It All Comes Back to You

by Farah Naz Rishi

  “Huh.” I put down my spoon, watch it sink into my cereal bowl. “She never told me.”

  Amira puts up her hands. “It was just a thought she’d had—I don’t know if she was actually serious! She probably didn’t say anything because she wasn’t sure, and I happened to be there.”

  I’m only half listening; the gears in my head start to whirl with life. Becoming a physician’s assistant—I had no idea Mom had ever even considered it. But it’s not a bad idea.

  I don’t want you to have to make hard choices when you could have it all.

  I bite my lip. It’s not a bad idea at all.

  We fall into a long stretch of silence.

  Amira is the first to break it.

  “Things are changing, but”—she lets out a shaky breath—“women are still always the first to upheave their lives for others, huh? Certainly doesn’t help when your in-laws seem to expect it.”

  She looks stressed. Deen and Faisal’s mom must be giving her a harder time than I realized. I’m not sure what to say, so I look at her and let her go on.

  “Do you remember the other day when we were in the kitchen, right here, and you told me you didn’t understand the rush to marry Faisal?” Amira asks.

  I swallow nervously. “Yeah. I think I said something about three months not being a lot of time to really know someone.”

  Amira nods. “But Mom and Dad barely knew each other when they got married, and it worked out for them. At least, that was the logic.

  “But just because it worked out for them doesn’t mean it’ll work out for us, does it? I keep wondering if—if three months really isn’t a lot of time. I know I’m probably saying all this because I’m nervous and it’s all starting to feel so real, and Faisal’s been too busy getting ready to move to California and there have been more and more . . . questions cropping up in my head. About him. About us.”

  Her eyes are a vast emptiness that clenches at my heart.

  “You mean the stuff with Asher? And the bachelor party?”

  “Right. I’m not saying it’s enough to call off the wedding or anything. But I’m wondering if those . . . incidents are simply little bumps in the road, or are indicators of a much bigger iceberg of problems hiding under the surface. Red flags that I’ve been trying to ignore.” Amira stares at her lap.

  “We work so well together. That’s why I fell for him, I think. His nonprofit idea—AFFEY? It’s exactly the kind of work that I want to do. Trying to help kids get back on their feet after serving time, giving them a second chance? What’s more noble than that? And his passion for it, it’s infectious. I mean, he’s poured so much of his savings into building the center in California that his parents have to cover the cost of the move. That, plus the timing of it all, too—it felt so right. But is that really enough?”

  Amira’s fingers clutch the fabric of her pants. “It’s a little over a week before our wedding. I thought I’d feel more ready than this.”

  Guilt tears into me, cutting away at all the pent-up determination. I’m left drained. And cold.

  I’ve never seen Amira like this, so torn and confused and unsure of herself. She’s always known exactly what she’s wanted. It’s what I’ve always admired her for, what I’ve always been jealous of.

  But because of me . . .

  Faisal didn’t do this to her. I did.

  “I wish Mom were here,” Amira says softly, wilting like a flower.

  I close my eyes tightly. “Me too.”

  I find myself wanting to tell her everything: about Deen and me dating, about my stupid plan, and all the thoughts and fears I’ve been keeping locked inside. I want to tell her that everything she feels right now is my fault.

  But I can’t be selfish. I won’t dump all my mistakes on her so soon before her wedding.

  For now, I need to clean up my mess. I’ll send a message to Leah and tell her not to come. I shouldn’t have invited her, anyway. Making her come to Amira’s wedding . . . God, what was I thinking? I was so caught up trying to expose Faisal that I didn’t think about how it would affect Amira.

  I underestimated how much she really cares about him.

  Maybe he did commit a felony. Maybe he does have a shady past. But for all I know, he really could be a changed man. If Amira, a freaking social-justice lawyer, thinks so, shouldn’t that be enough?

  I can’t trust Faisal. But I can trust her.

  I’ll message Leah. I’ll erase the three-step plan. I’ll shred the journal entry, as soon as I find it—I think I dropped it somewhere, but I’ll try not to worry about that right now.

  I’m done worrying.

  “Boys are the worst,” I say.

  Amira laughs wetly. “The absolute worst.”

  “Whatever. Tonight is your night. And tomorrow is your day. Cishet dudes can go suck it. They’re all officially grounded.”

  “Except Dad.”

  “Except Dad,” I say, nodding. “Speaking of which, I should probably go check up on him.” Plus, I have some messages to write.

  I slide off the chair and make my way to the staircase.

  “Hey, Kiran?” Amira’s voice stops me.

  I look over my shoulder to see her, a small smile on her face.

  “I love you,” she says.

  My eyes burn.

  “I love you, too.”

  Chapter 29

  Deen

  Saturday, August 21

  One Day Until the Wedding

  I FIND FAISAL IN HIS room in the basement. He’s on the ground in a plank doing dumbbell rows, and besides his cheeks being a little darker than usual, he’s hardly working up a sweat. Normally, I’d be rolling up my sleeves to show that I, too, am an unstoppable beast. But if I tried to lift a thirty-pounder in my current state, I’m pretty sure I’d drop through the floor like a freaking Looney Tunes character. Plus, there’s only one reason why Faisal would be working out this hard, right before his own wedding.

  “I was going to come in and check on you, but I think I know the answer,” I say, leaning against the doorjamb.

  Faisal lets out a sad huff. “You know me too well.” He drops his weights and gets to his feet. He takes a swig from a gallon of water before eyeing me over.

  “I thought I was tired, but you—you look exhausted. Everything okay?”

  I almost laugh. Not at all, I want to say. Not even a little bit.

  Vinny’s still not talking to me, and despite the mad whirlwind these past few weeks, I really miss the guy. And the girl I’ve been crushing on in Cambria is in fact the same girl who hates me more than anyone—enough to write up an entire plan to ruin my brother’s happiness.

  All the while, every time I blink, I see Kiran, a tiny dancer spinning around in my head, single-handedly churning all my thoughts into an anxiety-laden smoothie.

  But I can’t let him worry. “Yeah, of course. Have you even met me?”

  The stairs above us thump, announcing that we’ll be shortly joined by someone else.

  It’s Mom. She must have just come back from work; typical she would still work even up till the eleventh hour.

  “You left your phone upstairs,” she says. Her face hardly shows any emotion, other than that her mouth is in a thinner line than usual.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I reach for it, take it, and immediately sense something very wrong.

  Mom looks me in the eyes and I feel myself shrink. Because behind her eyes, I feel the familiar fury.

  “Why is your professor emailing you?” she demands, her voice like a bitch slap of freezing wind. “What is this about you not turning in your essays?”

  Fuck.

  “You went through my email.”

  It’s my fault for leaving my phone around, I guess. Knowing how M&D are. But I wanted to put some distance between me and my messages. For whatever stupid reason, I keep waiting for a message from Vinny. And Kiran.

  She smooths at the knot forming between her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “He’s going to dock your grades
if you keep doing this. You’re supposed to be better than this, Deen. Why aren’t you taking school seriously? Do you want to end up like Faisal, han?”

  I swallow hard. She’s telling me things I already know. But I don’t like that she has to tack on a jab to Faisal at the end. When he’s standing right here.

  “You’re not even a sophomore yet. You can’t afford to slack off. We’re paying for your tuition, and we expect—”

  “Ami, you can’t put that kind of pressure on him all the time,” comes Faisal’s voice. He stands beside me. “It’s not healthy.”

  “You are the last person I want to hear that from,” Mom snaps.

  Faisal’s head lowers. “I know. But Deen’s had a lot on his mind lately. Cut him some slack. I’m sure he already knows.”

  Mom practically puffs up with hot air. “We’ve seen firsthand what happens when I give any of you boys some slack.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You have no right—”

  “Ami, please—”

  “Faisal, what has gotten into y—”

  The thoughts in my head spin faster and faster. Churning and bubbling and spilling . . .

  I’ll take the fall for you.

  “Stop it!” I shout. I’m breathing like I’ve just run a hundred miles and my exoskeleton is too damn tired to hold in the anger anymore. I round up on Mom, squeezing my phone with all my strength. “Stop it. Holy shit. You always do this! You’re never home and when you are, you jump down our throats. Why even have kids, then? Seriously? Faisal has gone through actual hell to get himself back on his feet with literally no support from his own parents and here you are, treating your own flesh and blood like shit.”

  Mom looks like she’s ready to slap me, and frankly, I almost want her to.

  “We supported him all throughout college,” she says, dangerously low, “before he threw it all away. And even then, we’ve put a roof over his head, let him stay with us without expecting anything in return—”

  “So you could control him! The only reason why you keep him close is to keep an eye on him. You made us move because of the rumors about Faisal at the masjid and you didn’t want your precious reputation being tarnished.”

  “Don’t you dare speak that way to me,” Mom hisses. But I ignore her because I’m on a roll and I can’t stop.

  “And you—” I start, looking at Faisal, “I didn’t ask you to defend me. You’re too quick to throw yourself in the fire for others, but how is that actually helpful? Think about yourself for once.”

  Faisal stares back at me like a puppy I’ve just hit.

  “Deen . . . ?”

  His voice breaks something inside me. The expression he’s making—it reminds me of the night of the accident. The last time I completely lost it.

  “Look,” I continue, shaking, “I get that you take crap from our parents because you think you owe them, or out of some filial piety bullshit, and I get that we’re taught that ‘heaven lies under our mother’s feet.’ But can you really say that applies if she’s going to trample all over you, if she’s going to keep kicking you when you’re down? You don’t think that’s going to affect Amira eventually? The people who love you?”

  “Deen!” Mom finally yells and it’s like a jolt to my brain. “Tumhe kya hua? What has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing.” I run my hand through my hair, and I realize my forehead’s damp. “Nothing. Forget it. I’m just . . . tired.” My throat feels impossibly tight. What the hell am I doing? I must be losing my goddamn mind.

  “I can’t believe you—we don’t have time for whatever the hell this is. We will talk about this later,” Mom promises through gritted teeth. It feels more like a threat. Like everything that comes out of her mouth.

  I look her in the eyes. It feels like the first time in forever. “There’s nothing more to talk about,” I respond. “Either you change the way you act, or I’m done being your son. Trust me. It’d be better for all of us that way.”

  Mom huffs, her glare digging into me. She’s so furious, she’s actually at a loss for words. But to my surprise—and relief—she simply storms out of the room, leaving me and Faisal alone.

  Neither of us speaks for what feels like minutes.

  “You’re one to talk, you know,” Faisal says finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not the only one with a habit of throwing myself to the wayside.”

  I blink. “Me? Please. I love myself too much for that.”

  “Heh. Maybe,” says Faisal, smiling weakly. “Go get some rest, Deen. We’re going to be busy tomorrow.”

  “You too.” I pat him on the shoulder. “You don’t want to show up at your wedding with dark circles and give Amira reason to call the whole thing off.”

  “At least, not any more than I already have.”

  Before I can respond, he escapes into the bathroom next door.

  And I take a deep breath.

  Chapter 30

  Kiran

  Sunday, August 22

  Amira and Faisal’s Wedding Day

  THE SWELL OF VIOLINS SIGNALS that it’s time, punctuated with the beat of a dhol that reverberates through the ballroom. My heart responds in kind, thrumming in an uncomfortable syncopation to the bass.

  Riz grins at me. “Shall we?”

  Behind us, Amira sucks in a breath. She’s wearing a cream-colored lehenga that trails behind her, its shimmering fabric embroidered with delicate gold and pink flowers. On Mona and Mrs. Malik’s insistence, she’s swathed in heavy jewelry: a gold-plated tikka adorns her forehead; emerald droplets dangle from the wide choker on her neck. A hoop hangs from her nose, with a delicate chain connecting it to her long pink-sapphire-and-pearl earrings. Thick gold bangles chime on wrists with her every movement. It’s not unusual to wear so much jewelry at a Pakistani wedding, and Amira looks undeniably beautiful in it all. But still. I can’t help but feel she looks weighed down, like a bird chained to a gilded cage.

  The only comfort is her lehenga. Mom’s lehenga. It fits her perfectly. When Dad saw her for the first time in the dressing room, he cried. Which, of course, made us cry. God bless waterproof mascara.

  “I’m ready,” says Amira, her voice soft as silk, but strong.

  I nod and muster a grin back at Riz. “Let’s do it.”

  A small group of us form the wedding procession, and together, we’re holding a blush-pink dupatta over Amira like a tent: Nani bringing up the rear, with Amira’s college friends, Cara and Rebecca, sharing the right side. Asher is the only guy, standing just behind me on the left, while Rizwana and I flank the front corners of the dupatta.

  We walk forward. Ahead, Faisal’s younger cousins, led by Sara, Mona’s daughter, toss white flower petals along the path. I hardly notice; I move mechanically, one foot in front of the other, trying not to trip on the length of my own coral-red lehenga.

  The doors to the ballroom open, and for a moment, I’m momentarily stunned by an assault of light. Cameras. I blink, hard.

  And then my eyes adjust.

  The ballroom is vast, with gilded walls and a scallop-patterned ceiling where spotlights dance around crystal chandeliers suspended like colossal jellyfish overhead. Roman pillars border the room, their alpine forms blanketing by living vines, and between them, latticed archways reveal a second floor with more seating. White-clothed round tables—filled with people—punctuate the main floor, their surfaces adorned with massive glass vases featuring bouquets of moss and white chrysanthemums and lilac wisteria. But the center of the room is bare: the dance floor. Though the rest of the ballroom is aglow in plumes of shuddering gold candlelight, the dance floor alone is swathed in gentle, ethereal purple.

  And at the front of the ballroom is a stage, domed with dangling strings of pearls and more wisteria, filling the hall with the smell of flowers. Two gilded thrones made of black velvet and gold trim sit under a dome, separated only by a thin, opal-studded table and two white feather quill pens. To sign th
e marriage contract.

  My ribs clamp inside my chest. Traditionally for Muslims, the bride’s family pays for weddings, but Faisal’s mom and dad insisted they cover it. I knew the Maliks were rich, but this is ridiculous.

  The violins reach a swell as we approach the dome, where a solitary figure stands beneath: Faisal, in a matching cream-colored shalwar and a pink-and-blue stitched scarf draped over his shoulder. The gold-embroidered turban sits a little lopsided on his head.

  Amira takes a seat beside Faisal on an enormous tufted Chesterfield sofa, so gaudy that I’m half convinced the Maliks must have pilfered it from a Mughal palace.

  Dad puts a garland of pink roses and white carnations over Faisal’s bowed head, while Mrs. Malik places a matching garland over Amira’s. To their left, Imam Obaid takes a separate chair, a Quran in his hands. There’s a small table beside him, and I spot the official nikah papers: the marriage contract.

  Faisal squeezes Amira’s hand; she smiles back nervously.

  I hesitate.

  “Come.” Dad puts his hand on my back, gently nudging me.

  I linger a little longer before squaring my shoulders and finally plodding offstage.

  Dad’s led away by Mr. Malik, and Asher and I head for the table closest to the stage, labeled #1, the table reserved for family of the bride.

  “So, here we are at last,” Asher says.

  “Yeah.” I plop myself into a gilded chair while Asher takes the seat beside me. I know I told myself to let go, but still. It’s hard to be happy.

  “So is it true that at Pakistani weddings, it’s tradition to steal the groom’s shoes for ransom? Would that make you feel better?”

  I let out a puff of air, blowing my bangs off my forehead. “Pretty sure Faisal barely has money to spare. A lot of it’s going toward the nonprofit.” And now with Amira involved, I’m sure she’ll be dragged along with it. It’ll probably take her twice as long to pay back her student loan debt. Just another reason why they shouldn’t be together. On top of everything else.

  But I promised I’d stop interfering. I even deleted the plan off my phone, wrote a message to Leah telling her the plan was off. I meant to shred Faisal’s journal page, too, and I looked everywhere for it. Except I was never able to find it. It must have fallen out the back pocket on my phone.