* * *
Kasia Coribund: What would you do
Kasia Coribund: If someone from your past, someone who used to be important to you
Kasia Coribund: Waltzed back into your life
Kasia Coribund: And tried to destroy everything you know?
Devynius Foxx: Wait I’ve seen this
Devynius Foxx: Is this one of the James Bond movies?
Devynius Foxx: No wait, the plot of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith?
Kasia Coribund: Yeah. Maybe.
Kasia Coribund: If that makes them Anakin.
Devynius Foxx: Damn, that bad, huh.
Kasia Coribund: Can’t say I’ve ever had an enemy before, exactly
Kasia Coribund: But this is worse
Kasia Coribund: The problem is, they know me.
Kasia Coribund: My secrets, my fears. Etc., etc.
Devynius Foxx: Need me to beat someone up for you?
Devynius Foxx: Cuz I’ll do it
Devynius Foxx: I’ll do it right now
Kasia Coribund: I wish.
Kasia Coribund: It’s just scary, you know?
Kasia Coribund: On one hand, it’s kind of lonely, not trusting people
Kasia Coribund: But trusting people is terrifying
Kasia Coribund: Letting yourself be vulnerable and all.
Kasia Coribund: Because what if you showed your heart to someone who might not have deserved it?
Kasia Coribund: Someone who could use that against you?
Kasia Coribund: How do you know when you’re actually safe with someone?
Devynius Foxx: Like here?
Devynius Foxx: Like us?
Devynius Foxx: it’s a shame there’s no suggestive “waggle eyebrows” emoticon
Kasia Coribund: Truly a loss to us all
Kasia Coribund: ugh.
Kasia Coribund: I’m just so, so angry
Kasia Coribund: Angry at them for taking the trust I showed them
Kasia Coribund: And using it against me
Kasia Coribund: But more than that
Kasia Coribund: I’m angry at myself for trusting the wrong person.
Kasia Coribund: And now it’s biting me in the ass.
Devynius Foxx: Well . . .
Devynius Foxx: This enemy.
Devynius Foxx: DO they know you?
Devynius Foxx: Do they REALLY know you?
Devynius Foxx: How long has it been since you last spoke to them?
Kasia Coribund: Years now.
Devynius Foxx: So are you still the same person you were then?
Kasia Coribund: I . . .
Kasia Coribund: I guess a lot has changed since then.
Devynius Foxx: Right. Which means they’re obviously a very different person, too.
Devynius Foxx: So there’s nothing holding you back.
Devynius Foxx: They think they can hold the past over you?
Devynius Foxx: This idiot who has clearly underestimated you?
Devynius Foxx: Hell no.
Devynius Foxx: Show this fool what happens when someone tries to stab you in the back.
Kasia Coribund: And what’s that?
Devynius Foxx: You stab the ass in the heart.
* * *
Chapter 9
Kiran
Wednesday, June 23
WHEN THERE AREN’T ANY YOGA classes in the group studio at the gym near my house, I use it for personal dance practice.
I used to be shy about it; there’s a big open window where people can poke their heads in and watch me, the little brown girl, doing weird twists and turns to loud Bollywood music. But after Mom died, I stopped feeling shy. I was too numb to feel anything.
Now, I’m too pissed to feel shy. I turn up the volume on the stereo, feel the vibrations beneath the soles of my feet.
It sounds cheesy, but when I dance, I can let my mind truly wander. Thoughts come and go; I bid them hello, a polite acknowledgment, before sending them off into the void. And slowly but surely there comes a weightlessness to my feet. Every exhale, lighter.
I’ve thought about going professional. I love dance. Mom loved it, too—she’d been a dancer, a damn good one. But she wanted me to be a doctor, said it would give me more opportunities. Then, when Mom got sick, well. The path became clear.
Left. Right. Spin, step, step. Stomp. The boom of thunder beneath me. The rush of blood and molecules and atoms and life in my veins. One of the dances my mom did for our aunt’s wedding was a dance duet: “Dola Re Dola” from the movie Devdas, a song about two women celebrating the joy of first love. I was twelve, and watching Mom perform was magic to me, the tiny bells on her ankles like the laughter of birds. I couldn’t fully understand the words to the song, but I wanted to be a part of it, too. It’s funny, looking back on it now, that a song about first love is the very song that got me into dance.
Seeing Deen the other day was . . . a nightmare.
The plan to glean more info about Faisal was simple, in theory: get Deen alone (ugh), interrogate him à la Detective Phoenix Wright until he either spills or trips up, then comfort Amira after I tell her the truth about her lying, possibly cheating wannabe-fiancé with peanut butter brownies and old Bollywood movies. Of course, considering Deen has made keeping secrets a freaking art form, I knew he wouldn’t just blurt out the truth easily—which is why I even stayed up late the night before studying investigative journalism tips and tricks with Asher.
But I guess I was doomed from the start, since the first rule of investigative journalism ought to be Don’t go in sweating. And yesterday? I was drenched. Perspiration-wise. A wet-and-wild bundle of anxiety. Anyway, what the hell was Deen thinking, talking about his brother proposing so soon? I’ve only just met Faisal. Worse, Amira agreed to Deen’s family dinner idea, as if it were just an everyday thing instead of a meet-the-parents huge-freaking-deal. Next week sounds perfect! she said, her face eye-achingly bright and excited and hopeful.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this. I don’t understand the rush. And I don’t understand why Deen’s feigning ignorance about Leah.
More than that, I’m tired of being caught in this antigravity limbo space, watching helplessly as Amira sprints into the dark.
On the dance floor, though, I can move. For now, that helps me think.
I dance harder. Faster. The song finally fades and I’m left standing, a heavily breathing husk. But in the silence, I can still feel the scorch of anger in my chest, the flaring embers that remain.
I’ve never seen Deen act like that before. I remember three years ago, when he first started to change. It was a warning sign of what was to come, looking back on it: from talking every day and night for hours on end to a slow and steady pull apart. It was pathetic, the more I think about it—I was pathetic. I’d text him silly, trivial things like, Question: Do you think microwaving ice cream is criminal or resourceful? just to try to get his attention. Eventually, I stopped expecting a response. But hoping. Always hoping. I texted because it hurt not to, because if I didn’t, it would mean we were really over.
Then, suddenly, he stopped showing up to Sunday school. The last time I saw him was at the masjid, by sheer coincidence; he and his parents had been talking to the sheikh in hushed tones by the entryway. No one else was there because it was late afternoon on a Monday, and I was only there to drop off some food Dad made for a charity event.
As if he sensed me, Deen turned around. Our eyes met.
It was clear he hadn’t slept; his face was ashen, colorless, his eyes dull.
“Are you following me?” he asked in a low voice.
“No. Of course not. But now that you’re here, it would be nice if you answered my texts every once in a while.”
He stared at me, expressionless. Glanced back at his parents. “I’m sorry. I can’t.
“I really, really can’t.”
And he walked away.
He didn’t even give me the chance to ask what the hell was going on.
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The other day, when we were arguing at Joe Coffee—I’ve never seen him lose his cool like that, over anything. Or anyone. I’ve never seen him fight for something like that.
Guess he couldn’t be bothered to fight for me like that.
I glance into the mirror that covers the entirety of the back wall of the studio. I’ve recovered my breath now, and there’s a tiny rivulet of sweat that runs down my cheek, but I don’t have the usual glow of life that suffuses my cheeks when I dance.
I don’t look happy at all.
Maybe that’s the problem. This is how I hurt myself, every time. I focus so much on fighting, and the longer I fight, the harder it is to learn when to give up. I kept fighting for Deen when it was clear he’d already moved on. I kept refusing to believe what the doctors were saying about Mom, even though it was clear she wasn’t going to make it.
Maybe Amira loving Faisal—maybe this is another one of those things.
Maybe this is another battle I’m destined to lose.
I’m home by evening and the house smells like peanut butter brownies because I’ve gone on a baking spree; these are no longer celebratory Amira-broke-up-with-Faisal brownies but mopey mourning brownies.
The stairs creak. Dad’s heavy feet thudding until he reaches the kitchen.
“You’re back,” he says, adjusting his glasses. The hair on the back of his head is sticking up slightly; he must have just woken up from a nap. He’s also got the start of a mustache—it’s his “new look.” I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s terrible.
“Yep,” I reply, pulling open the oven door. “Want a brownie?”
Dad scowls. He hates peanut butter. He explained peanut butter isn’t a thing anywhere outside the US—and since he grew up in Pakistan, he never developed a taste for it. That doesn’t stop me from calling him a monster.
He takes a seat at the kitchen table where I left his Philly Inquirer. The house feels too quiet, so after I’ve taken the brownies out to cool, I throw some jazzy lo-fi beats on the TV that Nilina, my guild leader on Cambria, swears helps her relax.
“Have you cleared out the, ah, closet yet?” Dad asks, barely suppressing a yawn. I know he’s trying to act casual about it, but I know it must hurt him every time to ask about my mom’s closet.
“Not yet.”
It’s code for I’m not ready yet, which is why Dad doesn’t push. He nods.
He unfolds the newspaper with a loud crinkle. “I got an interesting phone call today. From Amira.” He turns a page. “Did you know anything about this?”
“So you heard.” I grab a seat at the table with a fat brownie slice, plus a little extra for love—I need it.
“Have you met him? This . . . Faisal?”
“Yeah. A little over a week ago, over dinner.”
Dad’s mouth scrunches, like he’s thinking. “How is he?”
“Okay, I guess. Not sure I really get it, but . . .” I bite my lip.
“And Amira? How is she?”
“She looked . . . happy. Probably happier than I’ve ever seen her.”
“Good.” He exhales. “Then that’s all that matters.”
I wish I could feel the same way.
That’s the only thing that’s getting me through this, Kiran—knowing you’re all together.
Promise me you’ll look after them.
“Don’t you think she’s moving too fast?” I ask Dad. “Mom just . . . Mom died less than a year ago. We’re still picking up the pieces. And she’s only been seeing this guy for three months.”
Dad goes quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking. “Did I ever tell you how your mom and I met?”
“Arranged marriage, right?”
“Yes.” He turns another page of his newspaper. “I first met her at a function—an engagement party, I think. Her cousin, Asim Mamu, was marrying my sister, Reina Phuppo, and there was talk of setting us up next and I was nervous. But then I saw your mom, sitting at a table with one of her younger cousins, making her laugh. I immediately had feelings for her. We talked a little. But I knew something was there. Something special. We got engaged, soon after that.”
“So you fell in love right then and there?”
“See, there is no falling in love. You can have instant feelings, but love—no. Actually, the first few years of our marriage were rocky. We kept fighting. Once, when Amira was still a baby, I said something stupid to your mother. She took Amira in the middle of the night and snuck out of the house. I couldn’t find her for days. Turns out she was hiding out at your nani’s.”
“What?” I try to imagine my mom, younger, out in the cold with baby Amira in her arms. “What did you say?”
“We were fighting over the dishes. We were both young and stupid and angry. We had no idea what we were doing.” He folds his newspaper back into a perfect rectangle and gently places it on the table. “Years later, when you were born, you had a really bad cold and we had to stay up all night looking after you. It was just a cold, but we were terrified. And one night we were sitting next to each other on the couch: Mom had you in her lap, fussing over you, trying to get you to take your medicine. I was watching over her shoulder, making duas and praying you’d actually take it. It hit us then—how we were both feeling the exact same way. How for once we were on the same wavelength. Because of you.”
“I . . . didn’t know that.” I stare at my lap. My nose suddenly feels stuffy.
“She looked beautiful that night,” he adds sadly. “That was the night we decided we were going to do everything we could to make us work. That was the night we decided to love each other.”
“What do you mean? You didn’t love each other before?”
Seeing my confused expression, he smiles.
“There are millions of shayaris and ghazals and songs that spin beautiful words about what love is: fire, wine, pain,” he goes on. “But that is all passion. Feeling. Love, on the other hand, is an act. A practice. A decision.”
“Are you saying who you love is a choice?”
“No, no. Who you have feelings for—that is not a choice. Feelings happen whether you want them to or not. But love isn’t a feeling; it’s the act of planting a seed and putting in the time and care it needs to grow. It demands hard work and renewal to survive. It demands commitment. By necessity, it cannot be taken lightly.
“That is why in life, the two most important choices you will ever make are your career path, because it’s what you will spend every day of your life doing, and your partner, because it’s who you will spend every day of your life with. That is the person you have committed to—decided to—love, for the rest of your life. That is work.”
I snort. “That’s definitely not how they show it in movies.”
Dad makes a face and waves with his hand, like he’s waving off a bad smell. “What do they know? Real love is messy. Messy doesn’t sell.”
“Someone should warn Amira.”
He sighs tiredly. “Perhaps she already knows. Amira is an adult now. She made her first choice very early, to be a lawyer. Now she’s old enough to make her second. It is a little fast, maybe, but she is a smart girl. If she chooses this Faisal, there must be a good reason. She has told me a little, and I know this Faisal has been a comfort to her. Who are we to interfere?”
I clench my fists. Deen’s words are ringing in my head: This isn’t about you. It’s about Amira and Faisal. We’re here for them and that’s it.
Except what does it really mean to be there for someone? Does it mean supporting them no matter what they do? Or does it mean stopping them before they take a dangerous plunge, even if you risk them hating you forever? Isn’t it a sister’s job to interfere if you’re about to do something stupid?
In the end, it is Amira’s choice, and I don’t want to take that away from her. But wrong choices do happen, and right now Amira still has the time to look before she leaps. If only she’d slow down.
I might be fighting for a lost cause. But I’ll be damned if I don�
��t at least try.
“If you are really worried,” says Dad gently, “we’ll be seeing him and his family next weekend. People have a habit of letting their guards down when they’re in their own homes. If he truly is a bad choice, we’ll see it.”
My stomach rolls. I don’t look forward to seeing Deen again so soon after our fight—especially now that he knows I’m totally against his brother and Amira being together. Especially since he’ll be the one orchestrating the proposal.
But a flicker of an idea comes alive in my head. Dad has a point: we’ll be in Faisal’s house. And even if he proposes, that doesn’t make it too late for Amira to pull out. While Deen is busy helping his brother, there’ll be no one to stop me from, say, taking a look around, searching for any clue to the truth of what these boys are really hiding.
Who knows what I might accidentally stumble into?
“You should get some sleep, beta.” Dad smiles. “Think about what I said.”
“Oh, I will, Dad,” I reply, clearing my plate off the table. “I most certainly will.”
Chapter 10
Deen
Sunday, June 27
“HOW DO I LOOK?”
Faisal is wearing a maroon button-down shirt—collar down, because he’s not a douche—and some brown khakis. He’s thrown in some gel on his hair, too, which does little to tame his curls, but does add a little je ne sais quoi. I haven’t seen him this dressed up in years. It feels good to see him so . . . alive.
I grin. “You look like a million bucks. The bee’s knees. Dare I say, an absolute unit.”
Faisal snorts. “Always gotta be overkill with you.”
“Always.” I pull a pencil from behind my ear. I even have a clipboard with a list I typed up earlier this morning. I’m not messing around.
“All right, let’s go through this again,” I say. “Deodorant slathered?”
“Check.”
“Teeth brushed?”
“Check.”
“Garden swept?”
“. . . Is that one of your euphemisms?”
“No, it’s about the garden out back. I wanted to double-check in case, like, feral raccoons wandered in and ate the string lights or something. I’ll check it one last time.” I mark that one with a star.
It All Comes Back to You Page 8
