Until Amira.
Faisal takes a long draw of water, and his cheeks bulge like a chipmunk. He can’t stop smiling, the idiot. He always smiles like this whenever Amira comes up.
“I think . . . ,” he says slowly, “I think I’m going to ask her to marry me. Inshallah.”
“Holy shit. For real? For real?” I can feel my voice rising, but I can’t help it.
“Yeah.” And honest to God, he looks shy about it. He runs his hand through his hair and won’t look at me, and he’s got this goofy grin on his face I’ve never seen before.
“Shit, I—” I put my hand on his back, give him an awkward half hug. “I’m happy for you, big guy. Really. That’s so good to hear.”
Honestly, this is the greatest thing that could have happened to him. Ever since Faisal met Amira, he’s had a fire in him I haven’t seen in years. It wasn’t that love healed him, or any cliché shit like that—Faisal had already started getting better on his own by then, despite our parents’ constant quips. He’d even started seeing a therapist, which was good because M&D, in typical M&D fashion, were adamant that we never talk about what happened, ever, to anyone. They made us swear on our graves.
When Amira showed up, it was like after a thousand nights of fitful sleep, Faisal remembered how to dream again. Looked forward to dreaming again. He slept better, in every sense of the word—and when I first saw him without the giant purple bags beneath his eyes that I’d gotten used to, I almost didn’t recognize him.
I can’t imagine loving anyone so much. It’s almost terrifying how much it’s changed things for him.
Faisal lets out a breath. “So you’re cool with it? One hundred percent?”
“You deserve the best.” And I mean it. Faisal is honestly the best person I know. “Always have.”
He grins again. “And she is the best. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
“Man, my sister-in-law. She’s going to be my sister-in-law.”
“Inshallah. There’s a lot of stuff we need to figure out—and I really want you to meet her—but . . . yeah. Yeah. Hopefully.”
My mind’s a whirlpool, but all I know is, I’m happy. Genuinely happy for him.
And relieved.
Like maybe, just maybe, things are finally looking up for him. If he’s found a partner, someone he wants to start over with, that would give Faisal his own life back, in a way I never could. And maybe I could finally let go of a little guilt.
Especially since it’s my fault he didn’t get into law school.
It’s quiet for a moment, until an alarm goes off on Faisal’s phone.
“Prayer time,” he mutters.
I stiffen, suddenly feeling awkward. Faisal’s been a damn good Muslim for the past couple of years. A damn good everything, really. Whereas I . . .
“You wanna pray together?” he asks hesitantly. “We should hang out, after. Would love to celebrate with you. Play something, for old times’ sake?” He nods over at a TV in the corner, where our old PlayStation sits, collecting dust.
I hate that he almost sounds hopeful. Like he’s the one rehabilitating me now. Stepping on eggshells around me.
“I would, but . . .” I run my hand down the back of my stiff neck. “I gotta get back to campus, you know? Early class in the morning.”
“Oh.” Faisal’s face dims, so briefly that I know he’s trying his best not to show his disappointment. “Of course, yeah, sure.”
I clench my fists. I’m sure he knows I’m lying—that I can’t stand it here, can’t stand seeing him stuck here in the basement like a shameful secret. Sometimes, I wish Faisal would actually say what he’s thinking. But he’s never once expressed disappointment, never once not forgiven me. I don’t deserve kindness from him.
Sometimes, I wish he knew I didn’t deserve anything.
I reach for the doorknob, but suddenly Faisal stands, stares at something on his desk like he’s thinking hard about something.
“Hey, Deen?” he says finally, hesitating. He looks at me.
I swallow. “Yeah?”
“I know . . . things have been hard. For you. Because of me.”
I grip the doorknob tight.
“But I want you to know that I’m okay now. I’m good. For the first time in a very long time, I feel really good. So . . .”
“I know,” I reply. “You’re going to be amazing. We share the same genes, after all.”
Faisal laughs a bit.
And then there’s silence again. My feet feel like lead, and there’s a weight on my tongue, words I want to say. But I’m not even sure what they are.
I drum my knuckles on the doorway.
“Speaking of same genes, Amira has a sister.” Faisal looks at me meaningfully. “I haven’t met her yet, but I hear she’s pretty great.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Her name’s Kiran, I think. She’ll probably be there when you meet Amira.”
Kiran.
Kiran.
“Kiran Noorani?” The name spills from my mouth.
Faisal’s thick eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, exactly.”
I put my hand on my stomach like I’m going to explode. I lean over, try to hold it in. But I can’t.
Of all the people in the world. God must be punishing me.
“Deen?”
That’s all it takes for me to come apart. I laugh so hard my entire body quakes and I have a coughing fit and Faisal’s rubbing my back and asking what’s wrong, which only makes me laugh harder.
But Kiran always could make me laugh harder than anyone.
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[CAMBRIA: THE EVOLUTION EXPANSION PACK]
[ROANA GUILD CHAT ROOM]
* * *
Kasia Coribund: Do you ever get the sense that the world is conspiring against you?
Kasia Coribund: Like no matter what you do or how good you try to be
Kasia Coribund: Bad things are going to happen?
Kasia Coribund: Not really sure where I’m going with this, but lately, I’ve been feeling kind of helpless
Kasia Coribund: And it doesn’t help that every time I see something in the news, I get an ulcer
Devynius Foxx: Hooo boy
Devynius Foxx: Let me tell you
Devynius Foxx: I feel that every goddamn day.
Devynius Foxx: And I love it when people are like “just stay positive!”
Devynius Foxx: “good thoughts attract good things!”
Devynius Foxx: Okay NANCY, the problem is, things WERE good and now they’re not—for no damn reason.
Kasia Coribund: Exactly.
Kasia Coribund: And it’s not like I can do much about it
Kasia Coribund: I’m still just . . . a kid, you know?
Devynius Foxx: Err . . .
Devynius Foxx: How young we talkin?
Devynius Foxx: Asking for a friend
Kasia Coribund: Old enough, you ass
Devynius Foxx: In all seriousness though,
Devynius Foxx: I wish there was something I could say.
Devynius Foxx: I don’t have any answers since I’m basically in the same boat, but that’s just it:
Devynius Foxx: We’re in the same boat.
Devynius Foxx: And at the end of the day, that kind of makes me feel better.
Devynius Foxx: /shrug
Kasia Coribund: Heh.
Kasia Coribund: Honestly
Kasia Coribund: That kind of makes me feel better, too.
* * *
Chapter 3
Kiran
Friday, June 4
PLEASE TELL ME WHY I shouldn’t be freaking out rn, I text Asher for what must be the hundredth time tonight, and it’s not yet midnight. I just got home; the rain followed me from New York to Philly, and now crystalline rivulets dance across our windowpanes. From somewhere in the house, a clock ticks like an erratic heartbeat.
Dad’s asleep across the hall, so I tread carefully until I’m safe in my bedroom. Thanks to Morning Kiran, it’s a mess. My c
omputer’s still on from when I played Cambria for half the night, and I nearly trip over the dance bag that’s puking the sweaty dance clothes all over my floor. I’ve been taking dance classes since I was twelve. It’s why the only art I’ve got on my wall is this print of a Fabio Fabbi painting, a 100 percent offensive, Orientalist piece of work of an inappropriately pale woman dancing in a harem—a spontaneous gift from Dad, actually. Note to self: get Dad a copy of Orientalism by Edward Said for his birthday. But it’s totally ironic and somehow makes me feel powerful.
Mom was a dancer, too. I almost quit after the funeral; it was Asher who convinced me to keep going. You actually have a way to honor her memory, he said. You’d be stupid to stop it.
I shove my clothes into the hamper and try not to obsessively check my phone for Asher’s reply.
Asher was our next-door neighbor growing up, and even though he’s nearly four years older than me, we’d hang out a lot after school, mostly to play video games or hang by the waterfront and stuff our faces with homemade ensaymadas from his mom. He’s always been a big brother to me, which is why when he moved to New York for college, two years after Amira, we had our first ever fight. It felt like a blow that he’d do the exact thing that would hurt me most.
I think secretly Mom hoped one of us would end up with him. That’s not to say I haven’t thought about us being something . . . more. It’s just that whenever I do, my stomach threatens to jump ship and flee. And I have reason to believe Asher feels the very same way. Exhibit A: I’m 99 percent sure he used to have a crush on Amira.
Because Amira is allowed to have a life? Asher responds, finally. Anyway, are you even sure this is the same Faisal Malik?
I call him.
“Listen, smart-ass,” I say as soon as he picks up, “she’s had her own life for the past three years. And yes, I’m sure—how many Faisal Maliks do you think there are?”
There’s a rustling on the other line, like Asher has his phone on a pillow. “The nerve of her.” His voice is slightly muffled. “Please tell me everything, now that it’s one a.m. and I have an eight a.m. lecture tomorrow. Can’t you talk to your online boyfriend about this?”
“Foxx is not my boyfriend. And if I could, I would. We don’t talk about real-world stuff.” At first, it was a guild rule; the two leaders of our guild, Nilina and Solen (who I’m pretty sure are a married couple in real life), claimed that talking about reality ruined the immersion of the game. Cambria is a role-playing game, after all, and it feels wrong talking about magic and taming wyverns and then how your instant mac and cheese exploded in the microwave and now you have to go clean it up before your dad comes back. Not based on a true story.
But Foxx and I found that we preferred not getting bogged down in real-world details anyway. It makes Cambria feel like our own special place, a parallel universe where we can be ourselves. Learning about who we are in real life could ruin the magic.
“How convenient,” says Asher.
I pace angrily around my bed. “I don’t understand how this could have happened. Of all the people in the entire world she could have fallen in love with. This is injustice. This is a conspiracy.”
“Yes. A conspiracy.”
“That’s what I said. Ugh, she should have told me about Faisal sooner. Then all of this could have been avoided.”
“Not to sound like a smart-ass again, but you didn’t exactly tell Amira about Deen, either.”
“See, that doesn’t make you sound like a smart-ass. That makes you sound like an ass,” I retort. “Deen and I were a secret. We made a pact.”
Asher sighs. “You and your pacts.”
Deen and I started dating, if you can even call it that, when my mom first started getting sick. I kept it a secret back then because I didn’t want to add to the stress my family was going through.
“God, what if they actually get married? That would make Deen my brother-in-law. Do you realize how messed up that is? My ex. Would be. My brother-in-law.”
Asher yawns. “Okay, so now that we’ve established that this is technically your fault—”
“Not my fault.”
“Should we be worried about this Faisal guy?”
“I’m not really sure.” I feel my chest tighten. I never told anyone about Deen—except Asher—because talking about it feels too much like acknowledging that it was a real thing that happened. I prefer to think of it as a particularly lucid nightmare, like the kind you get after scarfing down an entire box of frosted animal crackers and reading Archive of Our Own until you pass out on the couch. Not based on a true story.
I exhale. “I’ve never actually met Faisal. But I’ve heard about him. Through Deen, a little. And youth group.”
“Really? Youth group?”
“Yeah, I know. It’s lame. Anyway, Faisal was a lot older than us, so he was never there. Actually—wait, now I remember. Faisal Malik was never there, for anything. Not just youth group but any of the masjid events or dinner parties. It was like he didn’t exist. Everyone thought the Maliks only had one son until that aunty who must have known them from somewhere else blabbed about Faisal. So naturally, there were rumors, a lot of rumors—that their mysterious eldest son was cut off from the family; that he’d gotten in with a bad crowd. Even Deen wouldn’t talk about him. That’s weird, right? Tell me that’s weird.”
Asher is quiet for a beat. “Do you think Amira knows about the rumors?”
“Not sure.” Amira was in college at the time, so she wasn’t going to our masjid often, and it’s not like I had reason to mention the rumors before. Do I tell her? God, how would that conversation even go, anyway? I don’t think she’d care, though—she’s better than me in that way. Totally innocent until proven guilty! she’d say.
“Well, if this were, say, three years ago, I’d say it’s pretty freaking weird. But he is here, now, and obviously not in a bad crowd if Amira’s in love with him, right?”
“She’s never been in love before, so how would she know? You know how she is. Freaking Disney princess in a pantsuit.”
“Have you been in love before?”
I hate that Deen runs through my mind. Deen and his easy, dimpled smile, glowing beneath a ginkgo tree. Deen and his late-night texts and promises of more to come.
Deen. The more I think about seeing him again, the more attractive throwing myself out the window seems.
“I thought I was. Once.” When I was fifteen and ridiculous. “Let’s just say I know what happens when you fall too fast.”
I can practically feel Asher rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. “I think Amira probably knows what she’s doing.” His voice lowers. “I think you have trust issues, Kiran.”
“Fine, maybe, but so does Amira—she’s too trusting! Changing her entire life plans for this guy she’s known for a couple months—it’s naive.”
“I’m not saying I don’t agree they’re moving unnecessarily fast. But wanting to see the best in people doesn’t make her naive. Or stupid.” The line crackles, like the phone is pressing against his bedsheets. “Good news is, you know Amira isn’t going to marry him if you’re against it. Just tell her the truth.”
I lie down on my bed. I’m suddenly starting to feel tired.
“I can’t tell her I’m against it,” I say softly. “I can’t be that person who stops my sister from marrying someone just because of something that happened to me three years ago. Even if there are shady rumors. Even if Faisal’s younger brother is the devil.”
“Jesus. How bad was he?”
“Bad, Ash. Would I be freaking out like this if it wasn’t bad?”
“Well . . .”
“ASHER.”
Asher laughs softly, and I sink deeper into the blue plush of my comforter. The patter of rain on the windowpanes feels soothing now, like fingers on my scalp. Even though talking about Deen hurts, it’s almost a good hurt, like the easing and unraveling of a tight knot. I wanted to tell Amira about Deen years ago. There were so many things I
wanted to ask her. She’s never dated anyone till now—she was always so focused on school that I don’t think she even had the time—but she always knew the right words to say.
Before I could tell Amira, though, Mom started to get sicker.
I clench the comforter beneath me. “All you need to know,” I say, “is that three years ago, Deen just appeared, like a freaking magical fairy prince. I liked him a lot. And I think he liked me, too. He was the only person I could really open up to then.”
I grit my teeth. The memories are still fresh, too fresh. “But one day, he became an absolute monster. A pig. A, a total—”
“Dick?” Asher offers.
“Yes! A total and complete dick! For no reason. And then to top it off, a couple weeks after going full jerk mode, he and his family moved away. He didn’t even say goodbye. Never heard from him again, even after Mom died. And that, my friend, is the story of my first love.”
“Woof.”
I roll over on my bed. “Amira wants me to meet Faisal next weekend. But what if Deen’s there, too? What am I supposed to say to him?”
“Kiran, it was three years ago. Obviously a lot has changed since then. You’re older, wiser. You can be mature about this. It’s for your sister. Let her be happy.”
Let her be happy.
That’s all well and good, I think, but what if she doesn’t know what makes her happy? What if this is all just a dangerous coping mechanism for Mom’s death? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Amira really . . . get angry. Or upset. She bottles things up and tosses her feelings out to sea. I think I’ve seen her cry once, when Mom died, and the only reason I know that is because I found her hiding in Mom’s closet the morning we had to bury her. Alone. I wonder if that’s why Mom told me to make sure we always stuck together.
On one of Mom’s final nights in the hospital—I’d offered to take the night shift to let Amira and Dad get some sleep—I gave her a legal pad and pen so she could write. Mom’s disease had made it hard for her to talk, but she had enough strength in her arm to write, at least.
It All Comes Back to You Page 3