Page 102 of If I Loved You Less
I hold the book to my heart, as if the ink can transfuse his touch onto my skin.
ChapterTwenty-Four
At least one thing is abundantly and obviously clear: I cannot marry Rizwan.
I call him to say as much, and he is a good sport about it, for which I am glad. I am fond of him, in a way, but he is not the Great Love of My Life, and he deserves better than someone who is settling for him. He deserves someone who loves him just as much as he loves her.
And he does not love me, not really. He does not know me or see me, not thetrueme. Not the way Fawad does.
“I won’t easily forget you,” Rizwan tells me, as we say goodbye. “You were my first love.”
And that’s it! I feel a literal lightbulb going off over my head. I think I know a way to fix all of this without everyone being miserable for the rest of their lives.
(Cannot do much for Rizwan, unfortunately, but he’s handsome, clever, rich, and has a British accent, so I am sure he will be fine, in the end.)
When the workday is over, I stop by the grocery store for a basket, and various delicious things to fill it with, then text Sadaf for the address. I rush home to assemble the basket and wrap it prettily, hoping it will get my foot in the door.
After that, I am on my own.
“Humaira?!” Madiha Raja says, as I stand in front of her house carrying a basket half the size of me. “H-Hi. Salaam. What?—”
“Salaam!” I say, voice overly bright to mask how nervous I feel. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah—Yes, of course,” she says, stepping aside to let me in. Her small house is cozy and smells like ghee in a very homey way. Setting the basket down on the table, I risk a quick glance around.
“No one’s home,” Madiha says. “Except my Dhadi, who’s napping upstairs.” She looks at the basket, eyes wide as she takes all of it in. “What is this for?”
“For your brother,” I say, trying to keep my voice even despite my embarrassment. “It’s an apology. I was hoping to speak with him, actually.”
“He’s out,” Madiha says, “but he’ll be back soon.” She pauses, looking at me carefully. “Is this about ... Shanzay?” she asks hopefully. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
For a moment, I’m not sure if Madiha will lash out at me, be angry or upset, as she has every right to be, after I have jeopardized her brother’s happiness, but instead, she surprises me by smiling.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
Just then, we turn at the sound of the front door opening.
A handsome young man enters, then stops when he sees me. I take a deep breath and smile nervously.
“Huzaifa, I’d like to speak to you…”
* * *
After it is done, there is the waiting, the dreadful waiting.
I wonder if Huzaifa will speak to Shanzay tonight, or if he will wait, or if he will speak with her at all. I want to call Shanzay and tell her of all that has happened, but I hold back, waiting, waiting and praying to see how things will fall into place, if they even will at all.
Then, two days later, at work, Shanzay pulls me aside, and we huddle at the coffee station. Her face is serious.
“Huzaifa called me last night,” she says. I cannot decipher what she is feeling. Oh dear. I am afraid my meddling will have made things worse… “He proposed to me,” she says, hiding her smile. “And I have accepted.”
“Thank God,” I breathe, then I scream and hug her. “I’m so happy for you!”
And I am, truly. Even though he is still studying and perhaps isn’t in a financial position to take care of her, he loves her, and she loves him, so everything else will fall into place.
She screams as well, clutching me tightly, and we bounce up and down. My heart is so full, I think I will burst. We pull apart, though our hands remain clasped.
