nighter on this MMO game called Cambria, which I’ve gotten pretty hooked on. But I keep that on the down low.
“I’m finding that a little tough to believe. I just don’t get it, Deen. You know, I spoke with Professor Foster earlier. I think you might remember her from your writing seminar last semester? We got to talking, and funnily enough, you came up.”
Uh-oh.
“She said you were a model student in her class. Thoughtful, mature, on time. I had to ask her if we were talking about the
same Deen Malik.”
Damn.
“That Deen Malik, if he were ever late, would slip quietly into his seat and actually pay attention to the lecture.”
“That’s what I did.”
“You barged in through the doors, addressed me with ‘’sup,’ and sat down in the center of the front row, knocking over another student’s stack of books in the process. You then proceeded to take a nap, as if I couldn’t see you right there. Deen, I don’t know what to say at this point.”
I sigh again.
College was supposed to be the place I’d finally be treated as an adult, in the sense that people would leave me the hell alone. Guess even here, though, I’m not fully free. “Just spitballing here,” I say, “but you could always say nothing?”
Professor Pryce pinches the bridge of his nose. His perfectly round glasses now sit crookedly on his face. “Please take this seriously. I know you like to think of yourself as a funny guy, but I also know you’re intelligent. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. Professor Foster showed me some of the papers you wrote. You’re clearly better than this. If you just applied yourself, you could actually go places. So what I want to know is: What’s the issue here? What’s going on?”
Fuck if I know, bud.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans. There’s a long, awkward silence between us, a game of silent chicken. Finally, Professor Pryce lets out an exasperated breath. “Just answer it.”
“That timing, huh?” I say, yanking out my phone.
I’m half hoping it’s my friend Kasia, from Cambria—when we’re not playing the game together, we talk on our guild’s chat room on Discord.
But it’s Vinny, shooting me an obnoxious amount of texts.
Yoooo D-MONEY get back here!
Raquel keeps asking for you. She’s into you, fool!!!!
A REAL chick, not some online one you play with on that lame ass game
I can hear his thick Long Island accent, and stifle a laugh. Vinny means well, even if he’s not-too-subtly shit-talking about Kasia.
“Sorry about that.” I clear my throat and shove the phone back in my pocket. “You were saying?”
Professor Pryce grimaces. “Look, I just need you to understand that coming to class late, especially in this fashion, is a distraction to the other students. I’ve overlooked your tardiness several times this summer already. You know what they say about three strikes?”
“I don’t watch basketball much, Profes—” My phone vibrates again. There’s a vein popping out of Professor Pryce’s left temple.
“Wow, thought I turned that off.” I sheepishly pull out my phone once more. But when I see the name on the screen, I can feel the smile slip off my face.
Faisal.
My older brother.
I open the text, trying to ignore the painful gnawing in my stomach.
Professor Pryce must see the expression change on my face, because his knife-point glare softens. “Is everything all right?”
I don’t answer.
Hey
You free soon?
I need to talk to you
The pit in my stomach has grown to a critical mass.
I hate when people say things like that. Nothing good ever comes from someone saying, “I need to talk to you.” It’s even worse when it’s through text. I do not enjoy being at the mercy of my own impatience. Even the most innocent things sound ominous. Vinny’s the worst at it—I think it has something to do with the fact that he’s a music major, which means his understanding of actual language is nonexistent. Sometimes he’ll text something like, Deen. Emergency. Then make me wait five minutes, writhing with a hundred violent imaginings of the worst possible scenarios, before saying, Never mind. Got the last slice of pizza at the dining hall. Almost didn’t make it. Or False alarm. Girl gave me her number but it was just to get my notes! Life amirite, lmao. If I ever commit homicide, it will be because of him.
When Faisal, my brother, texts, it actually means something. He doesn’t text very often, maybe once every couple of weeks. And I think even he knows something’s a little . . . broken between us. So every message, every hesitant attempt to reach out, in a way, is a question for me: Do I reach back?
This time, the answer is yes. Faisal isn’t the kind of person to say we need to talk out of the blue like that, unless . . .
What’s up? I type back. My thumbs hover over the screen, and I can’t tell if they’re trembling or if I’m just dizzy from the heat and/or Professor Pryce’s glower.
Three little gray dots pulse on my screen, and I wait for what feels like forever.
Then:
Would just be better to talk in person.
It’s nothing bad, promise :)
But I don’t believe him. Not for a second.
Meet you at M&D’s tonight? I type back. M&D is short for Mom and Dad’s. We’ve never called it home. It’s never really felt like home. We weren’t even allowed to decorate our own rooms growing up, which explains why mine looks straight out of an Italian summer villa in Architectural Digest instead of a nineteen-year-old guy’s bedroom. To say my parents are controlling is putting it lightly.
Yes :), he responds. I don’t put my phone away, instead clutching it tightly in my sweaty palm.
Professor Pryce is still looking at me. I clear my throat. “I have to run. Family emergency, if you can believe it. Rain check on the, uh, pep talk?”
“This isn’t a pep—” Professor Pryce stops himself. His mouth hardens in a thin line, a look of defeat. “Fine. We’ll finish this conversation next week after class. Where you will show up on time and do the reading and come prepared with the intelligent observations you keep buried within that head.”
“Sounds like a plan!” I say, already halfway out the door.
I practically sprint to the train station.
A few hours later, I’m in Short Hills, New Jersey, and the lights are off at M&D’s. It’s six, and while most families are probably happily preparing dinner together, my parents are still at work at the nearby Rotterdam Hospital. Can’t even remember the last time the four of us were in one room together. It’s better that way.
The house is imposingly big, to the point of being threateningly tall and intimidatingly girthy. It’s a gray stone Tudor—I know this because Mom wouldn’t shut up about it when we first moved in—with blue-and-white timber frames and arched windows. It’s cradled by a family of enormous oak trees that Faisal and I had to tearfully beg our parents not to chop down. We thought they’d be perfect for the epic tree house of our dreams. But in the end, Mom and Dad got the biggest tree removed, claiming it had grown too close to the house.
I clumsily jangle my key through the front door, tense with dread, and find a light peeking from the basement. That’s where I go.
Faisal’s been living in our parents’ basement since he got back from college, but it’s a walk-out, so he has some privacy, and he has a really sick office setup down there. Still, though. I hate that he still lives here. I hate that he has no choice. I don’t know how he can stand being under the same roof as our parents.
I knock on the door to the office.
“Come on in,” I hear him say.
As soon as I open the door, I’m greeted by a bear hug so huge that I’m lifted off the ground a couple of inches.
“Deen,” my brother says, as if it’s the most wonderful word in the world. “Deen, Deen, Deen.”
“Hi, Faisal, you’re cracking my rib cage,” I choke out, and he finally lets me go.
“Sorry, sorry.” Faisal grins as I fix my hair, showing off his several-thousand-dollar smile. The kid had godawful teeth when we were little, and it was a favor to us all when he got braces. He’s also now sporting the beginnings of a beard, and though he was once the scrawniest excuse for a noodle growing up, not getting into law school had the unexpected side effect of doing wonders for his physique—these days, he’s built like a tank.
He takes a seat at hi
s desk by the window and spins to face me. Books and legal textbooks cover every spare inch of the desk’s surface, creating a mountain range of paper around his open laptop where he has a website open: AFFEY: A Future for Exonerated Youth. It’s Faisal’s nonprofit, or at least, he hopes it will be. It’s been his dream for the past two years. A dream quietly growing under our parents’ oblivious feet.
I remain standing. “So? What was the emergency?”
“No emergency!” he replies. “Just . . .”
“What?” I try to keep my voice level, but I’m nervous.
Faisal leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You remember Amira, right?” he asks.
“Hell yeah.”
I don’t know much about her, but Amira is Faisal’s business partner, of sorts. Or maybe consultant would be the better word. But she’s also way, way more than that.
A couple of years ago, when every law school on Faisal’s list rejected him, he became a shell of who he once was. It sounds overdramatic and it’s definitely ridiculous, but for the desi families who can afford it, not going to grad school is an automatic minus fifty points on the report card of Life. And Faisal felt it; every ambition he’d ever had died that day. I remember when he got that final rejection letter and sat at the breakfast table, trying to eat a bowl of cornflakes, his movements mechanical, his eyes painfully focused on the wall in front of him. As if he was tensing his eyeballs to force the tears back.
It broke him.
We all feared this would happen. Law schools, ironically, aren’t eager to accept students with hands-on experience of the criminal justice system, even though our parents paid plenty, despite Faisal’s protests, for their lawyers to get his Class A-1 felony lowered to a misdemeanor.
That didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that he was now forever doomed to be on our parents’ shit list. For Faisal, getting that last rejection meant nothing mattered anymore.
It All Comes Back to You Page 2