by Dona Sarkar
I swallowed, asking him silently if I was letting him in too quickly. I didn’t know what our relationship was, and I wasn’t in a hurry to define it. It wasn’t just dating. And not just friends. All those terms I’d always used seemed so small compared to what I felt for him and the way he looked at me when we were alone.
“Why did you bring me those applications?” I asked finally. I’d been wondering about it since it had happened, and no explanation I had come up with explained it.
“You spoke about Stephanie, your therapy group leader,” Zayed said, finally sitting next to me, easily reaching for my hand and clasping it to his heart. I felt my heart rate start to race because of how close he was and because I could see the rise and fall of his chest under his jacket. I knew he felt it too from the tremor in his hand around mine.
This was the most intimate relationship I had ever had with another person, and yet we had barely even touched each other.
“I did?”
“At the tea house. About how she wasn’t effective. Or empathetic. It was obvious to you she had never undergone a tragedy of her own and failed to understand how to handle one.”
“Oh.” I felt my cheeks flush. I hadn’t realized I’d disclosed so much in my fit of anger.
“And you expressed much passion around helping those kids, as you said, and how they needed to understand that they were not just grieving the person they had lost or who had changed, but also the activities and the relationship that bonded them together.”
“I said all that?”
“You did. And I realized that, Mars,” he placed a finger under my chin and raised my face to look at him, “even though you claim you have absolutely no idea about your major in college yet, child psychology might be a viable path.”
I stupidly stared at him. He’d extracted all of that information about me from a simple rant, and here I’d been thinking for years about “what will Mars be when she grows up?”
I would have based the decision around who my boyfriend was, what my father would want, or what my friends would do, but never around what I was passionate about or interested in.
Child psychology. I’d never even thought about it.
“The reason for the applications is that both the University of Michigan and Harvard have excellent undergraduate psychology programs. You will certainly have the SAT scores to qualify if your high school grades are high enough.”
No one had ever taken this kind of interest in my future before, thinking not of how it would benefit them, but only what would be good for me. No one had ever believed that I would be able to get into the university of my choice on merit alone rather than alumni status or donations.
“Thank you for thinking of me, Zayed, but attending a university out of state isn’t an option.”
Zayed looked confused. A little hurt even. “Will you share why? Financial concerns?”
If only the explanation was that simple. I almost laughed; that was the only reason that wasn’t an issue.
“Too far from my family.”
“Oh. But weren’t you planning to attend Wellesley on the East Coast?”
“How did you know that?” I frowned.
Now it was his turn to blush. “Your mother mentioned it at breakfast to Vivek while you were away from the table.”
“I’m not going; that’s just her wishful thinking. I need to be here for my father.”
“Oh. Is that what he would want? For you to put your future on hold, only to wait for him to return home?”
And that’s where it became not his business. This was a private decision I was making, and no one had a right to force their opinion on me.
I stood up. “The movie is going to start.”
The silence between us was rare and uncomfortable as we sat waiting for the previews to begin. We both raised our legs and shifted to the right, allowing the last few patrons to fill in the theater. My knee grazed his, and they stayed touching even after our feet were safely back on the ground.
Finally, Zayed glanced at me and whispered. “I am here to support you with anything you want, Mars, as long as you’re happy. I am not here to make your decisions for you.”
I felt a warm sensation spread through my core. It was strange to be with someone who wasn’t telling me anything except “be happy.” I hooked my fingers around his arm and squeezed. He didn’t pull away, nor did I as the movie began. Eventually, his hand found its way to my knee, where it stayed for the next hour.
The movie was a series of eighteen short films, each set in a different area of Paris. The story was a tribute to love, and especially a tribute to the city of love. I glanced over at Zayed during the “Quais de Seine” segment about the blooming friendship between a Muslim girl and a Caucasian boy in the fifth arrondissement and found him watching me with a smile.
I leaned my shoulder against him around the midpoint of the movie, savoring the citrusy scent and warmth of his skin. He turned to me, the stubble on his chin grazing my cheek. We stayed there, still, cheek to cheek, perfectly balanced until the movie ended.
“So?” I was dreading the moment when the lights would come back on and sat there still while the credits rolled by.
“I did love it,” Zayed said as we stood up and exited the theater.
“I knew you would. Which one was your favorite?”
“The woman who lost her son.”
“The cowboy one?”
“No. The man with the horse. No cows.”
“He’s a cowboy; it’s just a figure of speech.”
“Yes, the cowboy one. Coming to terms with a loss that terrible is not an easy thing. Sometimes we need a bit of magic to tell us that it’s okay to feel what we feel.”
“You seem to know a bit about that.” I watched him, realizing I’d tapped into some hidden emotion. He sounded like he had lost someone. A parent? A girlfriend?
He smiled again, sadly this time. “I think the scene was beautifully made.”
“Which arrondissement did you live in? Was it in the movie?” I asked hopefully. I’d hoped the short films would act as a catalyst to propel Zayed to start talking a bit more about his home and family.
“It was not.”
I was going to push further when I realized the weather had changed dramatically during the movie.
“Oh wow.”
We stopped at the big windows in the lobby and stared outside. It was hurricane-like on the street. Tree branches were whipping by, carried on winds so strong we could practically see the currents. The angry clouds hurled down a heavy spray of rain.
“Why don’t we wait out the storm at my flat? It’s nearby. If you’re comfortable with stepping outside, that is,” Zayed said absently, glancing up the street.
I was pretty sure he wasn’t aware of the cultural implications of a guy inviting a girl to his place, alone, and I wasn’t going to tell him. It was only fair that I should see his place after he’d seen mine under the most stressful of circumstances.
He took my arm as we pressed ourselves against the side of the buildings. “It’s there.” He pointed at a majestic brownstone down the block. “Let’s run.”
Clasping hands tightly, we ran the short distance, laughing. We reached the awning of the apartment building, breathless.
“You’re fast in those shoes!” Zayed said in a playfully accusatory tone.
I pressed against the stone wall, catching my breath. Zayed didn’t take his eyes off me as he retrieved his key from his pocket and fumbled with the door. The way he looked at me—God, no one had ever looked at me like that before. I didn’t want him to stop looking.
He held the building door open for me. I paused in the doorway, not moving. Staring up at him, daring him to make the move we both knew he wanted to make.
He leaned forward, his shoulders pressing against mine. I felt him breathing into my wet hair, the warmth inviting me in closer. “Let’s go inside.”
The full-body shiver traveled all the way down into my pointy-
toed shoes.
I shook water out of my hair as he turned on the lights in his apartment. “Shall I take your coat for you?” he asked, gesturing to a quaint coat rack with only his black pea coat hanging from it. He hung my Burberry raincoat next to it.
I didn’t tell him this was my first time visiting a guy in his own place. There were no parents to chaperone us here. I shivered a little at that thought. I had made the decision to come here alone, without knowing too much about Zayed or even telling anyone where I was going. My father would not approve. I put these thoughts out of my head.
His studio was sparse, but extraordinarily orderly. A much-loved coffee table and bookshelf were both stacked with books to the point of bursting. The two-person couch’s back was pushed up against the bed, giving the illusion of separation between the “rooms.” The bed itself was a fairly majestic-looking four-poster that was perfectly made up with pillows and sofa cushions. I didn’t let my gaze linger too long on the bed.
“Mostly everything was left behind by the previous tenant or for sale in the building. I’m very fortunate to have found so much,” he said from the hearth. Garage-sale furniture. I loved that he didn’t look one bit ashamed of anything at all.
I was surprised to see a fireplace in such a tiny apartment, but he expertly lit a log and added a few sheets of newspaper to inspire the flames.
A tiny “mew” surprised me when I went to take a seat on the couch. I glanced down at someone who had to be Coconut, the kitten who had adopted Zayed.
“Hey, there,” I held out my finger to the little fur ball. She was adorable, fluffy and white with brown spots. She batted at my finger with her paw and hopped on my leg.
“I will serve you tea today. Please take a seat.”
The apartment smelled like Zayed now, the smoky burning of the wood in the fireplace simmering with the fresh smell of bright tangerines arranged in a shallow bowl on the coffee table. A stack of index cards sat next to the bowl. The top card said, “1846.” I flipped it over, “The start of the Mexican-American war,” Zayed had written in his tiny, neat handwriting. So he’d taken my advice after all about using flash cards to learn dates. That flattered me, no matter how silly it seemed. I liked that I was able to teach someone something.
Zayed spent a few minutes in the kitchen boiling water and assembling a tea tray, Coco following him every step of the way on the counter. I sat still and watched. He stopped and stroked her ears every few minutes, talking to her softly.
The pot and cups were from the tea house we’d been to. I recognized the distinct style and sturdiness as he poured the hot water.
“And Russian tea cookies as a special treat.”
They looked like closed seashells coated with a dusting of powdered sugar and nestled on a small red plate.
“Russian tea cookies with a handsome boy from Paris, what an international way to spend an afternoon in Seattle,” I commented.
“Try one, they’re amazing. I did not make them.” He seemed to ignore my comment, but found him glancing at me from behind his thick curtain of eyelashes.
The crispy shell gave way to the creamy bath of Nutella. Then came the crunch of walnuts.
“Where did you get these?”
“My secret.” He grinned, looking carefree and young. I could hardly believe this was the same guy who’d been so cold to me the first day we’d met. “The tea is a crème de la Earl Grey. It’s the standard Earl Grey with a creamy vanilla undertone. We can only steep it for a few minutes or it’ll become bitter.”
I had never taken a formal tea before, but I loved the ritual of it as I followed Zayed’s lead. There was something so classic about waiting the three long minutes for the tea leaves to finish steeping before pouring the liquid into a warmed teacup and adding a little splash of cream and sugar. Then taking a little bite of the cake-like cookie, along with a sip of tea. Coconut became less wary of me and curled up on my knee, batting at my scarf.
“This was my family’s tradition every afternoon, the one time of day we were all together,” Zayed said in a rare moment of speaking of something personal. “It’s not the same when I’m alone. Thank you for joining me.”
It felt a little strange to share a family tradition with someone I was not related to—a good kind of strange. I’d never believed a “perfect moment” could exist, but here it was. I realized we were both lucky, he and I, to have this moment.
“Can you tell me what happened with your father?” he asked after almost a minute of easy silence.
The wind outside rattled the windows of his studio, sheets of raining continuously pounded against the building, diagonal and relentless.
“What do you mean?” I set my teacup down as it started to heat up a bit too much in my hands.
“Your friend Jason said over and over that your father wasn’t coming back. Why is that?”
I swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You have that expression that you get sometimes, Mars. Like you’re desperate for the moment to be over so you can escape.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I understand. But you can. I am here only to understand and listen, not judge. You know that.”
“Okay. Then understand that I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I felt it was disrespectful of him to have that conversation with you within earshot of others and especially after he came to realize he was upsetting you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Zayed got up and put another log into the fireplace, breaking the discussion. The wood immediately started to smolder and crisp, giving way to a spray of ashes. “You don’t have to be so formal with me, Mars.”
Ashes to ashes.
“You’re not telling me things about yourself,” I said.
“What do you mean?” he immediately pounced on that statement.
“You know what I mean. There’s something. How can you expect me to share my deepest thoughts when I don’t even understand why you’re here in Seattle? I know it can’t just be your dedication to the SAT or your desire to get a degree in Near Eastern studies.”
Silence.
“Zayed, please. I know you’re keeping something when you press your lips together. Like this,” I demonstrated. “And you do this all the time.”
More silence.
“I can’t tell you, Mars.”
And there it was. The truth. I swallowed a last bite of cookie, watching him. He was intently stirring his tea, glancing around the room, at Coco, anywhere but at me. I felt an overwhelming, irrational urge to jump on top of him and tickle him until he told the truth.
Did he just not trust me? Did he think I was some stupid kid who would go and tell Lana or whoever?
“You can’t. Or you won’t?” I held out a finger to the tiny kitten, and she busily started grooming it.
“Cannot. It’s beyond me. I will be in trouble if I do. You have to trust me when I say I am not keeping something from you that will hurt you. I need to keep this to myself for the protection of people I meet.”
“Who told you to do this?”
Again, silence.
“Police?”
The rise of his eyebrows and widening of his eyes told me I was not completely wrong.
He wasn’t even denying it. This was bad.
“Are they protecting you from something?”
Nothing.
“Tell me something then. Anything. Something true.”
“My brother passed away.” He stood up and turned around so his back was to me.
Passed away. The word hung there, between us. It sounded so insignificant compared to the reality of what passed away meant. His brother was gone; he was physically never going to be with Zayed or any of us again.
“Zayed, I’m so sorry.”
“I am too. Jamal was older by two years. He was killed in a terrible accident.”
“And your parents?”
“Were devastated.” I could hard
ly hear him over the crackling of wood and paper. “Seeing me reminded them so much of—him, and everything. They were unwilling to accept his death. My mother called me by his name, talked to me as if I were him. I knew I had to leave.”
Like Angel from my therapy group. People in grief saw what they wanted, believed what they wanted, if only to keep themselves sane and functional. I bit my lip. Poor Zayed. He hadn’t even been able to mourn his brother properly because he’d been too busy taking care of his parents’ grief.
“Are they still in Paris? When will you see them again?”
Zayed didn’t answer as he stared into the fireplace.
“Zayed?”
“I miss them very much. But I don’t believe I can go home. Maybe ever.”
I was by his side before he finished what he was saying. I pressed my shoulder against him as I slipped my hand into his. “You can always go home.”
“Or build another home.” He smiled sadly at me. “You’ve made such an impact on my life. I hope you’re aware of how grateful I am to you.”
We stared at each other. I wanted to say something. Anything. I wanted to tell him how I’d never felt this crazy, terrifying feeling before. That no matter what happened, I would flash back to this moment for the rest of my life. Tell him how right it felt standing here side by side, fingers entwined.
Our lives entwined, I wanted to believe.
He was running away, and I was looking for somewhere to run to. We’d found one another in a storm, during the most helpless times in our lives so far. Now I couldn’t imagine not being with him.
That last part scared me more than anything.
We finished our tea. We talked. We held hands. He read me poetry by Theodore Watkins that I had never heard before.
“This is one of my favorites,” he said, glancing up at me from his book with the burgundy cover.
“Can you recite it without looking?” I grabbed the book from him and pressed the open pages to my chest.
“What will you give me if I do?” he asked, arching one eyebrow in my direction.
“A secret.”
“How did you sneak underneath the stone walls that I built so carefully?” he said softly.