Page 16 of If I Loved You Less
“I’ll need a refresh later,” she says innocently.
“You always steal my lipsticks.”
“I’ll put it back! I swear.”
I know I will never see that lipstick again.
When we go downstairs to check on the ovens, I make a detour to check on Papa in the office. He’s sitting at his desk, massive glasses perched on his nose, drafting floor plans on his computer screen.
“Papa!” I cry. “You aren’t ready!”
“What?” he looks up, then sees I am entirely ready, down to my shoes and matching flap-bag. (I considered wearing my Chanel chain, too, but thought it would be overkill, so settled for the Van Cleef necklace.). He furrows his brow. “Where is your sweater? You’ll catch a cold!”
I give him a look.
“Papa! Go get ready!”
“Do not worry, do not worry, I am ready, just give me two minutes to shower and change.” He gets up and exits the office but is back a moment later to continue inspecting me. “And why such high heels? You’ll break your ankles.”
“They look good!”
“What are you trying to prove?”
“Papa!”
“Okay. Okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Now the important question: what should I wear?”
“Hmm, wear the maroon sweater and your tweed blazer.”
He frowns. “No suit today?”
Papa loves wearing suits. “No, Papa.”
As he goes to get ready, I head over to the kitchen to check on my pies. It smells divine, the air thick with the aroma of cinnamon and sugar. Naadia’s put an apple-spiced candle on, too, and the whole house is wrapped in a warm coziness.
I take the pies out of the oven, and they are baked to golden perfection, decorated with perfect lattice-work and pie-crust leaves. The berries bleed through the cracks of the latticework, a gorgeous purple-red, and the pecan pie a perfect golden brown. Naadia is still wrestling with her casserole, so I go to call Shanzay.
“Salaam! You’re still coming, right?” I ask. I had Phuppo invite her, since she had nowhere else to go. (She did get invited to the Rajas, but that doesn’t count, of course.)
“Yes, yes, I’m leaving right now. The GPS says I should be there by five.”
“Yay!” I squeal. “I hope you’re wearing something cute! We can get pictures together.”
“I’m wearing the corduroy pants and maroon sweater.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “And the suede purse?”
“Mhm.”
We did a shopping spree makeover soon after becoming friends and her appearance has been much improved, especially with a new hijab-tying style. I’ve taken Shanzay under my wing, and she’s all the better for it. I’m quite proud of myself and of her.
“There might be someone at the dinner for you to meet,” I tease. Her gasp makes me laugh.
“Ee, okay, I am excited,” she squeals.
“I’ll see you soon!”
I decided to do some matchmaking for Shanzay; if I couldn’t have love, she sure as hell would. After some time, I settled upon the perfect match: my cousin, Emad. He’s twenty-five, from a good family (of course) and has a good job working in IT (though nottoogood a job). He is settled, but not too well-off that it would be difficult for Shanzay to adjust.
