Page 10 of If I Loved You Less
When a girl’s romantic history peaks at the age of ten, there is surely something amiss.
It isn’t that no boys have tried since then, it is just that I was not impressed by any of them. I have even gone as far as to try those Muslim dating apps, which I deleted less than a day later because it merely horrified me beyond belief and made me feel even more hopeless.
And I refuse to be hopeless.
I will find true love. I will! If others can have it, so will I.
I am nothing if not determined.
ChapterThree
The week passes just like that.
Papa starts staying at the office later than usual because I don’t think he can bear being home either when it is so empty, so it is just me at home. (We still have dinner together most nights, so at least there’s that, but it just isn’t as fun.)
I don’t particularly enjoy coming home to that great big empty house either, so I resolve to become better friends with Shanzay. It will be good to have a new friend to invite over, and anyway, I think it’ll be good for her to have me as a friend.
Moments with Shanzay in the office are refreshing and nice, and I find myself seeking her out throughout the day, if only for a little commentary or laughter. She is sweet. I rather like her.
I used to be so content with just Phuppo at the house. She was always ready to watch period dramas with me, which involved more of our own commentary than the movie’s dialogues; discuss the latest novel I’d read, in which I would explain the entire plot to her; or bake something together. But now she’s gone, too, just like Naadia before her.
I still talk with both of them all the time. Phuppo sends me loads of photos from her honeymoon (the PG version), and Naadia and I basically spend all day sending each other reels on Instagram (cooking videos neither of us will ever try, travel destinations we need to visit, and makeup tutorials). But it isn’t the same.
Not even the random mornings Naadia texts me:
my stomach hurts.
almost like having coffee and painkillers on an empty stomach ISN’T healthy
hey i had half a granola bar too
Or when I call her up one evening and explain the shocking plot twist of a new show I’m watching on Netflix and try to harass her to watch it, too. I even send her edits of the main ship on Twitter, but she’s not persuaded. If she was still at home, the next room over, I would simply climb into bed with her and force her to watch it with me.
But she isn’t. I make commentary to myself, alone.
I am content with my life, but sometimes I’m so lonely, I don’t know what to do with myself.
Which is why I invite Shanzay over for chai that Sunday. I busy myself with making chicken bread, keema samosas, egg salad sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, almond cake, and cream puffs. I know there are only two of us, but it’s a good distraction, and it’s always better to do more than to do less.
I set the dining table with our Royal Albert set, filling the three-tiered plates with the different foods. I was a little torn between the Old Country Rose set and a Mackenzie Childs tea set we have, but I figure I can’t go wrong with the classic red roses decorating the white china of the Royal Albert set.
I am just filling the cream puffs on Sunday morning when someone knocks on the door. Throwing on a scarf to cover my hair, I go to answer.
It’s Fawad.
He’s dressed in a suit, as usual, and the dark green handkerchief in his pocket matches the precise shade of his tie (and his socks, if I know him at all). Standing in the sunlight, his skin is golden brown, luminous in contrast to his dark eyes. Once again, I am struck by how handsome he is – though thankfully not handsome enough to tempt me.
He holds up a file, a pleasant expression on his face that only causes me irritation. He is always showing up as if this is his chache da ghar and he is free to visit when he pleases!
“You couldn’t have just emailed that to Papa?” I ask.
“It’s good to see you, too, Humaira,” he replies cheerily. “I'm well, thanks for asking.”
Releasing an annoyed sound, I hold out my free hand for the file. He ignores me entirely and steps into the house, walking forward to place it in the office.
“I’m busy,” I say petulantly. “I have guests coming over!”
“You aren’t dressed,” he replies, looking me up and down. I’m wearing an apron over home shalwar-kameez, which I find more comfy than western clothes. “And you have—” He gestures to his cheek. When I wipe my face, powdered sugar streaks across my fingers.
