Counting Down with You

by Tashie Bhuiyan

  “Thank you,” I say. A part of me is embarrassed at losing it like this in front of Ace. The bigger part of me is glad it’s him and not some random stranger. His presence has somehow become comforting. Only Nandini and Cora feel this familiar to me.

  Ace doesn’t respond, but he hums against the top of my head. We sit in silence, and it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or forced. It feels as natural as anything else.

  I don’t know how much time passes, but once I finish the packet of Sour Patch Kids, I sit up properly, scrubbing at my face. I can’t imagine how disastrous I look. I don’t want to know, frankly.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Ace says.

  I look at him in surprise. “You don’t have to do that.”

  He shrugs. “I want to. Come on.” He offers me a hand up and I take it, rubbing my nose with my sleeve.

  “What about your car?”

  Ace looks away, his lips pressed together. “I don’t have it right now. My dad took away my keys.”

  I falter, searching his expression. “What happened?”

  “Just Xander,” Ace says quietly before shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But how will you get home?” I ask. “You don’t have to walk me—”

  “I want to,” he says again, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll call my dad’s chauffeur to pick me up. It’s not a big deal, I swear.”

  I open my mouth to protest, not wanting him to brave the cold any more than he has to, especially not for me. It’s mid-March, but it’s still chilly outside.

  Before I can say anything, he gently claps a hand over my mouth. “No, Ahmed.”

  I sigh, conceding defeat. I don’t have the energy to hold an argument anyway. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  Ace slings my bag over his shoulder before I can and gestures for me to go ahead.

  We walk out of school together, and I can’t help but notice the curious looks slanted our way by some familiar juniors. I wipe at my face again self-consciously, but Ace tugs my hand down, interlacing it with his.

  I inhale quietly in surprise, staring down at our joined fingers. My entire arm feels like it’s buzzing, electricity running up and down my veins.

  “Fuck off,” Ace says darkly to the people still watching us.

  Everyone quickly averts their gaze.

  I push past my shock to squeeze his hand in thanks, and he squeezes back.

  As I expected, it’s cold outside. I glance sideways at Ace, my cheeks warming. “You don’t have to walk me home. It’s really windy.”

  “Are you cold?” he asks, furrowing his brows. “God, I didn’t even realize. You’re only wearing a sweater. Here.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  Ace shrugs off his leather jacket and holds it out to me. I stare at it, uncomprehending. There’s no way Ace is offering me his leather jacket right now.

  “Take it,” he says, waving it in my direction.

  “Now you’re only wearing a sweater,” I say, still staring at the jacket.

  “I run warm,” he says, shrugging. “And you just had an anxiety attack. I think you need it more than I do.”

  Oh. He’s caught on to the fact I have anxiety. I guess I wasn’t really going out of my way to hide it, but even my parents have failed to pick up on it. Hell, I didn’t even realize until a few months ago.

  I’m not ashamed of it. I refuse to be, but I’m still shocked at how easily he’s accepting it. I know the type of person Ace is, and I don’t think he’d ever call me crazy or dismiss me, but I still expect something to go wrong. If my own parents would look down on me for having anxiety, there’s every possibility Ace might, too.

  Another spur of nerves runs through me, a creeping terror that this will affect his outlook of me even if he doesn’t say anything, but Ace keeps looking at me with the same steady expression he always has.

  The longer I look at him, the easier I can breathe.

  “Thank you,” I finally say, slipping my arms into the sleeves of the jacket. It’s large on my frame, hanging to midthigh. There’s also a familiar scent to it that I never fully picked up on from Ace. Now that I’m basking in it, I recognize it.

  He smells like cinnamon. It’s faint, but it’s there.

  Neither of us says anything as we walk, but our hands brush against each other until Ace finally reaches out and intertwines our fingers again.

  I stare at our hands, unable to tear my gaze away. There’s no one here except the two of us. No one to pretend for.

  By the time we find our way to my house, it’s later than I expected. The sun is slowly setting, the sky a mix of pinks, oranges, and blues.

  We stop on my porch, and a sense of disappointment washes over me. I wish I could spend the entire night walking around aimlessly with Ace, comforted by our mutual silence.

  But...maybe another day. Maybe there’s a balance here. Maybe I can’t pursue English, but I can have this in secret for the little time I have left.

  “Well, this is it, I guess,” I say, shrugging off the leather jacket and passing it back to him. I miss its weight and smell as soon as I take it off. “Thank you for walking me home.”

  Ace nods and cards his fingers through my hair one last time. I hold my breath when he leans forward and brushes his lips against my forehead. “Good night, Karina.”

  “Good night, Ace,” I say, my pulse fluttering in my neck, an offbeat rhythm spurred by his touch.

  I wait for him to leave and watch until he turns the corner before I slump against my door, suddenly exhausted. That wasn’t how I expected my day to go.

  But maybe in the dust of lingering defeat, there’s room for some victory.

  26

  T-MINUS 17 DAYS

  I completely give up on attending school the next morning.

  After my alarm goes off, I stare at the ceiling for approximately ten seconds before I call it quits. My emotions are too overwrought to deal with people today. “Dadu!”

  Not even a moment later, my grandma opens the door, her expression tinged with concern. “What’s wrong, Myra?”

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say. It helps that I still look like a disaster.

  Dadu makes a worried noise and comes into my room, pressing the back of her hand against my forehead. “Ya Allah, you’re burning up,” she says. Before I can say anything, she leaves, presumably to grab a thermometer.

  Samir appears in my doorway, raising an eyebrow. He’s holding some kind of strange robotic contraption in his arms and has his backpack slung across his shoulder. “Ditching? Imagine what Ma and Baba will say.”

  “Shut up,” I say halfheartedly. “You’ve ditched school for video games before. I don’t wanna hear it.”

  “Touché.” He considers me, and the amusement falls from his expression. “Do you have a math test or something? You should’ve texted me. I would’ve come home from work earlier last night if you needed help.”

  Despite everything, I smile. “No, but thanks. I’m good.”

  Dadu reappears, waving the thermometer haphazardly. “Myra, sit up. Let me see.”

  “That would be my cue to leave,” Samir says, grinning as he waves a hand. “See you later, Dadu. Later, slacker.”

  I roll my eyes as he leaves and Dadu comes to take my temperature. It’s only slightly above average, but she still asks, “Do you need to go to the doctor?”

  I shake my head. “Just one day of rest, I think.”

  This would never work with my parents, but Dadu likes to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. The stories of my father’s childhood in Bangladesh sound like heaven—tales of him and his brothers playing hooky and skipping school to go to the beach, where they’d spend hours lying in the sun and fooling around. He usually leaves his late sister out of those stories. I don’t blame him, but it makes me sad.

&nb
sp; Maybe the loss of his sister made him more restrictive, the same way that it made Dadu more lenient. People react to grief differently.

  I think being around my mom has furthered that restrictive behavior, since my maternal grandparents are a lot more strict than Dadu. Nanu and Nana have never been anything but kind to me, sending me gifts and the like, but I know they’re the reason Ma expects so much from me. They raised her a certain way, and now she’s trying to raise me the same way, even though our generations are vastly different. It’s hard sometimes to separate my parents’ beliefs from my culture and my religion, but at the end of the day, I know it has nothing to do with being Bangladeshi or being Muslim. Blaming it on either of those would be turning to a scapegoat. They both make me who I am.

  I love Bangladeshi culture—from the lyrical poetry to the hearty food to the breathtaking fashion. And I find comfort in being Muslim, in praying, in believing. In my heart, I know that Allah loves me, no matter what. If only I could say the same for my parents.

  Dadu pats my cheek. “Go back to sleep. I’ll make chai and we can have a movie marathon later.”

  “Thank you, Dadu. I’d love that,” I say and burrow into my blankets. Before I fall back asleep, I shoot Nandini and Cora a quick text saying: I’ll be absent today :( I’m not feeling well, sorry guys!!!

  At least next week is spring break. I just have to survive tomorrow, and then I’ll have a whole week to myself.

  I wake up around 10:00 a.m. and stumble into the dining room, a blanket around my shoulders. Dadu frets over me for a few minutes but then leaves me to eat.

  After I finish breakfast, I take my chai and sit down next to Dadu in the living room. I take a moment to light a cinnamon-scented candle before I open Netflix to find a Bollywood film.

  Dadu lets me choose without complaint. I click on Kal Ho Naa Ho, in the mood to cry over someone else’s life. As the main character, Naina, starts her monologue about New York, I lean my head against my grandma’s bony shoulder and toss a second blanket over our laps.

  “I’m not as crazy as Naina’s Dadi, right?” Dadu asks, glancing down at me as the grandmother character starts singing, horribly off-key.

  “Not even,” I say, patting her hand. “You’re the coolest Dadu in the world.” I pause. “But maybe don’t start a singing career.”

  Dadu laughs. “I see. Should I refrain from setting you up with strange men, too?”

  “Please never do that,” I say, only half-joking. “There are enough strange men in my life.”

  Dadu raises an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t push the subject. If she did, I would’ve just mentioned Samir and my father, but she seems to know better than to ask.

  Halfway through the movie, the doorbell rings.

  I sit up, confused. It’s barely noon, and our mail doesn’t get delivered until three. It’s probably a solicitor.

  I’m about to sink back into the couch when the doorbell rings again, followed by someone knocking.

  “Do you want me to see?” Dadu asks.

  I shake my head. I don’t want her to strain herself to understand English if I can help it. I stand up, keeping my blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”

  When I open the door, my grip on the blanket goes slack, and it falls to the floor. I must be hallucinating. The cinnamon-scented candle has to be playing tricks on my brain. “What are you doing here?”

  Ace smiles at me from the other side of the door, holding a large brown paper bag. “I brought soup.”

  “What?”

  “Your friends told me you were sick,” he explains. “I thought I’d drop by.”

  I shake my head, aghast. “What about school? You can’t skip class!”

  Ace gestures to his side, and I realize he’s carrying a book bag. For the first time ever. “I brought my notes. We can study.”

  My expression twists in disbelief. “You skipped school to study for school.”

  Ace snaps his fingers, nodding. “Now you get it.”

  Before I can comment, a warm hand situates my blanket on my shoulders again and I look back to see Dadu standing there, examining Ace.

  “Myra, who’s this?”

  “As-salaam alaikum!” Ace says which is enough to give me a head rush. Did he just say salaam to my grandma? “You must be Karina’s grandmother. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Alistair Clyde.”

  “Oh my God,” I say under my breath. I can’t believe he showed up here. My one relief is that my parents are far, far away, otherwise my head would already be on a pike on the lawn.

  Dadu raises her eyebrows. “Wa-alaikum salaam.” Even though she’s far from fluent, she definitely knows enough English to understand Ace’s introduction. Still, she continues in Bengali, “Myra, is he your friend?”

  “Kind of?” I say, offering her an uncertain look. “I can tell him to go.”

  “No,” Dadu says, and she smiles. The relief I feel at the upturn of her lips is enough to unlock my muscles. “He can come inside. I’ll start preparing lunch.”

  “But...our movie marathon,” I say, glancing back at the television from the doorway.

  She pats my cheek fondly. “There will be other movie marathons,” she says before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

  “What’s the verdict? Does she like me?” Ace asks. “Can I come in?”

  I shake my head, incredulous, but open the door wider. “I guess so. Did you really say as-salaam alaikum to her, or did I hallucinate that?”

  “I Googled proper etiquette for addressing Muslim elders on my way here,” he admits, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair. “Did I butcher the pronunciation?”

  “Surprisingly, no.” I lead the way into my living room after Ace takes off his boots. “Welcome to my humble abode. Except mine is actually humble compared to your mansion.”

  He snorts. “It’s not a mansion.”

  “You’re not allowed to have an opinion.” I take my seat on the couch again. I wiggle my foot toward the other couch, but Ace sits down next to me. I don’t know why I even bothered.

  “Watch yourself,” I warn him lightly. He raises his eyebrows and I add, “My grandma could come back any second.”

  His response is to smirk, which is far from reassuring, but he makes a point of scooting over a few inches.

  I sigh, shaking my head at him. I’d be more worried if Dadu hadn’t invited Ace into our home, but as it stands, he’s already here. So long as he keeps his hands to himself, it’ll be fine.

  I hope.

  “Where’d she go anyway?” he asks, glancing toward the dining room. “Did I scare her away?”

  “You give yourself too much credit,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “She went to make lunch.”

  “But I brought soup,” Ace says, bemused.

  “That’s a liquid,” I say, laughing quietly at the thrown expression on his face. “She’s making real food.”

  After a moment, it seems Ace decides not to question it. “So what have you been doing all day?” he asks instead, taking off his leather jacket and draping it across his lap. Underneath is a preppy designer sweater that’s sure to heighten my grandma’s impression of him.

  I gesture to the television. “I’ve been watching Bollywood films.”

  “I thought you weren’t Indian.”

  “I’m not. I can still watch Indian movies, asshole,” I say, rolling my eyes. It feels good to settle back into our usual routine.

  “Feisty,” Ace says, grinning at me. “Are there subtitles?”

  “Well, I can’t speak Hindi,” I say, raising my brows. “So, yes, there are subtitles.”

  “That was a stupid question,” he concedes. “Can you give me a rundown of what’s happened so far?”

  “Are...are you going to watch with me?” I ask.

  He nod
s. “Yeah. I’m not going to make you change movies because I’m here. What’s happened so far?”

  “Uh.” I rack my brain for a way to summarize the plot, but I’m having difficulty even processing the fact he’s willing to sit here and watch a Bollywood film with me. “The main character, Naina, has a dysfunctional family, and she doesn’t believe in love or happiness and all that. Then this dude Aman suddenly shows up and brings all this wonderful energy and brightens every aspect of her life by helping her family and friends and her. He encourages her to live life to the fullest and she...falls in love with him because of it.”

  Ace tilts his head, his eyes searching my expression. I purposefully keep it as blank as possible, because it’s hitting me how similar this movie is to my current state of affairs. “Is that it so far?”

  “No,” I say and clear my throat. The rest of the movie isn’t as relatable, thankfully. “Aman is also in love with Naina, but he has a terminal illness. Still, Aman wants her to be happy even when he’s gone, so he hatches this plan to make Naina fall in love with her best friend, Rohit, who’s also in love with her.”

  Ace blinks. “That’s...rough. Does Aman die?”

  I shrug and gesture to the screen. “I guess you’ll have to watch and find out.”

  “What are we waiting for then? Press play.”

  I hide my smile behind my blanket and hit play.

  I start crying not even five minutes later, when Aman reads a speech about loving Naina from Rohit’s diary.

  Ace looks at me in alarm. “Why are you crying?”

  “He—” I sniffle, wiping my nose. “There’s nothing in the diary. Those are Aman’s real words.”

  Dadu comes in a moment later, holding out a box of tissues. I immediately gauge how much distance is between me and Ace—thankfully, still a safe amount.

  “Be careful with her, she’s an ocean,” Dadu tells Ace in Bengali, handing him the entire box, before walking off.

  He gives me a confused look. “What did she say?”

  I laugh, the sound wet and choked off. “She said to be careful. I’m an ocean.”

  “More tears?” Ace says.

  “More tears,” I agree.