“What about M&D?” Faisal asks. “Have they been briefed?”
I nod. “Told them about Amira’s mom, so they know the situation. No awkward comments. And they’re heating up food now like I asked, since Amira’s dad likes to eat early. Also, Mom assured me she asked for extra gulab jamun from the caterer, since it’s Amira’s favorite.” Gulab jamun is basically deep-fried doughnut balls soaked in sugar syrup. They’re practically everyone’s favorite.
I cross the section labeled M&D off the list. I’ve been at their place since last night, preparing; it was Vinny’s idea to do the checklist. “Makes things legit,” he’d said.
“Okay. Okay, good.” Faisal massages between his brows. “And the brownies for Kiran?”
“Yep,” I answer. If I remember correctly, she had a peanut butter brownie obsession, so I tried making some from a box. Don’t ask me how they turned out. I’m stressed enough as it is. But I need a peace offering. It’s like I told Kas: if Kiran tries to mess with Faisal, then I’ll stab her ass in the heart—only, with kindness. Which, honestly, sounds really weird the more that I think about it.
I even asked Vinny for advice yesterday.
“So, I may have confirmed said person from our previous conversation does in fact hold a very bad grudge,” I informed him, storming back to his dorm room after my failed coffee “date” with Kiran.
Vinny, sitting at his desk, nodded sagely as he balanced a pen on his upper lip. “Then you gotta do the only thing you can do to make sure they can’t ruin everything. Keep your enemy close.”
“Okay, but how do you keep an enemy close when they hate you?”
“Make them not hate you,” he answered with a grin, which made the pen on his lip fall with a clatter.
It was about as helpful as I should have expected.
Back to the present:
“Lastly”—I take a deep breath—“the ring.”
Faisal digs into his back pocket and pulls out a tiny red velvet case. He creaks it open. Inside is a modest gold ring embedded with an emerald. A diamond wasn’t an option, with most of the money Faisal’s been saving earmarked for the nonprofit. But I have a strong feeling Amira will be perfectly okay with that.
The velvet case trembles in Faisal’s palm, and he fumbles to close it.
I pat him on the back. “It’s gonna go great. I’ll make sure of it. All you gotta remember is she loves you.” I loosen his tie a little. “Honestly, anyone would.”
Faisal smiles. “Thanks, little bro.”
A pinch in my chest. Don’t thank me, I want to say. But I bite my tongue. He hates it when I say things like that, and I definitely don’t want to bum him out, today of all days. The reality is that this, trying to give him this one perfect moment, isn’t even a piece of what I owe for what he’s sacrificed for me. The bare wall of his office should have been covered with his law degrees, with awards, with photos of graduation. Instead, he’s had to fight tooth and nail just to recover pieces of what he lost, the future he should have had. He can barely even start a nonprofit to help kids because of his stupid criminal record.
It’s funny; so much of Faisal’s life has been him trying to hold on, trying to wrangle back his self-control—and yeah, there were many close calls.
But in the end, I’m the one who lost mine. And Faisal had to suffer for it.
The stairs groan; it’s Mom who comes down them, her long, curly black hair disheveled. She’s wearing a dark blue shalwar kameez and her trademark stone-cold Desi Athena expression.
Her arched eyebrows shoot up when she sees us. “You’re both actually ready? This is a first.”
“And you’re not?”
If she detects any annoyance in my voice, she ignores it. Or maybe I’ve talked to her that way for so long, she’s convinced herself that’s just how I sound. “Your dad’s still getting ready and I have to go color my grays. Deen, turn on the oven—we need to warm up the naan.”
I salute, all fake smiles. “On it.”
Mom nods. “And Faisal?”
“Yes?”
She draws out the silence, then: “Does Amira know? About you? About the accident?”
Faisal’s face stills, as if while trying to process Mom’s words, his brain overloaded. He blinks hard. “N-no,” he stammers. “She doesn’t.”
My hands curl into fists.
“Good. Keep it that way. Weddings invite enough gossip as it is, and people will speculate, but as long as we keep the truth in the family, it’ll stay in the family. As far as anyone else knows, you studied abroad.”
Faisal swallows and looks away, but Mom keeps her cold eyes on him, nailing him into place.
“You might be tempted to tell her everything, but I need you to understand that if word comes out about what you did, there is no turning back. You think Amira will marry you knowing you have a criminal record, on top of everything else? You think her family will let you anywhere near her? You open that box, you invite our entire family’s reputation to destruction. Think about what it would do to Deen.”
I flinch.
The line between Mom’s eyebrows deepens the way it always does when she’s stressed about something. “You open that box, and I can assure you, we won’t be paying for your move to California. I need to know that when you leave this house, you’ll remain stable. It’ll look bad enough if word comes out, but then for you to move, leaving us to clean the mess? What if you relapse? I won’t allow it.”
Fury sparks a white-hot flame in my belly. As if Faisal hasn’t already beaten himself up about his past enough as it is, Mom has to rub it in his face.
“I know,” Faisal whispers.
“I need you to tell me you understand,” Mom says.
“I understand.”
“Good.” Mom’s dark gaze slides to me, damning me to the same promise. But I already know. I know how people would react, better than anyone.
I’ll take the fall for you, Faisal’s voice echoes from somewhere in the darkest parts of my brain.
I know to keep our secret. No matter what. After all, we moved just to make sure no one learned the truth.
I think about when I saw Kiran at the masjid that one last time. The broken look on her face. I squeeze my fingernails into my palm.
“Some things are better left unsaid, beta,” Mom says before going back upstairs, leaving us both in stunned silence. I know she’ll never say it, but she wants this—Amira and him—to happen just as badly as I do. She wants this Faisal thing to be finally laid to rest. And in her eyes, marriage is the most convenient way to do it. Once he gets hitched, people will stop asking about the past. All they’ll care about are future babies.
It’s about getting past the finish line now.
I force a weak smile. “Welp, I see Mom’s just as wonderful as ever.”
For a moment, Faisal says nothing, but I can see the dark thoughts roiling behind his eyes.
“Mom. Mom never changes,” sighs Faisal finally, half exasperated, half making his voice sound like the announcer guy from Fallout 4. He’s trying so hard to keep on a brave face, like his own mother didn’t just knock him down to the ground. As usual.
Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Confused, I check my phone. It’s only 6:00 p.m.
They’re early.
“I’ll get it,” I announce as I’m already running up the stairs.
I throw open the front door, breathless.
But it’s not the Nooranis.
It’s Mona khala. Mom’s younger sister. A menace if there ever was one. And I’m not saying that because she only gives us fifteen dollars at Eid, even though she’s a doctor with her own private practice. Faisal once joked that Mona needed to be a cardiac surgeon because of all the heart attacks she gives people. Mom was mad at him for a week.
But he’s not wrong. I’ve found her in my bedroom looking under my mattress for porn (as if anyone keeps porn under their fucking bed anymore). I’ve seen her yell at her cousin in front of everyone on Thanksgiving for over
cooking the turkey by ten minutes.
And when Faisal first started getting bullied in middle school, she was the one who suggested Faisal learn how to better defend himself. As if the bullying was somehow his fault for being too weak.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level. It doesn’t work.
“Hi, meri jaan,” Mona khala says sweetly, kissing my cheek and pushing past me. Behind her is a parade of her kids: Sara, Salman, and Sohail, all under the age of seven, and therefore the worst kind of human. “Your mom didn’t tell you? She invited me. It’s a big night! Plus, you know how things like this go. If it’s a total disaster, she’ll need someone to gossip with.”
Bullshit. Mom is many things, but she isn’t the type to gossip, especially after what happened with Faisal. She must have let it slip that we were having dinner with a potential match for Faisal, and Mona just invited herself.
I blink away the dizziness. “She did not tell me, actually.”
Mona’s husband, Naveed, stumbles in close behind, carrying some sort of baby basket where, I presume, Sami, my youngest cousin, resides. If kids are the worst kind of human, then babies are subhuman.
“Hey, bud,” Naveed says with a wave. Bud. People should only call each other bud if they reside in the Deep South and own a pickup truck, or they’re itching for a fight, or both. He drops Sami’s baby basket by my feet. “Can you put him somewhere quiet? He’s going to be napping for the next hour or two. Hopefully. Oh, and could you order a pizza for the kids?”
He doesn’t wait for my response; he follows Mona into the kitchen while my little cousins—minus Sami—rush in like a storm and dash straight for the basement, where Faisal keeps the video games.
“Rania!” Mona’s screaming for my mom from somewhere in the kitchen. “Are you upstairs?” There’s a crinkle of foil. “Oooh, look at all the gulab jamun.”
I close my eyes. This is what I get for trying to be prepared, for putting in work. It all went to waste. Maybe it’s because I haven’t prayed in years. God’s definitely punishing me.
This was supposed to be a quiet night. An easy night.
“Nothing’s ever easy, huh?” I ask the evening air before slamming the door shut.
The Nooranis arrive an hour later—right on time. Amira, wearing a deep red shalwar, comes bearing gifts: flowers, specifically white camellias for Mom (her favorite, which I may have told Amira earlier today), and cookies from Schmackary’s for the rest of us. Her dad is a small man wearing a knitted vest and metal-rimmed glasses, and reminds me of a scholarly humanoid mouse. He’s a scientist or researcher, I think, so it checks out.
“Young man,” he addresses me, shaking my hand.
“Dad. That’s Deen,” Amira whispers with a snort.
“Ah, Deen! Of course. Assalamu alaikum.”
I smile. “Walaikumu assalam.” The greeting feels strange on my tongue. Unfamiliar. But I’m surprised by how naturally it comes out of me. It’s been a while since I’ve gone to Sunday school, or even hung out with other Muslims; ever since Faisal’s incident, my relationship with The Big Guy Upstairs has been strained, at best.
Kiran comes in last. She’s wearing a long black shalwar kameez, and I’ll admit, she looks . . . good. For someone with no fashion sense, she wears it well. But she definitely chose to wear black on purpose. Like she’s protesting. Or in mourning.
“Hello, Deen.”
“Kiran.” When she practically declared war last time I saw her, I decided to assume she can and will shank me without a moment’s notice. Or worse, reveal how much she really knows about me and Faisal, in front of everyone.
“Huh.” She stops and stares at my forehead.
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. You just don’t have that ugly vein sticking out today.” She walks down the hall, following her family.
I rub my forehead. It’s smooth. “I don’t have any ugly veins,” I hiss after her. “My veins are beautiful.”
I know I should be more friendly, but I don’t like that she looks confident. On my territory. It’s unsettling. Especially because I still don’t know what she knows—about Faisal, about Leah. Hell, I don’t even know who she is anymore; the girl I knew was easygoing, funny. Had a goofy laugh, and laughed at everything.
Now she’s an unknown. And I don’t like unknowns. But I won’t let her get under my skin. Not tonight. Not when I know Kas is also off fighting her own battles, which, weirdly enough, makes me feel less alone.
Everyone greets everyone; Dad offers to take Amira’s dad into the living room for some chai before dinner, and they’ll get along just fine: Faisal told me Amira’s dad has strong opinions about politics—but not too strong. Mona khala makes Amira do a twirl under the guise of inspecting her dress, and even though it comes across as a prospective buyer inspecting a horse, Amira humors her. I triple-check the garden in the backyard; no sign of feral raccoons, and the string lights are still up.
It’s gonna go great, I repeat in my head, like a mantra.
Eventually, we all sit at the table in the dining room, where Mom has set up a whole buffet of dishes, still warm thanks to the burners she’s placed beneath them—two types of biryani, kabobs, curries, and a big vat of nihari. The house smells like simmered spices and meat. Warm and welcoming, even—it’s unrecognizable. The house itself keeps creaking and groaning, as if it doesn’t know how to deal with actual movement and life within its walls.
“So I hear Amira is a lawyer.” Mom looks at Kiran. “What about you, Kiran?” A softball question. Mom’s here to get to know the Nooranis, not scare them away. For once, we’re almost on the same page.
Almost.
“I’m . . . nothing right now,” Kiran replies. “But I’m starting college in August.”
“Soon, then. What do you plan to study?”
“Medicine. Eventually.”
I stop chewing. There it is again. I can’t help but wonder what made Kiran decide on medicine.
Guess it’s not really any of my business, though.
Mona khala makes a face. “Impractical these days. Unless you come from a lot of money. Otherwise, you’ll have to spend dozens of years paying off student loans. It’s grueling.”
Okay, it’s definitely not Mona khala’s business, either.
“These kabobs, man,” I say loudly, in a way I’m begging the universe will change the subject. “I could eat them forever!”
“I see your point, Mona aunty,” Kiran answers, as though I don’t exist. “But I managed to get a scholarship. And it’s what I want to do.” She adds softly, a little less sure: “In honor of my mom.”
Ah. So that’s why.
But is that what she really wants?
“At what cost?” Mona replies sternly. “An undergrad scholarship won’t help with med-school tuition. No mother I know would want to see their child drown in debt.”
The clatter of silverware ceases. Amira shifts in her seat, and her dad seems intent on scooping as much curry as humanly possible on his naan. As for Faisal, beside me, I can’t see his expression, but I can feel it: the tangible awkwardness, the frustration, like a cold shroud. From somewhere in the basement, I can hear the theme of Super Smash Bros. blasting and high-pitched screaming. At least my cousins are having a better time than we are.
“Well,” Kiran says slowly, “my mom is dead, so . . .”
My throat squeezes like something’s gotten dislodged. Watching Kiran get grilled by Mona khala . . . this doesn’t feel good.
“Dead? Uff.” Mona khala puts down her fork and looks at Mom. “Cancer? Heart disease?”
Mom gives her sister a meaningful look.
“Anyway—regardless”—Mona begins helping herself to some gulab jamun—“it’s terrible, losing your mom when you’re young. That must be hard. But God never gives you more than you can handle. We must take comfort in that.”
Kiran stares at her plate, as if trying to glare holes through the china with sheer wi
llpower. Beside me, Faisal’s holding his head in his hands.
I need to regain control of the situation, fast. We’re not exactly the easiest family to deal with (whose is?) but Amira doesn’t need to know that—at least not now, not yet.
I laugh weakly. “I don’t think that’s as comforting as you think it is, Mona khala.”
“You know, when our mom died a few years ago,” she continues, also ignoring me, “it was hard on all of us. Knowing we have to live the rest of our lives without her. My kids won’t know who their nani is. Absolutely heartbreaking.”
“Except Nani lived in Pakistan and we never visited her anyway,” I say, stabbing a kabob with a fork.
Mona clicks her tongue. “Even so, we could have. And now we can’t.”
I debate throwing something at her.
Mom clears her throat. “So how do you spend your days? Are you working?”
“Um, no.” Kiran relaxes, gently puts down a piece of naan she was about to put in her mouth. “I dance a lot. My mom was a dancer, too.”
Mona’s eyes light up. “Dance! Classical? How cute. Will you be continuing in college, too?”
Stop. Talking, I scream inwardly.
“Unfortunately, I won’t have time,” Kiran replies. “For now, I do mostly Kathak. Modern, sometimes.”
“Well, you know, if these two get married”—Mona gestures between Faisal and Amira—“you’ll have to dance at the wedding.”
Kiran’s eyes go wide. Amira’s face ignites in a deep shade of scarlet.
I glare at Mom. Control your sister. But she pretends not to see me. Typical.
“If . . . ,” comes Faisal’s shaking voice, “if that happens, Kiran doesn’t have to feel pressured.”
Nice one, Faisal.
“Nonsense,” Mona khala replies. “If God gives you a gift, you must use it. And what better way to honor her mother than dance? It would be beautiful.”
“Don’t you think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves?” asks Kiran. “First of all, I haven’t danced at any events in years, and—”
“If it’s just a matter of nerves—then Deen, what about you? You could do a dance, too.”
It All Comes Back to You Page 9