One True Theory of Love

by Laura Fitzgerald

  Which made it bad, although admittedly fun.

  The man had abandoned his laptop and stood in the aisle, helping Henry set up the chessboard. Her danger alert at full throttle, Meg came to a dead stop at the sight.

  “Your son challenged me,” he said. “I told him I’d be happy to play a match if it’s okay with you.”

  “I suppose that’s fine,” Meg said, relieved he’d recognized the need to clear it with her. Nonetheless, her voice came out weak.

  The man sensed her edginess, and while shifting farther back from their table and thus Henry, he searched her eyes, trying to figure out what was going through her mind. But it wasn’t her mind that was the problem—it was her body. Every nerve ending was on fire, and the way he looked at her just compounded the problem.

  “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds.” He took a step toward her. “I should introduce myself. I’m Ahmed. Ahmed Bourhani.”

  What Meg heard was, I’ve been waiting for you all my life. She heard it smooth, like butter. The problem was, he hadn’t said it. She just felt it, and it rattled her to the core.

  When he extended his hand, Meg was so flustered she spilled coffee on her wrist and then winced, which caused her to spill even more. “Shit,” she said.

  “Sorry. That was stupid of me. I should have realized you had your hands full. Here.” Ahmed took the mug from her, leaving her with only the scone in her left hand. “You okay?”

  “You’re not allowed to use the word shit,” Henry reminded her.

  “I know,” Meg said. “I’m very sorry.”

  Ahmed put Meg’s coffee on the table and turned back to her. “Let’s try again.” He held out his hand a second time. “Hi. I’m Ahmed.”

  “I’m Meg.” From the delight that sprung to his eyes when their hands touched, Meg could tell he’d felt the same spark she had. She could barely hear herself over the pounding of her heart. “This is my son, Henry.”

  “Hi.” Henry gave a little wave. “And just so you know—we’re single.” Meg’s mouth dropped open.

  “Good to know,” Ahmed said with a laugh. He clearly didn’t mind Henry’s audacity, but Meg sure did. Just wait until she got him alone.

  “And we don’t date,” she added. “That’s also something you probably should know.”

  Ahmed tilted his head and studied her and Meg could have sworn she saw the tiniest sadness cross his eyes. He quickly caught himself and made them normal again, but Meg had seen the sadness and it caused her to feel a little melancholy, too. Which she could tell he noticed. Simultaneously, they took big breaths and held them and fell into a serious lock of the eyes, each acknowledging the difficulty of the moment. Starting something was hard. Not starting something was hard, too.

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “It’s stupid. That’s what it is,” Henry said.

  “Henry!” Meg gave him a be-quiet look, which he ignored as he moved his center pawn two spaces ahead.

  “It’s your turn,” he said to Ahmed. “You’d better pay attention to me and what I’m doing if you want to win.”

  “That sounds like very good advice,” Ahmed said, but he didn’t break eye contact with Meg.

  It was Meg who looked away first.

  Sometime in the first year of our marriage, Jonathan and I decided to make Wednesdays I love you days. Middle of the week. Hump day. Halfway to the weekend. A good day to pause and remember what we were doing it all for: each other.

  We just did nice, little things to show our love. It might be irises from Wild Oats one week. Or ice cream at Austin’s. Or we’d put our feet up on the coffee table and watch a movie together. Just something, some little thing to honor our relationship. We did that right up until the end, never missed a Wednesday.

  That’s one of the problems with starting something with someone. You start out thinking it’s just some fun small thing, but then it goes and gets lodged in your psyche and becomes part of you and you can’t get rid of it no matter how badly you might want to.

  Flowers are never just flowers and ice cream’s never just ice cream. Yin and yang. It’s all part of the yo-yo aspect of life. Great to have, horrible to lose.

  Meg didn’t look away from Ahmed for long. Again and again as he played chess with Henry, Meg sipped her coffee and surreptitiously studied him. She noticed the oddest things: how his forehead seemed regal (had she ever noticed a man’s forehead before?), how his cheekbones were just perfect, and how his forearms were . . . sinewy . . . and competent . . . and how he wore his watch well. (His forearms! Who cared about forearms? About the way someone’s watch fit? Why was she noticing such stupid things?)

  “Ahmed?” When he finished his move, he looked at her with the beginnings of a smile already in place. “What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s Persian.”

  “Does that mean you’re from Persia?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It does.”

  He smiled at her. She smiled back. He was so full of shit.

  “I wasn’t aware that Persia’s a country any longer,” she said.

  “It’s not,” he admitted. “You got me.”

  “You’re from Iran.”

  “I’m from Iran,” he agreed. “And I’m also impressed. Until recently, most Americans haven’t even known where Iran is on a map, much less that it used to be called Persia.”

  “I’m a teacher,” Meg said. “I get paid to know these things.”

  He smiled. “I always thought I’d enjoy being a teacher. What age do you teach?”

  “Kindergarten.” Meg took a careful sip of her coffee, then set it on the table and looked straight at him. “Why do you try to confuse people about your background?”

  Ahmed’s eyes lit in surprise. “I’m not exactly trying to confuse anyone.”

  “You’re not exactly trying not to, either,” she said. “Why do you say Persia if you know that nobody knows what you’re talking about?”

  He grinned. “Because nine out of ten people drop it at that point.”

  “Ah!” Meg laughed. “But I’m not most people. I always find out the truth about a man. Are you ashamed? Of being from Iran, I mean.”

  “Not at all,” Ahmed said. “I’m hardly even from Iran. My mom was American. She met my father in Madison when they were both in college and she went back to Iran with him afterward. It was a much nicer place to live back then. Very Western.”

  “So you’re a halfsie,” Meg said.

  He laughed. “I haven’t heard that phrase before, but I guess I am.”

  That explained his impossible-to-place look. With his brown eyes, his black hair, his thick brows, and the kind of easy-tan complexion Meg had envied her entire pale-skinned life, Ahmed could have been Mexican, Greek, even French. It was only his name that edged him toward the Middle Eastern side of the world.

  “You were born there, then?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I was sent to live with my mom’s folks—my grandparents—in Wisconsin when I was ten. It was just before the revolution in ’seventy-nine.”

  “Before the hostages were taken at the U.S. embassy?” Meg asked. “Or after?”

  Ahmed bristled, but tried not to show it. “Before. I was here when that happened.”

  “It must have made you real popular on the playground,” Meg said.

  “With a few teachers, too,” Ahmed said. “I’ll never forget Mr. Paulson in fourth grade. He gave me a zero on a math test even though I got every answer right because I used commas instead of decimals. You’re in America now, he said. So act like an American.”

  “What a jerk,” Meg said. “I hate mean teachers.”

  “Me, too.” Henry, riveted by Ahmed, watched him as if he was a wondrous creature from far away. “Mean soccer coaches, too.”

  “He did me a huge favor, actually,” Ahmed said. “I never did it the wrong way again.”

  “But you didn’t do it the wrong way,” Meg pointed out. “You just didn’t do it the American way.”
>
  “Good point.” He rephrased. “I never did it the Iranian way again.”

  “Your parents really sent you here all alone?” Henry said. “They made you fly on an airplane all by yourself?”

  “Yep.” Ahmed’s tone was light, but Meg sensed this was a hard memory. “It was just me and my backpack. The stewardesses pinned a little sign on me that said Unaccompanied Minor. They were very nice and took very good care of me.” He added the last part for Henry’s benefit after noticing his wide, incredulous eyes.

  “My mom would never do that to me,” Henry said. “She won’t even let me walk to the park by myself and it’s only six blocks from our apartment.”

  A tinge of sadness sweetened Ahmed’s tea brown eyes, and Meg wondered what he’d had in his ten-year-old’s leaving-home-forever backpack. A teddy bear? A photo album?

  “You’re lucky to have a mom who looks out for you like that,” he said. “My mom died when I was six, so she wasn’t alive when I was sent here, and my father couldn’t leave Iran for some reason.”

  “How’d she die?” Henry asked.

  “Henry,” Meg warned, “don’t get so personal.”

  “It’s okay,” Ahmed assured her. “She was hit by a car when she was coming to pick me up from school.”

  Meg hid a wince. “Man, talk about a rough childhood!”

  Ahmed shrugged it off. “Plenty of people have had plenty worse childhoods than mine.”

  “That doesn’t mean yours wasn’t still hard,” she said.

  “True.” He cleared his throat.

  As Henry stared at Ahmed in horrified awe, Meg made big eyes at him in hopes he’d temper his obvious shock. No such luck.

  “In any case,” Meg added, “don’t feel you have to explain yourself to us. We’re just some strangers in a coffee shop, after all.”

  When he searched her eyes, Meg went all soft again. It didn’t feel like they were strangers. It felt as if their souls went way, way back.

  “You’re right that I should just tell people I’m Iranian,” Ahmed said. “I say I’m Persian out of habit, and as I think about it, maybe I am trying to distance myself a bit. Persia sounds old. Grand. The scent of jasmine in the air. Exotic belly-dancers. Hafez, Rumi, the timeless poets. Saying Iran makes you think of . . . well, not any of that.”

  “I’m sure it makes some people think Axis of Evil,” Meg said.

  “That’s right,” Ahmed said.

  “But you’re not evil,” Meg said.

  “No.” His voice was soft, protecting an old wound.

  “And I’m not some people.”

  Ahmed smiled. “You’re definitely not just some strange chick in a coffee shop.”

  Meg burst out laughing. “I didn’t say I was some strange chick in a coffee shop! I said I was a stranger in a coffee shop.”

  Ahmed’s blush was adorable. “You don’t seem like that, either. A stranger, I mean. I don’t usually share such personal information with people I’ve just met. I hope . . .” He stumbled as he searched for what he wanted to say.

  “You hope what?” Meg asked.

  “I hope I’m not saying too much,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m an emotional wreck or anything. Because I’m not.”

  Meg smiled to put him at ease. “And I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just some strange chick.”

  He laughed. “How about I won’t if you won’t?”

  “Deal.” As they beamed at each other, Meg tried to remember what her life had been like an hour ago, before he was in it, but in the frenzy and heat of the moment, she almost couldn’t. Which was not good. “You’d better get back to Henry.” Meg’s voice came out the tiniest bit shaky, which she hoped was noticeable only to her.

  “No kidding,” Henry agreed. “Because it’s all about me. Right, Mom?”

  Meg rolled her eyes. Henry could always be counted on to keep her grounded. Ahmed studied the board, then moved a pawn forward to where Henry could capture it, bypassing the capture of one of Henry’s pawns that was his for the taking.

  Henry eyed him. “You want me to take that pawn.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Ahmed’s eyes twinkled. “I never reveal my strategy.”

  Henry studied the board, made his move, and then looked for Ahmed’s reaction.

  “I can tell you’re a very smart kid,” Ahmed said. “But I’m sure you already know that.”

  Henry basked in the compliment, and when he eventually won fifteen minutes later, Meg couldn’t tell if it was a legitimate win or if Ahmed had let Henry win. Ahmed was right: he didn’t reveal his strategy. But she was sure he had one. Men always did.

  “Want to play again?” Henry asked.

  “No, thanks,” Ahmed said. “You make me think so hard, my brain hurts.”

  Henry beamed. “I know! Why don’t you play against my mom? She’s easy to beat.”

  The audacity of this kid.

  “Nice try, Ace,” Meg said. “But we’ve got lots of errands to run.”

  Henry ignored her. “Do you like soccer?” he asked Ahmed. “Because I do.”

  “I love it,” Ahmed said. “I lived for it when I was a kid.”

  “Our first game’s next Saturday,” Henry said. “The team’s pretty bad, but I’m not. Do you know where Himmel Park is?”

  Ahmed nodded. “I live right near there, on Third Street. Just on the other side of Tucson Boulevard.”

  “Well, that’s where we play,” Henry said. “Himmel Park.”

  “You live on Third Street?” Meg was both jealous and wistful. “That’s my very favorite street in the whole city.”

  Palm trees lined the wide street, which was closed to all but local traffic and used primarily as a bike route for students and professors. The houses were old—some grand, some not so grand. Some had tons of character, others not so much. The street always felt to Meg like the set of a movie. When in college, she’d biked on Third to get to campus and always dreamed of owning a house there one day.

  “I have a tiny bungalow,” Ahmed said. “Across the street from the school.”

  “Sam Hughes? That’s where Violet goes!” Henry said. “She’s my best friend. I want to go there, too, but I have to go where my mom teaches.” He made a face, then brightened suddenly. “Hey, you’re not married, are you?”

  “Henry!” Meg made majorly disapproving eyes at him. “That’s crossing the line!”

  “What line?”

  “The asking-personal-questions-of-men-we-don’t-know line.” She turned to Ahmed. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I like his spunk.”

  “We do so know him,” Henry said. “What exactly do you call what we’ve been doing for the last hour?” He rolled his eyes at Ahmed, and while Ahmed laughed, Meg sneaked a glance at his left hand. No ring. He caught her looking, and grinned to let her know.

  “You don’t date,” he confirmed.

  “That’s right.” Feeling her blush spread, Meg stood and moved behind Henry. She pressed her hands into his shoulders. “It was great meeting you,” she told Ahmed.

  “Thank you.” Ahmed stood. “I feel the same.”

  They fell into another serious lock of the eyes.

  “This has been both bizarre and lovely,” she said. “But we’ve got to go.”

  When she squeezed Henry’s shoulders, he clambered up, yet Meg couldn’t convince her feet to move.

  Ahmed’s smile widened. “Maybe you should stay.”

  “Maybe we should.” Meg swallowed hard. “But we’re not going to.”

  “Do you want our phone number?” Henry asked.

  Dead meat, this kid was.

  “Don’t say another word,” Meg warned him.

  “I was just—”

  “Ah, ah, ah!” She stopped him. “Not. Another. Word.”

  Ahmed looked out the window of the coffee shop for a few moments. Meg watched his chest rise and fall rhythmically as she waited for him to look at her again. To see her again, in a way that
no one had seen her for a long, long time, if ever. When he did look back at her, it was all Meg could do not to gasp. This guy sparked something in her, something deep and real.

  “I could give you my number,” he said. “In case . . . ?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  Meg desperately wanted his number. She wanted to take his hand in both of hers and press it against her chest. She could almost feel its impression, so strong was her urge. She wanted to tuck herself into him and feel his arms encircle her waist. To put her head on his shoulder and feel safe, taken care of for a change. She wanted to be six months ahead of now when these urges could be indulged in, when all her single-mom, woman-who’d-been-cheated-on concerns had been appropriately addressed and the need for them declared null and void.

  No, Meg, a voice inside her counseled. Just keep this one moment perfect.

  “I’m going to pass,” she finally said. “Reluctantly, I’ll pass.”

  Henry held out his hand. “I’ll take your number.”

  Ahmed laughed. “I think you’re part of a package deal.”

  “Not necessarily,” Henry said.

  “Hello!” Meg gave him a mental head smack. “We’re the packagest of package deals.”

  Henry leaned back against her and tilted his head to look up at Ahmed. “We come here almost every Saturday,” he informed him.

  Meg clamped her hand over his mouth. “You thwarter!” she said. “You little thwarter!”

  Ahmed winked at Henry, then grinned mischievously at Meg. “Maybe I’ll see you guys around sometime, then.”

  Henry raised his arms in a cheer and then held out a hand for Ahmed to high-five. Meg stood in openmouthed awe, unable to speak, as Ahmed’s palm met Henry’s in a happy smack.

  These boys! These men!

  They were incorrigible, every single one of them.

  That night, Meg and Henry walked down to campus after having dinner at Rincon Market and bought two general-admission tickets to the University of Arizona men’s baseball exhibition game at the Frank Sancet Stadium. Meg knew she’d find her father there, because he went to every home game, regular season or not, and many practices, too. That was him, Phillip Goodman, loyal to the core.