It All Comes Back to You

by Rishi, Farah Naz

“Something like that.” I look away. “It sounds like someone invited a stripper.”

  “A stripper?” Amira blinks. “Who would invite a stripper?”

  “No idea,” I lie, even though every time I lie to my sister it tastes like chalk on my tongue. I don’t know how Faisal does it. Speaking of which: “Have you heard from Faisal?” I ask in a low voice.

  She shakes her head. “No, I . . . haven’t. He hasn’t texted me since last night.”

  I glance at the clock on the oven. It’s already almost 5:00 p.m. Faisal is playing right into my plans, digging himself into a hole. I chew the inside of my mouth.

  “At least the boys enjoyed themselves?” says Amira with a soft, sad laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” I say this time. This time, I really, really mean it.

  Amira turns and leans on the counter and stares up at the ceiling.

  “Yeah. Wow. It’s . . . weird.” She laughs again, but it sounds tight. “I’m genuinely surprised. Faisal’s a pretty straitlaced guy, you know? Never misses a prayer, does everything by the book—that kind of guy. At least I thought he was. So him being with a stripper, and then not texting me is, um”—she swallows—“it’s really out of character.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, I wasn’t there so I don’t know the whole situation, but I’m kind of bothered by this. Actually. Yeah. I’m pretty bothered. A whole day’s gone by, too, and he hasn’t said a word about it.” She goes over to a chair and just sort of falls into it. “I kind of wish he just gave me a heads-up, just so I wasn’t blindsided days before the mehndi.”

  Her head falls backward, her long hair plunging behind her, revealing the length of her neck.

  “Want me to drop you off at a strip club so you can get revenge?”

  She lets out a wet snort. “Sure.” Her voice sounds a little raw and hopeless. A sound that makes me wonder, for just a moment, if Asher is right.

  It’s quiet. I can hear the bustle of moving cars outside, the creaking of our old walls, the gentle hum of the fridge behind us. Comforting sounds. Usually.

  “You don’t think he—” Amira’s rubbing her right wrist, running her thumb down her veins.

  “What?” I press.

  She looks up at me. “You don’t think he did it because of what happened with Asher, do you?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask him,” I answer diplomatically. “But something does feel a little . . . weird.”

  “Yeah, and the timing. It’s very . . . weird.”

  Seeing her sitting there, forcing a casual conversation with me, cracks my chest open. I rub my arms. I’m suddenly cold.

  Amira sighs. “Thanks for telling me, though. Sounds like he and I need to have a chat soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  Amira pushes herself away from the counter. “I’m going to go upstairs and start on my room. Lots of junk . . . to clear out.”

  “Right. I’ll meet you up there in a sec,” I say as she disappears back upstairs.

  I open the phone to look at the Save Amira plan on my Notes app, and cross out step two.

  Amira’s right about one thing.

  Lots of junk to clear out.

  The throbbing pulse of the tabla and sitar reverberate through the empty yoga studio, and I stretch out my bare feet on the cool wood floor beneath me, taking in the vibrations. It’s a song from Bajirao Mastani. The kind of dance that’d be perfect for Amira’s wedding, if I were actually planning to let it happen.

  My limbs become fluid around me. My breath inflates my veins, filling me with life. It’s just what I need right now to shake the image of Amira’s face out of my head, the hard pit in my gut that feels too much like guilt for my liking. I know I shouldn’t feel guilty. Exposing Faisal—I have to do it, for Amira’s sake.

  But just because I have to do it doesn’t make it easy.

  Behind me, I hear the click of the studio door opening. Someone’s coming in. That’s weird—yoga isn’t supposed to start for at least another hour.

  I glance over my shoulder. “Sorry, I’ll be done in a few—”

  But then I recognize the person standing in the doorway.

  Deen.

  I freeze and slowly turn to face him. I’m suddenly hyperaware of how I look right now: staticky hair splayed outward across every conceivable plane; the pool of sweat in the small of my back; the lovely sweat mustache I’m sporting; the old black sweatpants from ninth grade I’m wearing, the ones with the hole on the left knee.

  He’s wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt and light blue jeans, and the hint of an infuriating smirk plays on his lips.

  “Please. Don’t stop on my account,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

  My voice flies up five octaves. “What are you doing here?” I know Asher said no one’s connected the stripper to me, but seeing Deen so soon after feels . . . ominous. Wait, did Asher tell him I’d be here? Or was it Amira? Ugh, it must have been her. Deen probably texted her and buttered her up for the intel, the sneak.

  “Is this the song you’re dancing to for the wedding?” asks Deen, ignoring my question. “Needs a little pizzazz, honestly. I got a friend who’s good with remixes—want me to ask him to remix it?” But before I can answer, he’s already texting.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand again.

  “Dance practice, obviously.” He puts his phone away, closes the door behind him, and approaches me. “I’ve been thinking—oh, come on, don’t look at me like that—I’ve been thinking, What if we did the dance together?”

  “What?”

  “Look, I know we’ve . . . gotten off on the wrong foot, and you have reason to dislike me, but—we could use this opportunity to, you know, get reacquainted.”

  I ignore him and lower the volume to the Bajirao Mastani soundtrack. I’m scrolling through my playlist for something to replace it with, but I don’t feel like dancing anymore. I want to listen to something raw, something angry. Like death metal.

  “Admit it, Noorani,” he continues, “it’d look cooler if it was the both of us dancing. You can’t tell me Amira wouldn’t love it. And isn’t that what this whole wedding is about? Making her happy?”

  “I want her to be happy more than anyone,” I mutter between gritted teeth. “Unfortunately, us dancing together is going to make aunties freak out over the impropriety of it all and put a gossip target on my back, which would not make Amira happy.”

  He blinks. Realization settles on his face. “Ah. I . . . didn’t think about that. But, okay, what if I said I wouldn’t let that happen? What if I told people it was my idea, that I forced you to do it because I was nervous about dancing alone?”

  I snort. “Yeah, because that would help.”

  “Please?” He takes another step forward. His eyes catch mine, and he almost looks . . . genuine. I look away.

  What is Deen doing? I don’t buy for a second that he wants to do a dance with me. It’s not like him. It’s not like him to make the first move, to extend the olive branch.

  I want to hit him with it.

  “What do you want from me?” I snap.

  “Nothing. That’s all there is.” He looks around the room, taking in the space. “And in any case, why can’t I just enjoy your company? I thought we really bonded in the sweets shop the other day.”

  “No.”

  “Fine, fine.” The old floorboards of the yoga studio creak with Deen’s every step. He looks at himself in the mirror and smooths down his hair. “The truth is, I just don’t want to look like a complete dingus in front of five hundred people at the wedding. People are going to be evaluating prospective mates for their daughters. You know how many times my mom’s told me that in the past week?”

  That, I can believe. For as long as I’ve known them, Deen’s parents have seemed overbearing and image obsessed. It explains why he’s always been so vain.

  I put my hand on my hip. “How do you know there even will be a wedding?”

  He stops smoothi
ng his hair and turns around to face me. “Why wouldn’t there be?”

  I swallow. “I don’t know. Things happen.”

  “You sound like a mafioso.”

  “Not like that,” I say quickly. “I’m just saying, you don’t know what’s meant to be,” I say, hoping that I sound like I’m speaking in the vague, cosmic sense.

  “I do know what’s meant to be,” he says, with more power than I expected. “Ever since my brother and Amira met, they’ve been drawn together with the force of a freight train. You don’t even know. Those two are meant to be together. I believe that with all my soul. He’s my family. Blood of my blood.”

  The sitar in the song croons softly in the background. My jaw clenches.

  “Now who sounds like a mafioso?” I’m acting on pure emotion now, but I can’t help it. Rage bubbles up in me, scathing and uncontrollable. Deen has the nerve to walk into my space, messing up my flow—

  “The way I see it, things wouldn’t be moving so fast if Amira knew the whole truth.”

  Deen flinches as if he’s been slapped, but he quickly regains himself.

  “You don’t understand the situation.”

  “Then help me understand. Because Amira’s about to give everything up because of him, and she deserves—I deserve—to know why he’s pretending this Leah person doesn’t exist, or the felony he committed—”

  I stop. The song’s ended, and the studio is completely silent.

  “How did—?” Deen bites his lip. But it’s too late. Whether it’s shock or adrenaline, his mask has slipped.

  So it’s true, then. It’s really, really, true. I knew that, but . . .

  Deen starts again. “Look, Kiran. I wish I could explain all this, but I can’t. I just can’t. I swear.”

  My insides curl. It’s the same goddamn line from three years ago.

  “I’m tired of you saying that to me,” I say.

  We stare at each other for a long time, at an impasse.

  “Okay. Fine,” he says, cutting me off. “Fine. Then what about this?” He takes a few more steps to meet me in the center of the yoga studio. I hate that I have to lift my head to meet his gaze. “All I’m asking for is a chance to get to know me. Which means no more questions about Faisal, no more digging, no more sneaking around. We do the wedding. We do the dance thing.” He breathes in, then out. “And I give you an explanation. The truth of what happened three years ago.” He reaches out his hand. “Deal?”

  I stare at it. Excuses crawl up my throat, but none of them stick. I want to say yes—I’ve wanted to know the truth for so long—but I can’t let this wedding happen, no matter what. I can’t let my sister be torn from me again. This is a promise I can’t keep.

  But I’ve come this far; might as well lie once more. Especially if it means I finally get the truth.

  Cautiously, I extend my own hand. “Fine,” I say, ignoring the sound of shredding paper in my mind. Just another piece of soul, gone.

  But his skin is warm against my cold, clammy hand. He gently squeezes it, then lets me go. My fingers flex at my side.

  “Great.” Deen grins and slaps his hands together, a crack that echoes through the empty yoga studio. “All right, Teach. Shall we get started? Show me the ropes, the rules?

  “Then again, the first rule of dance is that there are no rules, right?” he adds with a wink at my reflection in the mirror.

  My heart does a strange, frantic dance behind my ribs. I blink, confused by the familiarity of the words.

  But I shake off the sense of déjà vu.

  I’ve got enough to worry about right now.

  Three Years Ago

  KIRAN: So we just got back from the hospital

  KIRAN: the neurologist is pretty sure Mom has ALS

  KIRAN: I haven’t slept

  KIRAN: I keep researching, trying to find the tiniest bit of hope

  KIRAN: but the more I learn about it

  KIRAN: the more terrified I am

  KIRAN: Five years.

  KIRAN: Mom has five more years

  KIRAN: at best.

  KIRAN: what the hell am I supposed to do?

  KIRAN: In a few years I’ll be a freshman in college

  KIRAN: just starting my life

  KIRAN: and she’ll be done.

  KIRAN: how are we supposed to live without her?

  KIRAN: I keep thinking about all the things she’ll miss

  KIRAN: how empty it’ll feel without her

  KIRAN: you know, I haven’t called her mommy since I was, like, four

  KIRAN: but right now, that’s all I can think about

  KIRAN: I’m back to being four and I just want my mommy

  KIRAN: I’m so scared

  KIRAN: I’m so fucking scared

  KIRAN: We haven’t even told Amira yet because we want her to focus on school but

  KIRAN: what am I supposed to do?

  DEEN: hey, sorry for the late reply

  DEEN: and I’m sorry you’re going through this

  DEEN: I can’t really talk right now

  KIRAN: I really need you right now, Deen

  KIRAN: I know you’ve been swamped lately

  KIRAN: but can you just hop on the phone for, like, a minute?

  DEEN: I’m sorry

  DEEN: I can’t

  DEEN: Things at home are mad busy

  DEEN: Talk later, okay?

  KIRAN: . . . okay

  KIRAN: Fine

  KIRAN: You know how to find me.

  Chapter 22

  Kiran

  Saturday, July 31

  22 Days Until the Wedding

  “I’M HOME,” I YELL, PEELING off my shoes. I’m greeted only with silence.

  I hate always coming home to a dead house.

  At least the lights are on. Most nights I come home to total darkness, with Dad at work, or locked inside his bedroom watching TV or reading the newspaper—once he’s in there, the rest of the world is shut out.

  Half-packed boxes labeled AMIRA’S ROOM form mini skyscrapers in the mudroom. This must be the spring cleaning Amira mentioned.

  “Anyone home?” I yell again. Amira must have gone back to New York already. I check my phone and sure enough, there’s a text from her: Had to run home for some errands! See you next week for the mehndi? Xx. Maybe I’m looking into it too much, but something about her texts feels not as . . . chipper as her usual self. I wonder how she’s doing since she found out about the stripper.

  I get my answer when I slip into the kitchen. Amira’s left the kitchen spotless: a newly vacuumed floor; the counters cleared of Dad’s biscuit crumbs and globs of peanut butter from this morning’s breakfast; the puddles by the sink wiped down. The lingering lemony scent of disinfectant tickles my nose. It’s what the house used to feel like, when she was part of it. Whenever she got stressed, she’d go on a mad cleaning frenzy. I’ll have to tell Asher the plan is working.

  I drop my duffel bag on the landing by the stairs and flip on the teakettle. The oven light blinks: 9:07 p.m. Deen and I were choreographing the wedding dance for a full hour. I expected another fight within the first five minutes, but the time actually flew: mostly me demonstrating and him making stupid, snarky remarks about what I look like. I’m a little surprised how attentive he was—unnecessary comments aside—and how much he seems to care about getting the moves down. Either he really does want to make sure his brother’s wedding is perfect, or . . . or he’s really decided to be pleasant for once.

  I drop a bag of cardamom tea and pour boiling water into a mug.

  The boy I saw today—he didn’t feel like the same person I fought with behind the masjid. He felt more like an old, familiar friend. Or worse, like the old Deen. I don’t get how a person could turn charm on and off so easily, like a light switch. Maybe Deen really does have a superpower.

  My fingers start to burn.

  “Shitshitshitshit.” Lost in thought, I’ve managed to overfill the mug and make a mess all over the clean counter.
r />   I run over to the other side of the kitchen and shove my hand under some cold water from the sink. For the first time in a while, the roll of paper towels has been refilled—thanks, Amira!—so I gently dry my burned hand and start wiping the mess down.

  That’s when I notice a small flash of red on the counter. A card?

  No, a business card.

  THE FORREST GROUP, PHILADELPHIA

  REAL ESTATE AGENTS

  My face crumples in confusion. Realtors? Why does Dad have a business card for Realtors?

  No.

  It hits me over the head, a series of seemingly disconnected events rapidly materializing into a single conclusion: the push to empty out Mom’s closet. The junk collectors. And Amira coming over, despite being busy with work and wedding planning. Did she already know?

  The sudden pinch in my gut forces a fistful of breath out of me. I don’t even feel the pain from my burned fingers.

  I swipe the card off the counter and storm upstairs.

  Dad, predictably, is in his bedroom. He’s sitting up in bed with his phone in his lap and his glasses precariously hanging on to the tip of his nose. It bothers me a little that he still only uses his side of the bed. He won’t go anywhere near Mom’s. As if he’s waiting for her to come back.

  Right now, he’s listening to some old recording of some qawwali—basically desi slam poetry, times ten—done by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. I only know because I recognize the voice. He’s been obsessed with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan since Mom died.

  He lifts his head and pushes his glasses back in place when he sees me.

  “Oh. I didn’t know you were back,” he says.

  The Dad from a few years ago would have known exactly where I’d gone, and furthermore, demanded an exact time for me to report back. He’d be waiting by the door until I slinked back home, with Mom laughing and calling him overprotective. I almost prefer that to this apathetic shell of a man.

  “What is this?” My voice comes out all barbed and pitchy. “Are you selling the house?”

  Dad pauses the qawwali and puts down his phone.

  “Yes,” he replies, perfectly calm, as though he expected this. “The house isn’t on the market just yet, but soon. With Amira moving to California and you going to college, it makes no sense holding on to all this empty space. I’ve always wanted to live in the countryside, too. We have family in Texas. My brother’s there. After the wedding, I’ll move.”