Vinny grabs us another round of drinks and things start to get hazy. Numb. I know I should eat something, but right now I don’t care. Words spill more easily. I don’t tell them anything about Faisal, of course. But Kiran? Nothing’s off-limits: I tell them about our past, our fight at the coffee shop, finding her in Faisal’s room. The warehouse spins and blurs at its edges, and I feel myself rocking back and forth on some invisible wave. The anger is still there, though, like dull glowing embers.
I say something; Amy’s laughing hard, the kind that quakes her body. It reminds me of Kiran, the old Kiran. Raquel’s got her arm draped around her. Vinny watches, his mouth stretched wide, showing teeth.
Amy’s eyes drift to mine. “She could just be doing this to get your attention, you know.”
“Attention? No way.” I take a long pull of vodka. “There isn’t a drop of love in her. Only pride.”
“Then what about you?” Amy’s hand is on my knee. “She’s clearly getting under your skin. You sure you don’t still have feelings for her?”
I laugh. I don’t know why it’s so funny; of all the wild thoughts I could have about this whole situation, that is one that hasn’t crossed my mind. Maybe it’s because there’s no way I could ever remotely care for someone who refuses to give Faisal a chance. Maybe it’s because Amy snorts when she laughs, like Kiran used to. Maybe it’s because I’ve known for years I don’t have a right to feel anything.
Kas pops into my head. The funniest thing about not knowing anything about her is that it means she could be anyone. She could be Amy, for all I know.
“For Kiran? Nah, m’afraid I feel next to nothing. And maybe a teensy bit of guilt; I’m not that bad.” I put my hand on Amy’s. “Teach me how to love again?”
Amy and Raquel holler, dissolving into a fit of giggles, and for a moment, I feel a little lighter. White blurs my vision. Softens it. I reach for my glass, which I’ve set on the floor somewhere, but to my disappointment, it’s empty.
“We should do group therapy more often,” Raquel chokes out through her laughter.
“You know, we’re having a dholki in a couple weeks. It’s technically like a bridal party, but they’re opening it to everyone.” I lean forward, like I’m telling them a secret. “You all should come.” In my woozy state, I decide having them there would be nice. Friends on the inside and all. More distance away from Kiran. “Vinny, you in?” I flash him a lopsided grin.
But Vinny’s jaw tenses.
“Maybe,” he replies weakly.
I blink, confused. The annoying itch in the back of my brain is back, only it feels worse this time. But the cogs of my brain are slogging through my thoughts too slowly to understand why.
Vinny stands. “I’m going to go find some water,” he announces. His eyes shift to me, unreadable. They linger for a moment, as if waiting for something.
Then I watch him stumble and disappear into the crowd.
Chapter 13
Kiran
Friday, July 2
I’M SITTING BENEATH A SACRED camphor tree that sits at the heart of a forest just outside Coralei, the capital of Cambria. Birds trill and chirp; leaves rustle softly overhead. My Mecha leopard lets out a low, fluttery purr beside me, as she always does when we’re idle in game. My computer speakers aren’t top quality, but the sound is soothing, mind-numbing. I watch two level-fifteen Warriors and their Mechas—a dog and a monkey—swing their swords at some low-level monsters.
Footsteps come from behind me in the game and my heart quickens despite itself. Of course it’s not Foxx. Foxx hasn’t logged on in two days now, and his name is still listed as offline in the guild. A third player, a Healer with a peacock Mecha, runs to join the Warriors. They defeat the monsters easily. One of the Warriors breaks into a victory dab.
I shuffle through my inventory, sorting and resorting. I keep glancing at my message window. I’ve already cleared a couple of group dungeons with some strangers, but I’m tired of that. I hate that I’m waiting for him. I hate that I can’t enjoy the game without him. But my chest aches. There are a thousand knots suspended behind my ribs, and these days, talking to Foxx is the only thing that undoes them.
I slide the ripped page from Faisal’s notebook into my drawer for safekeeping. Deen kept watching me that night, after our encounter in Faisal’s room. Like he knew I knew something, and it was driving him mad trying to figure it out. Hopefully he hasn’t discovered I stole a page from his brother’s diary. The reality is, I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to look Faisal in the eye after this. I’d figured Leah was something more along the lines of a dirty romantic secret, or worse, that Leah was still in his life—that maybe Faisal was cheating on Amira somehow. I didn’t think I’d have to tell her the love of her life had a far darker past than any of us could have imagined. What kind of crime—no, felony—did Faisal commit, anyway? Even if a judge dropped his felony charge, my imagination runs wild with possibilities, and it’s all bad.
Scratch that: I know exactly what I have to do. I need a new plan, a new approach to break Amira and Faisal up. Something more drastic. Faisal’s criminal background wouldn’t throw her if she knew—she’s a criminal justice lawyer, after all. But that’s not the real issue anyway, is it? A little beep catches my attention, the sound of someone in the guild logging in to the game. My breath catches in my chest. Foxx?
[Nilina Torby signs on.]
My chest falls. Where are you when I need you, Foxx?
On screen, the Warriors and their Healer have disappeared, probably off to some mission together, and I can’t help but feel a little envious.
Another beep. Someone’s sent me a DM, so I pop open my message box.
Nilina Torby: Ayy
Nilina Torby: Sol and I are gonna try some high-level dungeons
Nilina Torby: Wanna come?
I sigh and begin typing.
Kasia Coribund: Nah
Kasia Coribund: Probably gonna call it a night, actually
Nilina Torby: ohhh, I see
Nilina Torby: you were waiting for Foxx
Kasia Coribund: . . . .
Kasia Coribund: Maybe?
Nilina Torby: Hoho
Nilina Torby: Sorry, luv
Nilina Torby: He hasn’t been on in a bit
Nilina Torby: But I’m sure he’ll be back soon
Kasia Coribund: Yeah . . .
I bite my lip and type out my question a few different times before closing my eyes and pressing Enter.
Kasia Coribund: Hey, can I ask you a weird question?
Nil replies right away:
Nilina Torby: those are my favorite kind
Kasia Coribund: You’ve actually talked to Foxx, right?
Kasia Coribund: Back when the guild did voice chat?
Nilina Torby: oh yeah
Nilina Torby: that was a while ago, before you joined
Nilina Torby: but we stopped to make Foxx more comfortable
Nilina Torby: he’s a shy one, that boy
Nilina Torby: why do you ask?
Kasia Coribund: he didn’t sound like an old pervert or something, did he?
Kasia Coribund: like, he didn’t want to stop voice chat to hide the fact that he’s a 90-year-old dude with a foot fetish, right?
Nilina Torby: lollllllllll
Nilina Torby: Granted, it’s hard to tell on voice chat but
Nilina Torby: I can promise you he sounded very normal
Nilina Torby: and very nice
Nilina Torby: definitely not an old fart
Nilina Torby: why
Nilina: Torby you startin to get curious about the real him?
Kasia Coribund: not . . . exactly . . .
I sit back in my chair. Even though Foxx and I both agreed not to share anything specific about our real lives, right now I’m regretting it. It was almost charming, at first, not having to get bogged down in the unnecessary details of who we are, getting straight to the meaty stuff. He knows the
important things, intimate thoughts I haven’t shared with anyone else. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the urge to tell him my name is getting . . . unbearable. Like a final wall between us that I’m itching to demolish. Out of curiosity, maybe. Or something else.
I don’t know when I started thinking about him as something beyond just pixels on a screen, or as a stranger in some video game. But over the past few months, I’ve found myself waking up and wondering what he’s up to for the day, what his life is like—I keep looking at people I pass on the street and wondering if they’re him. Stupid forbidden thoughts.
Worse, I keep hoping he’s wondering the same things about me.
I can’t tell him about Amira’s engagement, exactly, but it’d be nice to talk to him. To know that he’s still there, the warm, sympathetic voice on the other side of the screen.
The opposite of Deen in every way.
The garage door rumbles downstairs. There’s a creak of wood from the side door, and the security alarm lets out a little chime. Dad must be home.
Kasia Coribund: anyway, I gotta run
Kasia Coribund: talk to you later?
Nilina Torby: ;D
Nilina Torby: See you soon, luv
In game, my character gets to her feet, and my Mecha leopard stretches out on her pads, eager to get moving. Maybe she misses Foxx, too.
No, she doesn’t feel anything, I correct myself. It’s all just pixels.
I take one long final look at Foxx’s name on my screen before logging off.
I head downstairs. But it’s not Dad, to my relief, because he asked me to clear Mom’s closet before he got home.
It’s Amira.
I’m suddenly out of sorts. I think of Faisal’s notebook page hidden in my room upstairs, separated from us by some wood and carpet.
Her face splits into a smile when she sees me. “Hi.” She’s carrying several grocery bags; she hoists them one by one onto the kitchen counter.
“You’re . . . here.”
She didn’t even tell me she was coming tonight. Not that I’m upset about it—I’ve wanted to have her here, living a normal life with me and Dad, for so long. It just feels weird now, seeing her home, standing in our kitchen like nothing’s changed. I can’t even remember the last time she visited.
“Thought I’d spend the Fourth of July weekend here for a change.” Amira answers my question before I can even ask, and stretches out her fingers for me to see: they’re red from the weight of the grocery bags. “Did you just come back from dance? You look like . . . what’s the word . . .”
“Crap?” I haven’t gotten to brushing my hair yet, and I’m once again wearing my favorite oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Hadn’t even realized it was Fourth of July weekend. “Was just playing games.” I lift my arms and stretch, and my back lets out a satisfying crack. “And sleep’s been avoiding me lately.”
“Hmmm,” she says thoughtfully. “Where’s Dad?”
“At work. Should be here soon.”
“Perfect. Help me make dinner?”
I shuffle in closer, peering into her bags. Amira is a wonderful cook, as you might expect. “Wow. Homemade dinner? You should come home more often.”
“I know. It was hard to make time during school, you know, but now”—Amira pulls out a couple of tomatoes, onions, tiny boxes of masala—“I have no excuse. I want to make the absolute best of my time before—”
She pauses. A tiny breath slips from between her teeth. It hits me then, too: she’s home because she wants to spend time here before she moves to California. With Faisal. The beginning of the end.
“Well, I’m glad you could make it,” I say, and she smiles weakly.
Amira tosses me a tomato; I know the drill. I’ve never been much of a cook, but Amira has always loved cooking, and I’m more than happy to play sous-chef if it means I get to eat something other than mac and cheese from a box. I start dicing the tomatoes as she rolls up her sleeves and starts peeling the onions.
It’s quiet, save for the tap and scrape of knives hitting chopping boards. But despite everything, a warm glow blooms in my chest. The silence isn’t oppressive; it’s easy and natural. It’s . . . nice. It’s how things should have been.
Except now there’s a new ring on her finger, gleaming under the kitchen light. Teasing me. Goading me.
“Mona khala’s hosting a dholki for us in two weeks.” She scrapes the diced onions to one corner of her chopping board. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”
“Me neither.” I’m struggling to find words, any words. I don’t want to think about wedding stuff. I just want to enjoy this moment, with her.
“I’ve always loved going to dholkis, you know? The singing, the dhol drums—and the smell of henna. Heaven.”
“And the sweets.”
“And the sweets,” she repeats in agreement. “And now I’m having my own.” She stops chopping for a moment and reaches for a paper towel; tears are streaming down her face.
“I wish Mom were here. You know she’d have a killer dance for us,” Amira says softly, sniffling.
It’s probably just the onions; Amira doesn’t cry, not even in front of me.
I wish Mom were here, too. She’d know exactly what to say about Faisal and the notebook. Maybe Amira wouldn’t be with Faisal in the first place. Things would be normal. Us, living together. Like a family.
Amira finishes wiping her face and goes back to chopping onions. I glance at her; she looks like she’s going to say something, but changes her mind.
“What?”
A small smile plays across her face. “Deen seems nice,” she says slowly, testing the water.
My face warps in horror. “Please don’t finish that train of thought.”
“I’m just saying,” she says, shrugging. I don’t know how she does it, but even her shrugs look innocent.
“He’s a menace.”
“A good-looking menace. Plus, I don’t know about that. He can’t be all that . . . menacing.”
“Trust me, I—” I stare at my hand, white-knuckled on the hilt of my knife. “I know people like him.”
“Well, I, for one, am excited to see you dazzle everyone on the dance floor.”
“You cannot be serious. I thought you were just saying that to make nice with Mona.”
“It’s my wedding, so you have to do what I say. Let me be Bridezilla on this one thing.” She giggles, as if pleased with herself. “Plus, let’s be real: I was never going to have a wedding without you dancing in it, anyway. And if you, say, decided to give Deen secret dance lessons, I wouldn’t tell anyone. You may be having an innocent little dance-off at the wedding, but behind closed doors, he could be the Baby to your Patrick Swayze.”
“Astaghfirullah. Sorry, but he’s on his own.” I go back to chopping tomatoes, more violently this time. My hair falls, covering the angry flush on my cheeks. In Dirty Dancing, Patrick Swayze lifts Baby for their final dance routine. If I could lift Deen, I’d immediately yeet him into outer space. “You don’t expect me to do a dance at the dholki, too, do you? One dance is enough torture as it is.”
“No . . .” She throws the chopped onions into a pot on the stove. “But I do expect you to go to the masjid with me next Friday.”
I blink, confused. “For . . . jum’ah prayer?” Jum’ah is a special Muslim prayer that happens on Friday afternoons. I try to catch most of my prayers, especially since Mom died, but I usually avoid the masjid. As much as I love the feeling of being inside a masjid—the melodic call to prayer that fills the walls like a sea of voices, the feeling of community—I have too many distracting memories there. Just one more thing Deen Malik has ruined forever.
“Faisal suggested we meet the imam for premarital counseling, so we’re going to our old masjid here—you know, the one you went to for Sunday school?”
My throat tightens. The masjid where Deen and I first met. Great.
“But the imam said we should try to bring family, get everyone’s
perspective.”
“Really?” I’m surprised Faisal would suggest that, considering those counseling sessions are supposed to be for putting everything on the table: your thoughts on morals, religion, careers. Then again, if he’s prepared to keep lying, this could all be part of his plan to keep up the charade of honesty.
I roughly chew the inside of my mouth as I chop another tomato. Just thinking about it is infuriating. Faisal really thinks he can get away with lying. I’ve heard horror stories of men marrying “good Muslim girls” just to get their hands on green cards, or marrying to keep their parents off their back. Maybe that’s why Faisal’s marrying Amira: so his parents will think he’s all settled down, that they won’t have to keep an eye on him anymore because he’ll be Amira’s problem now.
What if he runs away with Leah? What if they run away together and go on a crime spree? Like Thelma and Louise?
I close my eyes and try not to revel in the image of Faisal and a faceless Leah flying off a cliff in a car, with Deen in the back seat.
“So, you’re really set on him, huh,” I say suddenly, the words spilling from my mouth despite my better judgment. “This really is happening. Even though you barely know the guy.”
Amira tilts her head in question. “Maybe not as much as I’d like, but that’s what premarital counseling is for.”
“I guess I just don’t understand the rush. You just graduated law school. You still have so much ahead of you.”
Amira lowers the heat on the stove and turns to me. Her eyes are soft, like warm brown pools.
I want to show her the journal page. I really want to. But I’m worried about what she’ll think of me. Snooping in Faisal’s room, reading Faisal’s private journal? Just to prove that she’s made a poor life choice? I don’t want her to feel like I’m attacking her or controlling her. I have to tread carefully; even with Faisal’s journal page proving he’s got a shady past, there are still too many uncertainties. I need to be undeniably clear with the facts if I’m going to bring this up and crush her heart.
So no, I won’t show her yet.
It All Comes Back to You Page 12
