“At worst, I get people adding an a instead of the double e. But poor Faisal—he keeps getting called Fieval.” I wipe at my eye. “Oh, man. Never a dull moment with you, Noorani.”
“Yeah, well. At least someone finds it funny.” She stomps to the center of the yoga studio. “You ready? I’ve got a bunch of angry energy I need to burn off.”
Kiran begins to stretch her arms behind her. Already, her eyes are focused in the mirror. Even if she did promise to stop meddling in Faisal and Amira’s relationship—assuming she’ll keep it—she still doesn’t approve of their marriage. I wonder if she’s also using dance practice as a distraction.
I set my bag down in the corner and watch her. Just like that, she’s in work mode now, any trace of annoyance already gone. She ties her short hair back in a tiny ponytail and takes a deep breath, muscles tightening, back straightening. Her stance screams confident. The body of a dancer.
Kasia. I remember: Kasia wanted to be a dancer, too. What’d she call it again? Right. A ridiculous pipe dream.
I stand at Kiran’s side and stretch out my legs, clumsily balancing on one leg. “You know, you look different. When you dance,” I say.
Kiran pauses and looks over at me suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
I avoid looking back. “Just, you look happy. You look like someone who’s found their thing.” I swallow hard. “I’m envious, I guess.”
“Thanks, I think.” She shrugs. “It’s just a hobby, though. Anyone would look happy.”
“Does it have to be? I mean, I know it’s hard to find a job as a dancer, but you’ve got the talent for it. And let’s be real, you mostly choreographed the dance yourself, too. That’s amazing.”
“Have you been talking to your Mona khala?”
The last time I tried to talk about this with her, she totally shut me down. But this time, I can’t help myself. “I’m serious. Being a doctor—that’s going to take, what, at least seven, eight years? Is that really something you want to do? Because if you don’t, if you have any doubts, it’s not going to be easy.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she lashes out.
“I think it’s a waste. That’s all.”
“Except it’s what I want to do.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember my conversation with Kas—well, with Kiran. At that first dinner with our families, she’d said becoming a doctor was something she needed to do. An obligation, in honor of her mom.
“Is that really true?” My heart thrums nervously. “Is it something you really want to do? Or is it because you feel guilty or something?”
I remember vaguely, years ago, talking to her about this, back when we were together. I have no right to say anything now. But I know a thing or two about doing things out of guilt. The crushing pressure of it. And how it often leads to mistakes.
Kiran tosses off her black hoodie and takes a swig from her water bottle. Her eyes are unreadable.
“You don’t have to answer that,” I say softly. “It’s just that I don’t want you to have to make hard choices when you could have it all. Dancing doesn’t have to be a pipe dream.”
I don’t dare look at her, but from the corner of my eye, I think I see her stiffen.
Geez. What am I doing? I’m not even sure who’s talking anymore: me, or Foxx.
Kiran clears her throat.
“Hate to cut this short, but we’re running low on time. Should we try one last run-through?” She presses play without waiting for my answer, and the music starts.
“Fine,” I mutter, and stand straight.
We’ve gone through the song dozens and dozens of times—I’ve lost count—but it doesn’t slow my heart rate or my nervousness.
I stand behind her and close my eyes for a moment, focusing.
We start to dance.
Already, I notice something . . . strange. Usually, I have to force myself to stay completely alert, taking in every movement, every change in music, every step and variation. It gets me tired halfway through the dance. But this time, it feels different. My body’s responding on its own, falling into step, feeding off a rush of adrenaline.
I graze my fingers on the small of her back. I know she’s tough, but I still touch her like she’s made of paper. I haven’t gotten used to the idea of touching her yet. My arms leave her body as the music grows louder. At least, I think it’s getting louder. But I feel it swelling, growing, surrounding us. Like the cadence is coursing through our veins.
I twist my torso, and beside me, Kiran’s elbows glide through the air, in perfect rhyme with her feet. She reaches her arms toward me, and for a moment, her warm breath tickles my cheek. We catch each other’s gaze.
A spin here. A turn there. It’s all perfectly in sync now.
I grin. Shit, this is fun. And Kiran? She grins back. The world spins around us and I’m dizzy and my muscles buzz, but it feels good.
The music finally begins to slow, and I reach for Kiran one last time, breaking our choreography. I dip her, hugging her hips in close. The music stops and it’s just us, breathing hard. Against my chest, I feel the steady tick of her heartbeat.
Her lips are parted in shock, but her cheeks are flushed, with the hint of a blush creeping down her neck.
I want to kiss her. The thought sparks a flame in me that surges like a roar, overpowering and unstoppable.
Oh.
No. No! I can’t kiss her! I shouldn’t. Wait. But—why does she look like she might want me to? At least, I think. I can’t tell. Maybe? But that expression, that drunk-on-fire look in her eyes—a look that dares me to let it all come tumbling down.
Except I’m not sure what she wants. Right now, I’m not sure of anything.
Reluctantly, slowly, I pull myself away.
Kiran straightens herself and blinks, dazed.
I turn my back to her, but I think I hear her mutter something like Astaghfirullah under her breath.
Seconds seemingly turn to minutes. Sound itself has stilled. I’m too afraid to make a sound.
I can’t believe I almost lost myself for a second there. I know I’m supposed to keep my enemies close, but this . . .
Nostalgia is seductive. Too seductive.
“Well, that’s a wrap.” Kiran’s voice is tiny. She takes a breath and shakes off the strangeness between us. “Next is the wedding. And for you to hold up your end of the deal.”
I turn to face her. The hazy warmth, the afterglow between us, begins to fade.
“I guess you’re right,” I say. I’m not as quick to shake it off as she is.
Ever since I found out she was Kas, I’ve been wondering what would happen if I just told her . . . everything. Wondering if maybe she’d understand. But no, I can’t take that kind of risk. Even after the wedding, I can’t give her the full reason why I ghosted her without revealing Faisal’s secrets or risking my parents’ wrath. Luckily, I don’t have to spill everything; I just need to give her a plausible enough answer to hopefully satisfy her curiosity.
But will it be enough to stop her from trying to ruin Faisal’s dream once and for all, from holding his past over his head like an ax?
I hold my breath as her round dark eyes study me closely, like she knows something’s wrong.
I can see it now, the wall that’s been built between us. The one I built all those years ago. Looking at her now, though, so close—my fingers itch to tear it all down.
“If I had said something”—I lick my lips—“if I never ghosted you . . . do you think we’d still be together?”
Kiran’s breath hitches.
I backtrack. “Sorry.” I laugh, a forced, choking sound. “I’m not making any sense.” What are you doing? What are you doing, D-Money?
“I . . .” Kiran draws back toward the door. “Gotta go.”
There it is. The wall.
I smile sadly. “Pee break?”
Kiran nods. “Pee break.”
She marches stiffly to the bathroom and leaves me alone, the door s
lam an echo in her wake.
My eyes glide to the hoodie she’d been wearing earlier, now left crumpled by the mirror. A familiar lump catches my attention. She’s left her phone again.
Right. I need to focus. The only reason I’m here is to protect Faisal.
I shift uncomfortably. But I don’t want to look through her phone. It’s not just Kiran’s phone anymore—it’s Kas’s phone, the one she uses to talk to me, or at least, to Foxx. To breach that feels like a breach of trust that I actually really, really care about.
But I’ve been breaching a lot of trust these days.
I have to.
This time, when I open her phone, I go straight for her Notes app. My first thought is this girl needs a separate server for all her notes: there’s grocery lists, song lists, even lists for favorite inspirational quotes, but also notes on movies she’s watched, games she’s played—Cambria being her number one—and charts on plants good for different light conditions.
Finally, I find one labeled simply, PLAN. A recent note.
I swallow, my throat tight. I click and begin to read:
PLAN TO SAVE AMIRA:
STEP ONE: Sow the seeds of jealousy & insecurity
—Dinner with Asher
STEP TWO: Build distrust between Amira and Faisal
—Catch Faisal in a lie! Something that makes Amira question his integrity!
—Hire stripper
STEP THREE: Bring out the Dark Horse
—Find Leah’s phone number/contact info!!!!
No way. It’s like the world’s snapped off its orbit, not unlike the way it did when Kiran and I were dancing. But this time it’s too fast, too violent, draining blood from my brain so fast that I feel sick.
Step one. Dinner with Asher. When Faisal saw Amira and Asher together—so she had set it up. And catching Faisal in a lie, making Amira question his integrity—so Kiran really was behind the stripper? Which means Amira probably knew about the stripper this whole time.
But step three is the one that scares me the most. Did Kiran ever find Leah’s contact info? Leah is the only one who knows the truth, the only one who was there when everything happened. It’s why Faisal stopped talking to her.
Is Kiran going to invite her to the wedding?
I clutch my chest; inside, I’m searing hot with anger, splintering to pieces. I should feel victorious; I found exactly what I came for: proof that Kiran was behind everything. But part of me feels disappointed. Sad, even. Maybe part of me hoped I wouldn’t find anything.
I knew she was likely behind it all, but the reality of it is too much. All of this just to expose Faisal? Why would anyone go to such lengths? Why would she—?
Does she hate me that much?
My fingers graze something on the back of the phone; there’s something new in the pocket where the Cambria time card had once been. Except this time, it’s a folded piece of composition paper. I carefully unfold it and recognize Faisal’s handwriting. It’s an entry from his journal, the one he used when he had to go to therapy after the accident.
It’s not just gossip. I have proof. Kiran’s voice echoes in my head.
I exhale through my nose. At least now I know how she found out about Faisal’s felony.
I pocket the journal entry and set down her phone. I can’t look at the list anymore. I hold my head in my hands, trying to regain some semblance of calm.
It’s just, Kiran’s hurt. You can get where she’s coming from, right? I remember Asher saying.
I can be mad at myself later. Right now, my only priority should be stopping her, any way I can.
The door opens, and in walks Kiran. Kasia.
She smiles lightly; her lips shimmer like she’s put on a new coat of ChapStick. I want to scream. Everything feels so maddeningly false, so mind-numbingly fake.
But that’s what this was supposed to be, right? Playing nice for the sake of the wedding?
“Did you want to do another practice round?” she asks.
Except I don’t think I can play anymore.
I shake my head. “I’m supposed to go see Faisal after this. I’m thinking I’ll just head over early. The big day’s coming up soon, ya know?”
Something in her face goes rigid. “Oh, okay. Yeah. That makes sense.” She rubs her arm, looking strangely . . . lost. “See you later, then?”
“Yeah,” I say, my jaw tight. “Later.”
DEEN: Hey. Thanks for the remix, V-man
DEEN: Question: if it’s not too much trouble, could I ask you to remix it a little differently?
VINNY: . . . Seriously?
DEEN: I know. I’m sorry
DEEN: I won’t bug you again after this, I promise
VINNY: [ . . . ]
DEEN: Please
DEEN: It’s for Kiran.
VINNY: [ . . . ]
VINNY: What do you need?
Chapter 28
Kiran
Friday, August 13
9 Days Until the Wedding
I’VE MADE A MESS ON the kitchen counter.
I’ve been sitting here for at least a couple of hours, staring at my computer, with a giant soup bowl I’ve filled with Honey Nut Cheerios. I’m surrounded by towers of notebooks and folders, printouts of core competencies for entering med students, lists of possible clinical volunteer opportunities. On the chair beside me sits a summer reading list of fiction and nonfiction books they’ve recommended for us as a way to get a “head start,” except it’s four pages long and single spaced and with enough content to cover several college courses.
But I’m grateful for the distraction. There’s nine days until Amira’s wedding, and even though it feels the rest of the world is in a flurry to prepare, Riz let me stay in after I dropped a vase of flowers delivered to the house from some cousins in Michigan who can’t make it for the wedding, shattering glass everywhere.
“Are you always this clumsy?” Riz asked. I blamed it on the book I’d been reading earlier that was on the summer reading list, a depressing story about a neurosurgeon who’d been diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. And although it did make me cry, the truth is, I can’t focus. On anything.
Deen’s been plastered all over the walls of my brain like cheap wallpaper, and I hate it.
Something changed about him yesterday. First he had to go and say all that stuff about me being a doctor, about how he doesn’t think it’s what I really want to do. It pissed me off at first. But he sounded so heartfelt. Like he was genuinely worried. Like he genuinely cared.
And most important, like he could see something I couldn’t.
Then there was that dance, a new, painful awareness between us: of the hair in my eyes, the air in my lungs, fading, the outline of his mouth. Memories of kissing him three years ago bubbling in the back of my mind, soft and warm lips, so vivid I can practically taste it. But mostly, it was the smell that got to me, the familiar scent of pine, of mint—and something else, something sweet I could never put my finger on. Pheromones, maybe?
Ah, fuck. My pulse spikes just thinking about it. I have to ignore it. He’s just trying to incite a reaction from me, trolling me. But, as much as I hate to admit it, dance practice with him has been . . . really fun. Maybe it’s the way he watches me—not in a creepy way, but like he’s genuinely impressed, like he sees and appreciates the hard work that goes into it. It’s confusing.
The garage door rumbles and the mudroom door opens. It’s Amira.
She trudges into the kitchen and plops her purse on the counter. She looks exhausted. Her skin is tired and dull, like I’m viewing her through a hazy filter, coloring her in muted grays and taupes. Her messy, tangled hair, normally tamed in a neat ponytail, falls loosely over her shoulders like she’s just woken up.
“Whoa. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good,” Amira answers, her voice a few octaves higher than usual.
“Then why do you look like you’re getting ready for your own funeral? Should I be singing a dirge?”
&nbs
p; “Don’t be silly. Really, I’m fine.”
“Amira.”
“Really.” She moves some of my books out of the chair beside me and takes a seat. Deep, dark lines of mehndi stain nearly every square inch of the skin of her hands with intricate swirls and geometric designs of flowers and vines. “I just got back from talking to the imam, so I’m good.” She rubs her bleary eyes fiercely. “Did Riz leave already?”
I know she’s just changing the subject, but I don’t press it. “Mhm,” I say through a mouthful of cereal. “She’s checking out the venue one last time.” I swallow. “I keep saying we should be paying her for everything she’s been doing, but she told me to mind my own business. I remember her saying something about having an easy rotation schedule this month. Pretty sure she’s lying, though. Isn’t the point of residency to like, suffer?”
“I guess you’ll be finding out soon enough, huh?” Amira gestures to my books.
“I guess so,” I say, ignoring the knot in my chest.
“You know Mom wanted to be a doctor?” Amira says suddenly.
“What?”
“Yeah. She was already on track to go, back in Pakistan. But she met Dad and they got married soon after that. A few weeks later, Dad got a job here, so they moved here together.” Amira tugs her long hair over her shoulder. “And then I came along.”
My throat tightens. I didn’t know any of this. But now it makes more sense why she wanted me to become one.
Amira continues. “Thinking about it now, I feel pretty guilty. Like I ruined her plans.”
“I sincerely doubt she ever felt that way.”
“Maybe.” She sighs. “She was actually telling me she was thinking about going to PA school.”
“PA school? To be a physician’s assistant?” My eyes widen. “When?”
“Like, a year before her symptoms started. It’s not exactly the same as being a doctor, but the program is only two years, and it’s a lot cheaper—still makes good money, too. For all intents and purposes, she’d still be able to practice medicine and do pretty much all the same stuff as any other doctor, albeit supervised by one.”
It All Comes Back to You Page 24
