“Because a rich boy moved into my neighborhood and decided to ruin my life,” I said lightly. I smiled to show I was joking—mostly. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“My mom loved to cook,” he started, then stopped. I took another bite and waited for him to find the words.
“I knew my parents didn’t get along. It wasn’t that they fought. It was more that they didn’t really talk. They never seemed to be in the same room at the same time, you know? My dad worked all the time and Mom was alone a lot. I was so young when she died . . . not even six.”
My fork paused. I tried to imagine little Aydin, a child with floppy dark hair and huge eyes. I bet he was scrawny.
“I didn’t even realize she was sick until she was gone. Nobody told me anything. But when she was alive, she loved to cook. We lived in this massive house in North Vancouver, and she was always experimenting in the kitchen. Dad used to get so mad because she was a careless cook. She’d get haldi, that yellow turmeric powder, all over the white marble counters he had shipped from Italy.”
The kitchen at Three Sisters looked like that. Indian spices seriously stain your clothes, the walls, the counters.
“She made the best potato pakoras and chocolate chip cookies for me as after-school snacks, but I loved her biryani best of all. She said it was a secret recipe, passed down only through the women in the family. I remember feeling sad because I never planned to get married—I thought girls were gross. When I went to your restaurant, that biryani tasted just like my mother’s.” He looked up at me and our eyes locked, both remembering his father’s words that day. His smile was rueful. “Poor little rich boy, right?”
I shook my head. “I would have liked to meet your mom. I love pakoras.”
He laughed. “She would have loved to cook for you.”
“I’m a terrible cook.”
“You’re not great at waitressing either,” he said. “Good thing you’re going into broadcasting. You know, you never told me why.”
“Radio saved my life,” I said quietly. “When my father was in the hospital and we were waiting to hear if he would live through the night, and then waiting to hear if he would live through the first surgery, and then the second and the third, waiting to hear if he would ever walk again, radio and podcasts kept me distracted. They kept me upbeat and gave me something to think about other than my life. Later, when he was recovering, Baba and I binged entire shows while he was doing physio or waiting for the pain to pass. Storytelling helped us forget for a little while. That’s when I realized I wanted to tell stories for the rest of my life.”
Aydin stared at me while I was talking, his gaze moving from my eyes to my lips and back. My face grew hot. “You think that’s dumb, right?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I was just thinking I never thought I would meet someone like you.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Did you spend the past year dreaming about an opinionated broadcaster?” I asked. Our conversation had been getting too serious.
“Yes,” he said simply. “You’re ambitious, independent, loyal, smart. I love your family. You make me laugh. I can’t stop staring at you.”
The butterflies floating in my stomach were making it hard to finish the biryani poutine. I put down the fork. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
Aydin shook his head, and I could see that his fists were balled at his sides. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while. I’m afraid that when I tell you the rest of it, you’ll hate me.”
“I tried hating you. That didn’t work out so well,” I said.
“Me too.” He took a deep breath, then blurted, “My father wants me to marry Zulfa.”
My stomach dropped. “I see.”
“I’ve known her my whole life. I also know she’s in love with someone else, in Vancouver, and that her parents have been putting pressure on her to marry me. I offered to pretend to be her fiancé for a few months, to make our parents happy. In exchange, she would help me launch the restaurant.”
“Sounds like the plot of a rom-com,” I said.
His answering smile was bleak. “It isn’t that sort of movie,” he said. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand the kind of man my father is. He wants the world to operate in a certain way, and he expects obedience and loyalty from the people in his life, especially me. Becoming engaged to Zulfa was one of two conditions he set before he agreed to back my restaurant. I initially agreed because Zulfa needed time so she and Zain could make plans. But the other reason was because I needed my dad’s money and support to start Wholistic Grill.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Rashid will be so disappointed,” I murmured.
Aydin laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not making this easy for me,” he said. I knew there was more, that I wouldn’t like what came next.
“Am I supposed to make things easier for you?” I asked.
We exchanged a long glance. “Ever since we met, you’ve turned my world upside down. Just let me get through this first, and then you can decide what you want to do next.”
I nodded, wheels turning in my mind. “You said getting engaged to Zulfa was your father’s first condition for backing Wholistic Grill. What was his second condition?”
“My dad thinks I lack the killer instinct needed to succeed in business. He said if I wanted his money, I would have to prove I was a worthy investment.”
My conversation with Zulfa came back to me now, her insight into Aydin and his strained relationship with his father. I could believe that Junaid Uncle saw his son as an investment, to be held on to until a suitable return was achieved. And I could imagine Aydin tying himself in knots to comply, though his very nature rebelled.
He continued, voice a monotone now, and my heart sped up at this hint of Cold Aydin’s return. “I lied to you before. It was no coincidence that I built Wholistic Grill on Golden Crescent.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“To keep my father’s investment, I had to open Wholistic Grill next to another, well-established restaurant. I had six months to put it out of business. I chose Three Sisters. I would prove myself when you closed.” He recited the facts slowly, as if they were a confession.
Which I realized they were. It took me a moment to absorb his words. When I had, I slowly stood up. My heart was beating so fast I wasn’t sure if I could remain upright. I gripped the table, and Aydin started to move toward me, but I held up my hand. He froze in place, anxious eyes locked on my face.
“Then I guess I was right all along,” I said, voice strangely calm. Why was I so calm? “You’ve been my enemy from the start.”
His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”
And then I wasn’t calm anymore. I was furious. “What are you sorry about, exactly? For working to destroy my family from the first moment we met?”
“It wasn’t personal. You were a stranger,” Aydin answered, a note of pleading in his voice.
“You would have been fine with putting another family out of business, just to get your father’s money and vote of confidence?” I asked, voice rising.
“Your mom was having trouble even before we arrived. I admit I played a part, but you can’t put this all on me,” Aydin said. He really didn’t get it; he didn’t understand how much privilege and power he had. He held all the options while my family had to scramble to stay afloat.
“That doesn’t make it okay to take away our choices!” I yelled. “We have nothing to fall back on. My entire family will be ruined because you can’t stand up to your father!”
“You know how I feel about my father,” Aydin said, and he stood up to face me.
“You still took his money!” I roared.
He flinched, stepping back as if I had hit him. His face flushed an ugly red, raw emotion crawling across his cheeks and jawline a
s if I had slapped him. I wished I had.
“You’re not innocent in this, Hana,” Aydin said, his voice dark and low. “You spread rumors online about Wholistic Grill. You called Workers Safety and tried to shut down my renovations. At least I told you the truth.”
“Eventually! You told me the truth eventually!” I cried. “To think I felt guilty for what I had done. I erased the posts, I even vouched for you online, when you were out to get us from the start. I should have gone with my first instincts and burned your restaurant to the ground!” I was spinning out of control, anger snapping at my heels and urging me forward, even as I recognized the hurt, shame, and guilt on his face. But it wasn’t enough. After everything that had happened to us—on Golden Crescent, online, downtown. I had trusted him, helped him, and he had betrayed me.
I could feel the pinpricks of tears, but I held them back. “How could you do this to me?” I asked, hating how small I sounded.
“I wanted to tell you the truth as soon as I realized . . .” He trailed off. Then, more softly, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen? You weren’t supposed to feel bad for me? To feel sorry for my family when you pushed us out of our ethnic slum and onto the street?”
“No!” he said.
I dared him to explain. I was standing so close I could feel the heat of him, just as he could see that I was trembling. “Then what?” I yelled back.
“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you!” Aydin shouted.
His words pushed me backward in shock. We were both breathing hard now, facing off like two exhausted boxers in the final round.
I tossed my head, disbelieving, hurt, and sad—and so very, very sorry. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you actually feel something for me, Aydin. That’s not love,” I said deliberately. “Love doesn’t deceive, or play games, or always take.”
Part of me knew that wasn’t the whole truth. I had witnessed his kindness; I just didn’t know if any of it had been real. My next words were cruel, a direct hit. “What would your mother think of you now?”
I regretted the question immediately. Aydin closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were wet. He swore under his breath and walked away.
I forced myself to leave, slipping out by the patio gate, leaving the biryani poutine he had made for me—and what was left of my heart—on the table.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I was still furious with Aydin the next day, and I wasn’t sure what to do about his confession. I wondered if I should tell my family. Fazeela and Baba had both asked me to start sharing, but what good would that information do? I didn’t want to admit to sabotaging Aydin online, and it might all come out now. I wasn’t sure why Junaid Uncle wanted our closing in any case, aside from proof that his son could be shaped by his motives. It seemed like terrible business practice to me, but then I didn’t live in the rarified world of corporate plotting. Besides, I could picture my mother’s indifferent reaction to Aydin’s behavior: We were in trouble before he came along. I do not see the issue.
I also wasn’t sure what Aydin had expected the previous night. Some sort of easy forgiveness, perhaps? If so, we had both been surprised by my rage. And I had been even more shocked by his admission that he had feelings for me. I wasn’t supposed to fall for you! His words echoed in my mind as I got ready for my shift at Radio Toronto.
There had been attraction between us from the start, but love? We were virtually strangers. How could you do this to me? Remembering my own words brought a flush of embarrassment to my cheeks. What would your mother think of you now? I couldn’t stop thinking about the look in Aydin’s eyes when I had conjured up his mother. He had deserved my anger, but perhaps not that final cruelty.
I wasn’t sure how I would face him again. With swords drawn, pistols at dawn? Or would he wave his white flag, tempt me with some more biryani poutine, and refuse to fight? What would I do then?
One thing was sure: The truth was out between us, all our secrets revealed. In the light of morning, that honesty felt clean and oddly refreshing. I was tired of lying to myself about how I really felt about so many things in my life. I was tired of going along to get along and of ignoring the cost of that deceit in my life. It was time to open the windows and let sunshine stream into the dark corners. It was time to take my story into my own hands, not leave it in the hands of those who didn’t respect my words.
I dressed for work, mentally flinging open those windows as I wrapped my most colorful hijab—pink, blue, and purple—and secured it with a straight pin. I put on mascara and bright red lipstick with a heavy hand. And I thought about the women in my family—my mother, Kawkab Khala, Fazeela. Each had faced major challenges, and not one had chosen the easier, less strenuous path. They had all fought for what they believed in, for as long as they could.
I willed that same clarifying light to stream into the conversation I now realized I had to have with Marisa and Thomas.
* * *
• • •
Marisa looked at her watch when I walked through the door of Radio Toronto—I was on time for once. “Nice to see you’re making an effort, Hana. I know things have been difficult for you lately,” she said.
I felt a prickle across the back of my neck. Her words had been designed to put me in my place, but instead they were having the opposite effect. Marisa knew about the Golden Crescent attack; it had made the news, and once again I had been quoted and interviewed, representing my family business and the street, but not by Radio Toronto. I knew she resented my refusal to do another on-air radio segment, about the attack on my neighborhood. That was probably why she was being so short with me.
She asked if there had been any new developments, and what the police had said. Marisa had never shown an interest in my family before, but now she peppered me with queries. Your mother has run a restaurant for fifteen years? Rashid is new to the country, here on a student visa? Fazeela used to play soccer semiprofessionally and now she is on bed rest with a difficult pregnancy? But her interest was fleeting, especially since there would be no accompanying story for the station, and she turned back to the monitor in front of Thomas. On the screen I spotted an outline of the story about radicalization, the one they had pitched to Nathan Davis despite my protests.
“You’re not still doing that story,” I said flatly.
“Of course we are, darling,” Marisa said, not bothering to turn around.
Thomas caught my eye and straightened. “What’s wrong, Hana?” he asked.
It was now or never. Channeling my inner Kawkab Khala, I started in. “I’ve thought a lot about responsible storytelling lately,” I said carefully.
“Yes, Hana?” Marisa said, clicking through Thomas’s document. She still hadn’t turned around.
My nails dug into my palms. “I don’t want you to pursue the story about radicalization among young Muslims,” I blurted. “It’s dangerous. It will incite more hatred against a community already under tremendous scrutiny and suspicion.”
I finally had my boss’s attention. Marisa stared at me while Thomas shifted position, his hands rising in a subtle motion. Calm down, his eyes beseeched. Don’t start anything.
I ignored him.
“This is an important story that will lead to discussion from interested listeners,” Marisa responded, in her best reasoning-with-a-toddler tone. “I know some ugly things have happened to you and your family recently, but as a journalist, you have to learn to separate your personal biases from current events. Your job is to be objective, darling.” She returned to the screen.
How had I never noticed the patronizing tone in her voice before? Or maybe I had simply been ignoring it all this time, because that had been easier.
“You can’t,” I said, and my voice cracked. I was scared, I realized.
Marisa stilled. “I . . . can’t?” she repeated, shak
ing her head. “Hana, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time downtown, and your cousin aggravated a fringe group by posting that video. He made a choice, and the fallout is on him. The fact that the video went viral demonstrates how interested people are in this issue, which is great news for your show. When I chose you and Thomas for this competitive internship, you both agreed to work on assigned projects. This show is important to everyone at the radio station. Good journalism requires you to dig deep and make sacrifices.”
I shifted from one foot to the other, contemplating my options. I could back down right away. She had effectively put me in my place. If I folded, she might give in on my next idea or offer me a paid position, because I had proven myself capable of being “objective,” of being a team player. Except I didn’t want to be on this team. I took a deep breath and acknowledged the truth: I couldn’t do it anymore.
“I’ve never been comfortable with the way you wanted to frame a show about people of color in Toronto,” I began. The moment the words were out of my mouth, out of my head, my shoulders dropped in relief. “I made my concerns clear at the meeting with Nathan Davis, as well as later, but you didn’t listen to me.”
Marisa’s jaw tightened at my words, and two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. “Do you have any idea what a gift you’ve been given?” she said. “Working on a show of your own, at this stage of your career, is an incredible opportunity. If you’re having trouble making the best of things now, how will you survive in this field? You should be thanking me, not causing further problems.”
Her true feelings finally. I should be thanking her. I should feel honored and privileged to work on the story—any story—she had gifted me. The worst of it was, I knew she was right on one level. It was an opportunity. But she was also wrong on a different level, one that held in the balance my sense of self, the history and responsibility I carried, and that balance was not equal.
Hana Khan Carries On Page 22
