“Faisal?”
There’s a muffling sound, then a groan. “I blew it.”
“What? What do you mean, you blew it?”
“You saw what happened. I freaked out. I don’t know why, but it just hit me that all of this is real and that it could happen—that me and Amira—that we are happening. And I freaked out because—because what if I mess this up? What if I do something stupid? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still figuring things out, I barely know how to take care of myself, and—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Faisal. Hey. Deep breaths.” A couple of girls walk by me from the Pilates studio, staring, so I shoot them a forced Hey, I’m cool, everything’s fine! smile.
“And then you had to lie for me—”
“Hey, I was only using the excuse Mom’s been using on relatives who ask about you.”
“I wish that made me feel better. Also didn’t help that Amira’s little sister was looking at me like she thought I was a fraud. And, like, I know that. I know I’m not good enough for Amira. I’m trying, I really am, but it feels like I’m starting a hundred feet behind because I fucked up.” He takes a long, shaky breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just— I’m really bummed.”
I sit down on a bench, and I can’t tell if summer allergies are fucking with me or if my eyes are prickling from something else. I haven’t heard Faisal like this in months. I know better than anyone how hard he tries, so to hear him crack, to hear all the raw stuff pouring out that he keeps locked inside—it hurts.
But what hurts the most is how he’s still convinced it’s all his fault.
“You . . . you have a lot of experience with women, right?” he asks, a little calmer now. “No judgment or anything—that’s between you and God, but . . .”
I chuckle softly. “You calling me a ho?”
“No! God, no.” I hear him mutter something like Astaghfirullah—“I seek forgiveness from God.” “It’s, ugh, how do I explain? Do you think . . . do you think it’s fine not to tell your partner everything about yourself? From the get-go? Like what you’ve done? Or who you were before?”
“What do you mean? Why would you need to?” My voice rises.
“During dinner when Haris almost . . . when he almost mentioned what happened back then and you had to cover for me . . . I lost my cool. Got mad at him for almost blowing it. But what right do I even have to be mad? He called me a coward. And he’s right. I am a coward. I can’t stop wondering . . . would Amira still love me if she knew everything? I haven’t told her about the stuff I did; I fell for her so fast and then things just happened and for the first time in my life I felt like I could breathe. But now we’re actually here and I don’t think I can keep pretending that I’m not terrified of what she’ll think when she knows. It’s not just about Mom threatening to not pay for me to move to California anymore if people find out, or even losing funding for AFFEY. I’m terrified of what might happen if . . . if I lose her.”
Images of him at his lowest rush me so fast I lose my breath: Faisal stumbling home with red-rimmed eyes. Faisal throwing up in the bathroom all night, orange pills strewn across white tiles, begging me not to tell Mom and Dad. Me, fumbling with his phone, trying to call Leah because she was the only one who’d know what to do.
I refuse to see him like that again. Not after everything he’s done for me.
“I know it’s not fair to put that kind of pressure on anyone,” he continues. “But I think that’s why I messed up so bad yesterday. I’m scared.”
I squeeze the phone so hard it presses against my bones. I swallow. “Jesus. Faisal, I’m so sorry.”
“I just don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything. Okay?” I say fiercely. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Faisal lets out a soft, wet laugh. “The only thing I want is to marry her.”
I close my eyes. I want to remember this moment. Because it’s the first time I’ve ever heard my brother say he wanted anything. And now I think I’ve found a way to repay my debt to him. A promise I can actually keep. Between carrying all this shame and having to deal with M&D’s obsession with appearances, he’s had enough to worry about for years. I don’t want him thinking about anything else but keeping this person-sized happiness he’s found for himself. It’s the damned least I could do.
Kiran, with her suspicious, probing gaze, manifests in my head again like a ghost with a vendetta. But I stamp it out.
“If you want to marry her, then you’re going to marry her,” I declare. “And I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens. Deal?”
“Yeah.” Faisal laughs softly again, a real one this time. He takes a breath. “Deal.”
Three Years Ago
DEEN: Hey
DEEN: You okay?
KIRAN: ?
DEEN: I dunno, you seemed
DEEN: off somehow?
DEEN: Like something’s wrong
KIRAN: Oh
KIRAN: Just tired
DEEN: Not getting enough sleep?
DEEN: Err, is it my fault?
KIRAN: no no
KIRAN: I like talking to you at night actually
KIRAN: it’s fun
KIRAN: but
KIRAN: It’s my mom
KIRAN: She hasn’t been feeling well lately . . .
KIRAN: Don’t tell anyone, okay?
KIRAN: Gossip spreads like wildfire
KIRAN: And I don’t want people acting weird around us
DEEN: oh
DEEN: shit
DEEN: I’m sorry
DEEN: is she sick?
DEEN: You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to
KIRAN: I . . .
KIRAN: kind of. Yeah.
KIRAN: It’s hard to say for sure
KIRAN: What she has doesn’t really have a clear diagnosis
KIRAN: It’s one of those weird wait and see kind of things
KIRAN: But
KIRAN: they suspect it might be ALS
KIRAN: since she’s having trouble walking and swallowing . . .
KIRAN: I’m terrified.
DEEN: holy shit
KIRAN: we haven’t even told my sister about it yet
KIRAN: I think my parents are afraid it’s gonna be a distraction from her studies
KIRAN: so . . . I don’t even have anyone to talk to about it, you know?
DEEN: wow
DEEN: Kiran
DEEN: I don’t even know what to say
DEEN: how are you even going to Sunday school?
DEEN: that’s . . . a lot
DEEN: I’m really sorry you’re going through this
KIRAN: Me too.
DEEN: Hey, so . . .
DEEN: you know the forest in the back of the masjid?
KIRAN: yeah? Kinda hard to miss it
DEEN: . . . true
DEEN: but I went deep in there the other week
DEEN: I mean deeeep
DEEN: and I found something I think you’re gonna like
DEEN: Meet me there next week? During break?
DEEN: I wanna show you.
KIRAN: what is it?
KIRAN: you gonna murder me?
KIRAN: get rid of your Super Smash competition?
DEEN: ha
DEEN: don’t need to resort to murder to do that
KIRAN: shut up
KIRAN: . . . but okay
KIRAN: yeah
KIRAN: I’ll meet you there.
DEEN: sweet
DEEN: thanks
DEEN: look forward to it
DEEN: and
DEEN: look I know I’m not your sister or anything
DEEN: but
DEEN: if you need anyone to talk to
DEEN: I’m here
KIRAN: yeah
KIRAN: I . . .
KIRAN: thanks, Deen
DEEN: Seriously, anytime.
DEEN: It’s a promise.
Chapte
r 7
Kiran
Sunday, June 13
FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE weekend, I furiously storm my way through the entire internet. At least that’s what it feels like: me, stomping around on Facebook like an angry T. rex, upending every rock and roaring into the void as I charge a virtual jungle.
Which I guess sounds a lot better than what I’m actually doing, which is Facebook stalking.
I can’t stop thinking about what Faisal said about this Leah, and how desperate he sounded to keep her buried in the past—and hidden from Amira. But I’m going to dig up everything I possibly can. No one gets to lie to my sister. Whoever Leah is, she’s the key to unraveling Faisal’s Secret™. I can feel it.
At least that’s what I’m banking on now. I’ve already looked up Faisal online, but I can’t find anything about him. Not on Facebook, not on Twitter or Instagram or Reddit. I even searched Archive of Our Own, wondering if maybe he was the kind of guy who had secret kinks (no judgment) or fetishes (some judgment, depending). But then I got distracted by some new fan fiction that I should probably delete from my browser history.
So all I’ve got to go on is the name Leah. I don’t have a last name, and unfortunately there are approximately fifty billion Leahs in the tristate area. I’m not even sure how to spell her name exactly (Leah? Lea? Lee-ya?), so I’m running out of steam, fast.
I x out my guild chat window where Nilina and Solen invited me to clear a couple of dungeons with them—sorry, guys!—take a loud chug of coffee, and slam it on my desk. “This is SO annoying! Facebook already knows everything about me. It should know which Leah I’m looking for.”
“Man, you type loud. You sound like a hacker but without the actual intelligence of one,” says Asher’s voice through my computer. We’re on Hangouts, talking through our webcams; I can see him at his desk, a tired but amused little smile on his face. The dim light in his surprisingly tidy dorm room casts shadows across the wall behind him. He decided to stay on campus this summer to tutor and take some extra classes, the masochist.
“If you have time to joke, then you have time to help me.”
“I did help. I checked Deen’s Facebook, and there’s nothing. Just a lot of vain selfies,” says Asher. “What if Leah doesn’t have Facebook? What if Leah isn’t even a person? What if Leah is actually a pet dog or ferret or something? We can’t just search the entire internet on a single name. We need something a little more concrete. If Faisal really does have some secret shady past, do you think it’s going to be conveniently posted somewhere for you to find?”
“So what do you propose? I go ask him? Hey, Faisal, random question, but who is this Leah you’re keeping secret and also why are you lying?”
“I mean . . . yes?”
“Like he’s just going to come out and tell me!” I laugh darkly. “He’s going to deny it. He got upset with his supposed friend; how do you think he’ll react if I ask?” My head droops onto my desk and I cradle it with my arms. I’m tired and frustrated. But mostly I’m angry: angry I can’t do anything, angry that Faisal has something he’s keeping from Amira, all while having the nerve to pretend to love her. As if she hasn’t been through enough these past few years. Why did she have to fall for Faisal, of all people?
The prickle of an idea begins to itch in my head. “Wait.” I lift my head. “What about Haris?”
Before Asher can reply, I’m already typing his name into the search bar.
Haris Ibrahim.
“Haris? Who’s Haris?” I can hear Asher asking in the background.
His name pops up. My heart begins to beat faster, fluttering hopefully.
I click on his profile, and there he is. “He’s Faisal’s friend from college. He was the guy I overheard talking to Faisal at the restaurant. And I think I’ve just found him.”
Haris J. Ibrahim. Age twenty-six. Associate attorney at Garson, Reese, and Calloway, a criminal defense firm. His profile picture: him grinning ear to ear on a Caribbean beach beneath a setting sun.
Guilt chews on my insides like bad gas, but I shake it off. “Sorry,” I mutter, to him and the universe. I don’t enjoy creeping on people through social media, but desperate times, right?
“I’m in,” I blurt. “I’m in the Matrix.”
“That’s not what that means,” Asher grumbles.
I find a photo album; Haris takes a ton of photos, all super high quality. For some reason, I can totally imagine him having several DSLR cameras.
Asher’s quiet as I click through the first photo album, labeled “Law School Shenanigans.” It’s really just a bunch of photos of Haris in different suits, standing outside several different courthouses. The guy looks good, not gonna lie. There are a bunch of jealousy-inducing albums labeled “Vacations,” “Travels,” and “Other Journeys,” and I can now safely say I think I know the one human who has visited every single country on the face of the earth.
But then I finally find an album, smaller than the others, simply labeled “College.”
My hand is shaking, so I grip the mouse tighter. I click.
Orientation week photos. Selfies from Halloween. Many, many blurred photos from various parties. Villanova University, I quickly learn, knows how to party. But I’m most surprised by how few photos there are of Faisal, especially given that Haris is supposedly his closest friend. Something’s not right. Weirder still: Why are there so few photos, period? For someone who clearly loves taking them, Haris totally dropped the ball in college.
“Find anything?” Asher asks softly.
Click. Click. I’m watching a slideshow of four years of a life I know nothing about unfold, and I’m getting dizzy.
“Wait,” I say aloud. I click back to a photo I passed.
And then I see it. I see him.
Faisal. It takes me a couple of seconds to recognize him: he’s thinner, scrawnier. He doesn’t have a beard, and his jawline is sharp. Too sharp, even. Dark, puffy lumps, the familiar result of several nights of sleeplessness, hang just beneath his glassy eyes. He’s wearing a dark blue Villanova T-shirt that’s at least two sizes too big. He has his arm around a girl: white, with strawberry-blonde hair in a loose bun. Friendly blue eyes. But she also looks tired. Her hand is on his chest, a loving gesture. And he has her pressed up against him, as if he’d stumble without her, as if she’s a raft. And he is lost at sea.
Faisal isn’t tagged. The girl is tagged as Leah Pearson. But her Facebook page is private. Which means I can’t see 99 percent of the stuff on it.
But the worst part is how Faisal’s and Leah’s faces look off somehow—like they’re looking at the camera, but they’re not really . . . there. I remember a while ago Asher sent me this creepy article about how the Victorians would dress up the newly dead to take photos, as if they were still alive. It gave me nightmares. Their eyes were still open and they’d be dressed in their finest, but you just knew, deep in your bones, there was no life there. The haunting look in Faisal’s red-rimmed eyes makes me shudder. I’m fairly certain he wasn’t sober when the photo was taken. I’ve seen people on weed before, and whatever he was on . . . it looks harder.
I’ll be the first to admit there are way too many South Asian aunties who love to jump all over stuff like this with their assumptions. I do not condone that. Mom used to get mad whenever gossip would break out at dinner parties—about so-and-so’s daughter being caught out with so-and-so’s son in some kind of illicit harami-pastrami relationship. “You don’t know any of that,” she’d snap. “Why would you spread these kinds of rumors?” which of course would start a fight and result in us having to be corralled out of the dinner party by our very apologetic dad.
On the other hand, I can’t help but think this photo is pretty damning. Asher was off the mark: Leah Pearson wasn’t a pet dog or ferret. She was Faisal’s girlfriend.
A girlfriend he maybe did drugs with.
I click the Message button on Leah’s Facebook page.
If her page is private, anything I’d send wo
uld probably be filtered. I don’t even know what to say. Is any of this even my business? Whatever his lifestyle was, who am I to go poking around? And maybe he wasn’t on drugs. Maybe he was just really, really tired when they took the photo. And so what if he had a girlfriend before Amira? People are allowed to have pasts.
But then why would he be so determined to hide that fact? And the timing—it sounded like whatever he’s hiding, it happened around three years ago. Around the same time those weird rumors about him being cut off from the family started floating around the masjid.
Faisal’s voice reverberates in my head. I told you not to say anything about the past. I told you.
I close the Messenger window and show Asher the photo.
Silence. And then: “Well, guess that’s all there is to it,” Asher says. “Maybe he’s ashamed about having dated someone in the past? Maybe their family is conservative about the whole no-dating-before-marriage thing?”
I close out Facebook entirely. The more I look at the picture, the queasier I feel.
“Which would be fair; I mean, a lot of Muslims don’t ‘date’ in the usual sense,” I explain. “But it’s not exactly uncommon, either, and Amira isn’t the type to judge if he’d dated someone in the past, Muslim or non-Muslim. He’s got to know that. I keep thinking there’s got be more to it than that. That maybe this is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Asher sighs. “I still think you should just ask him straight up, especially since things are moving so fast.”
“Sure, and then he goes and tells Amira I’m snooping on the love of her life, and then Amira gets mad at me. Plus, I did try to ask about it at dinner, and then Faisal overloaded and spilled his water. A coincidence? I think not.”
I groan and slump deeper into my chair, until half my body is slouched beneath my desk. “Based on what I overheard Faisal telling Haris, I feel like there’s something I’m missing. We’ve confirmed Faisal’s lying to hide . . . something related to Leah, something that happened three years ago, but if I’m going to break this up, I need to know exactly what happened. I need to be sure. I’ll be damned before I let Amira be duped and played by another Malik’s lying ass.”
“Speaking of which, why not confront Deen?” Asher asks. “You’ve been wanting to for years, anyway.”
It All Comes Back to You Page 6