“Even still.” Her eyes flitted to the window. “I want to.”
Later, I showed her Mom’s letter and we both cried seemingly for hours. But it was . . . nice. I woke up feeling lighter than ever. Surer than ever.
Except for one tiny thing. One tiny person.
Back to the present. Amira’s sleeves are rolled up and she’s wearing a bandanna to cover her hair (we’re wearing matching blue ones I found in storage). She looks adorable.
“Was he fighting you?” she asks.
“You know Dad,” I respond, shrugging.
“That I do.” She sighs and goes back to cleaning the bathroom. “Stubborn till the end. Guess that’s where you get it from.”
I can hear the grin in her voice.
The doorbell rings.
“Is that finally my ice cream delivery?” I say out loud.
Amira pops her head back out and rolls her sleeves back down. “Or Faisal?”
I head for the door. “Why, are you hoping?”
“No!”
I laugh and yank open the front door.
“Hey.”
Deen Malik is standing at my doorstep. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and his hair’s a little rumpled, but he seems . . . different somehow. Brighter, almost, like he’s wiped away a grimy filter.
I finally find my voice. “Hey.” I try to steady it. “What—what are you doing here?”
He smiles sadly. “I did say I’d come see you on the other side. Too hot for a trench coat, though.”
It’s like the entire world suddenly tilts backward. I grab the doorway to hold steady.
“Foxx.” The name comes out in a gasp. “You’re Foxx.”
I feel the surge of a million synapses, a billion memories, connecting and falling into place.
Dancer, huh. Is that really such a pipe dream?
I want to be able to change the past.
I feel like all of this stuff is bubbling in me, set to go off at any moment.
If we met in real life, would you trust me?
And the song at the wedding . . . of course.
“Wasn’t it obvious?” Deen asks, shoving his hands in his pockets sheepishly. “I mean, not that I even knew until recently.”
“I—” I bite my lip. “I wasn’t sure. The thought crossed my mind, but . . .” But I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.
Because if I did, if it were true . . .
“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I—I didn’t know how. With everything that happened—” Deen rubs the back of his neck, looks away. “Just please don’t stab me in the heart like Foxx told you.”
I laugh, but it comes out like a hysterical squeak.
He takes a step closer. “Also, I’m sorry, not just for the wedding, but for everything I’ve done. The wedding was kind of . . . a much-needed slap to the face. I need to stop bottling things up. The things I said to you, they were uncalled for, and I didn’t mean them. I was just trying to—”
“Protect your brother. I know,” I say. “I’m sorry, too. I was doing the same thing. Trying to protect Amira. With everything that’s happened to us—”
“Like losing your mom? Yeah, it’s understandable. You’d need time to process it all. Maybe more time than what Amira and Faisal had.”
Love isn’t a feeling; it’s the act of planting a seed and putting in the time and care it needs to grow.
I smile. “Yeah.”
We avoid looking at each other. I don’t know what this strange, warm haze is between us. I don’t know what’s changed in the past few days. All I do know is that this feeling is something entirely different from anything I’ve felt from him before—it’s not the Deen I knew from the past, or the Deen who’s been getting in my way these few months. It’s not even Foxx.
But it feels comfortable. And hesitant. Two awkward hands brushing their fingertips against each other for the first time, feeling each other out.
Deen clears his throat. “Honestly, if I didn’t have you to talk to . . . if I didn’t have Kas . . . who knows, maybe I would have blown up sooner. Maybe I would have done something worse.” He chuckles darkly.
“Well, I’m glad she—I—could help,” I reply. “But why did you delete your account?”
“Because Foxx is a lot better about talking through his feelings than I am. And I want to learn how to do that. I’ve relied on him way too long. If I want to get better, then . . .” He smiles sadly. “He had to go.”
Deen takes a step back. “And so do I.”
His words strike me in the stomach. “Wait, what?” I blink, confused. “So soon? Are you—are you sure you don’t want to come in? Talk a little more?”
Deen raises his eyebrows. But then he shakes his head. “As much as I want to, I don’t think I’m ready yet.” He looks at me meaningfully.
I don’t really know what he means by ready. But I don’t pry further.
“Oh.” I swallow a brittle lump.
We don’t say anything for a bit.
Then his mouth quirks up in a small smile. “But I do still believe that Faisal and Amira are meant to be together. When that happens, I’m sure I’ll see you again. And hopefully, by then, I’ll be ready, too. So that next time—next time you ever need someone, I’ll be there.”
It happens so fast, I’m sure I imagined it: Deen’s lips brush against my cheek, and there’s a gentle, warm inhale against my skin. Like a tiny flame.
He pulls away. “I have to say, I’ll miss our little fights. But I’ll miss our dancing more.”
I roll my eyes, even though I’m certain my cheeks are totally flushed.
Deen hops down our steps, past the giant white picket SOLD sign, to his parents’ car parked on the road. I watch his back, the familiar line of his shoulders.
All throughout our conversation, I’ve struggled to find the words. But I find them now.
“See you soon,” I call after him.
Deen looks over his shoulder to meet my eyes. His face bursts into a dimpled smile, so genuine that it makes my heart clench.
“Yes,” he replies warmly. “See you soon.”
Three Years Later
Friday, May 3
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THE SENIORS are leaving!” whines Alina, pouting and closing her eyes to hold back her tears.
Three of our freshman members, Nura, Geeta, and Tanvi, all glare at her. We’re all backstage for our annual PENNaach South Asian Dance showcase.
“Stop. You’re going to make me cry.” I’ve been a member of PENNaach since my first day on campus, when Shreya, one of the current co-presidents, spotted me at orientation.
You have that dancer . . . vibe! she practically shouted, grabbing my hands. The, the aura! You have to join.
And so I did. Not that I had much of a choice in the matter. With Shreya’s long, curly black hair, she has the demeanor of an adorable, excitable poodle. I could not say no.
It’s also how I met Alina, who, like me, was equally horrified that there’s no dance program here at Penn. But sometimes, the two of us have been meeting up at the Arts House Dance Company for more practice.
“Good! You should cry! The seniors have been, like, parents to us.” Alina’s huge eyes suddenly grow wider. “Wait! But this means . . . we’ll be co-prezes.” She grins. “The throne will be ours.”
I snort. “You just did a full one-eighty in a matter of seconds. Also pretty sure we still need to do elections.”
“For a freaking dance club? No, no, no. We’ll be the only two rising seniors. The choice is obvious.”
As Alina continues with her warm-up, I peek through the curtain. Shreya is warming up the floor, commanding the spotlight with a slow, classical fusion piece, all lithe and graceful and confident. It’s mesmerizing to watch. But when she reaches the end of the song, the spotlight is supposed to go dark.
And when it lights up again, we’ll all be onstage with her.
I’m nervous and excited, like a hundred tiny bees a
re buzzing wildly in my belly. The big group performance—our final goodbye to the PENNaach seniors—is the first dance that I alone choreographed. I barely had time; I’ve been juggling what feels like a hundred classes and prepping for next year, when I’ll start applying for PA school. But I think it’s a winner.
Plus, it’ll be the first time Amira gets to see one of our shows. So it has to be good.
“Is she out there?” Alina asks.
I scan the audience. At first, I don’t see her in any of the seats, but then I spot a familiar form, standing in one of the aisles with her phone up: Amira, recording the performance on her phone, clutching it with both hands like she can barely contain herself.
I smile. “Yep.”
In the seat next to her is Faisal, looking a little out of place wearing a suit jacket over his shirt. But it’s just like him to try too hard.
“It’s time,” says Nura, waving us over to the right wing of the stage. Outside, the lights dim.
Alina and I look at each other. We both take a deep breath in through our noses, timed perfectly, and let it out through our mouths. Our little ritual we’ve been doing since our very first performance.
Then she gives me a thumbs-up. “Let’s do it.”
All of us tiptoe onto the stage with Shreya and the other seniors, cloaked in darkness, and we crouch into tightly coiled balls around them, buds in a garden of flowers. It was Dad’s idea, a garden-themed dance.
When the music bursts, so do we, frantic but sharp, our footsteps perfectly in sync, thudding against the stage like one heartbeat. Our limbs whip around us and our backs arch before we fall into another formation, a giant spinning ring. I hear someone whistle loudly, someone saying my name. I can’t help it; I let out a loud laugh.
Finally the song ends, and I’m basking in the familiar afterglow and the frenzied applause. I take my place next to Alina for our bow. In the audience, Amira and Faisal are standing, twin smiles on their face. Pride, warm and buzzing and alive, swells in my chest. Shreya tackles me with a hug before Alina jumps in, too, and we become a jangled mess of limbs and tangled dupattas.
I follow the girls back to one of the wings. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes, to go have dinner with Amira and Faisal and hear all about their upcoming move to San Diego. Together.
Except there’s someone in my way, standing by the curtain, their face obscured by shadow. Shreya and Alina step back, smiling knowingly at me.
“What . . . ?” I step ahead.
“Long time no see,” says a voice. A voice that strikes right into my chest.
He steps into the light.
It’s been three years since I’ve last seen him, and although he’s a little older, his features sharper, I immediately recognize the heavy-lidded dark eyes, the tiny mole beneath the left one.
And that stupid, insufferable, beautiful grin.
Deen.
Acknowledgments
I could say it was a miracle that I was able to write It All Comes Back to You. When I first began writing, my mother had just passed away from ALS, and all the while, I was still reeling from the loss of my brother and my father before that. I had to learn, while writing a book about family, what it meant to live without mine.
Only, calling it a miracle would be a disservice to all the people who have reminded me that the word family is a dynamic, ever-changing thing, and that over time, it can take on new shapes and meaning. I have lost one kind of family, yes, but I’ve replaced it with a hundred others—and maybe that is the miracle. Thank you to the following people for giving me the strength to keep writing:
I owe a million thank-yous to the wonderful team at HarperCollins/Quill Tree, who brought life and color to this book: Rosemary Brosnan, Jon Howard, Gweneth Morton, David DeWitt, Erin Fitzsimmons, Sean Cavanagh, Vanessa Nuttry, Shannon Cox, Audrey Diestelkamp, Jacquelynn Burke, Patty Rosati, Mimi Rankin, Katie Dutton, Jessica White, Veronica Ambrose, Allison Weintraub, and, of course, my lovely editor, Alex Cooper. I’m so, so grateful to be working with you.
Zahra Fatimah, you brilliant, beautiful soul. Thank you for giving me what is undoubtedly, in my humble opinion, the most beautiful cover illustration I have ever seen.
Hannah Bowman, a legend, a savior—I could go on, but you would probably roll your eyes and then get back to work on the hundred other things you are juggling (I’m half convinced you are a primordial spirit of justice masquerading as human).
Thank you to my Muslim sisters: Farheen, Hiba, Sana, Ayla, Madiha, and so many others who have been cheering me on throughout this wild journey.
Karuna Riazi, Samira Ahmed, and Sabaa Tahir, for pulling me up. Without these trailblazers, I would be utterly lost.
Marri and Kate for the always funny (and sometimes horrifying) memes that would keep me laughing well into the night. I adore you both so very much.
Gina Chen and Em X. Liu and Zayba Shahnaz, whose early enthusiasm for the book picked me up whenever I was down (which, frankly, was a lot). Thank God I met you. And Gina—thank you for the K-Pop that fueled my frantic edits. You are my fandom Aladdin, showing me whole new worlds.
Adam Silvera and Abigail Wen, who heard about this book idea before anyone else—thank you for being the best tour buddies, guiding lights, and friends.
Eric Smith and Swapna Krishna—thank you for being another reason I can call Philadelphia home.
My Odyssey family: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day (in New Hampshire, during a six-week, caffeine-fueled writing workshop)? RK, beautiful little sister, my partner in crime; Jeremy, a.k.a. Turtle Sensei; Josh, my favorite frenemy; Linden and Pablo, the Goth parents of my dreams; Jeanne Cavelos, ringmaster of our carnival; and the rest of the Odyssey fellows: I love you all so much.
Cara Takemoto, my favorite (metaphorical, I swear!) fire starter. Thank you for always having my back, in video games and real life.
Shaan and Alina and Mariam, to whom I owe a million halal cheesesteaks and uncomfortable hugs (sorry I’m so bad at giving them).
All the readers, booksellers, bloggers, and TikTokers who’ve been so supportive: I see you and I’m forever grateful.
Stephen, the worst project partner I could ever ask to be stuck with, eleven years and counting. It’s almost as though you have a crush on me, and, frankly, you should be embarrassed.
And finally, Shaz. I hope somewhere, you are watching over me, laughing as I flail through this strange little life. I wouldn’t even mind if you laughed. After all, it’s still—and always will be—my favorite sound.
About the Author
PHOTO BY MIKE STYER
FARAH NAZ RISHI is a Pakistani American Muslim writer and voice actor, but in another life she’s worked stints as a lawyer, a video game journalist, and an editorial assistant. She received her BA in English from Bryn Mawr College, her JD from Lewis & Clark Law School, and her love of weaving stories from the Odyssey Writing Workshop. When she’s not writing, she’s probably hanging out with video game characters. She is the author of I Hope You Get This Message. You can find her at home in Philadelphia or on Twitter and Instagram at @farahnazrishi.
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Copyright
Quill Tree Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
IT ALL COMES BACK TO YOU. Copyright © 2021 by Farah Naz Rishi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access a
nd read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2021 by Zahra Fatimah
Cover design by David DeWitt
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021937277
Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-274150-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-274148-6
* * *
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FIRST EDITION
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