Page 2 of If I Loved You Less
I look like Mama, at least, that’s what everyone says. She passed away when I was thirteen and horribly chubby, but now that I’m twenty-three everyone says I’m her spitting image. That’s a compliment; Mama was an absolute babe, regal and stylish as a queen.
“Cheer up,” Naadia says, elbowing me. “Look how happy Phuppo is.”
I can’t argue with that. We both turn to look at the stage. She and Zeeshan Uncle are up there holding hands and giggling as they chat with guests, shoulders touching.
“At least there’s that,” I say.
“Now give me your lipstick, I need a refresh.”
I search through my Judith Leiber silver clutch and hand it to her, holding up a mirror as she applies it.
“Did Darcy not show?” Naadia asks, adjusting her hijab around her face. She hands me back the lipstick and looks around. Tossing the lipstick and mirror back into my clutch, I shake my head.
Darcy is our codename for Rizwan Ali (I’m a massive fan of Jane Austen – personally, I relate toEmmaquite a bit). Rizwan is Zeeshan Uncle’s twenty-six-year-old nephew and his protégé. The whole pediatrician thing is just a side thing for Zeeshan Uncle; he has his own booming business for medical devices.
Rizwan studied biotechnology at Oxford. He’s handsome, clever, rich,andhas a British accent, isn’t that just the very best thing you’ve heard? Ever since Zeeshan Uncle mentioned him, I’ve decided Rizwan could be a suitable match for me and thus the great love of my life.
He was supposed to come for the wedding, but there’s no sign of him. Which only makes my pout reappear.
“I don’t see him,” I say, trying not to sound as disappointed as I feel. “He must have been busy with work. It’s not easy being wildly successful, you know.”
“But don’t I?” She wiggles her brows at me, then pokes my stomach. I squeal. Unbearably ticklish, always have been.
Because Rizwan isn’t there, there’s really very little entertainment to be had from the night. There are plenty of boys, some handsome even, but none that particularly draw my interest. I scope the crowd anyways, and there’s this guy with a fuckboy haircut who is very clearly checking me out. Gross.
Then, when I go to the DJ to tell him to play “Teri Ore” already, the DJ has the audacity to give me his card. Worse, he winks! Ugh, asif.
I’m just recovering from this encounter when I spot an actual cute boy turn his gaze toward me.
He looks decent enough, shareef really. I can see him mustering up the courage to approach. I pretend not to notice until he’s right in front of me.
“Asalaamualaikum,” he says. “You’re?—”
But I never find out what I am. In his enthusiasm, his hand convulses, and his drink teeters over the glass he’s holding. Accustomed to such behavior, I deftly dodge out of the way, my heels clicking on the ground.
The drink splashes across his shoes, narrowly missing the edge of my lehenga, forcing a little gasp out of me. Oh I would have been very upset if he got his drink on my outfit; this is Elan! It’s not a joke!
“Uh, e-excuse me,” he says, cheeks turning pink. I sigh, unsurprised and yet still annoyed.
I know I’m cute and that guys think I'm cute, but I want someone to have the guts to do something about it beyond checking me out, beyond fumbling for words, and beyond being nervous and acting like an idiot. I mean, really, people!
Is it so far-fetched to want someone who completely owns up to being infatuated by me and is confident in his feelings enough to go after me, despite how scary and nerve-wracking it might be?
Beside me, Naadia returns with a refill of her Shirley Temple just in time to catch the drink-spilling encounter, and the sound of her laughter fills my ears alongside Rahat Fateh Ali’s melodic voice.
“Damn,” she says. “Can you not go anywhere without scaring boys off?”
“I am not frightening at all,” I say, brows furrowing. It’s true. I’m only 5’2” and have been told I have a very kind face.
“Well, if you would only stopstaringat them like that, maybe they wouldn’t get so nervous and make fools of themselves,” my sister says, waving a cherry at me.
“I don’tstare.” I scoff. “It’s unladylike to stare.”
I know I have an unsettling gaze, I can see it on the receiver’s countenance whenever I’ve fixated on them. But I can’t help myself; I love to see how brave the other will be, if they will be brave at all.
It’s a trick, of course, because I love to see but hate to be seen.
“God, you’re such a grandma,” Naadia says, rolling her eyes. “Quit watching so many period dramas. Things aren’t ‘unladylike’ anymore.” She air quotes with her free hand. “This is the twenty-first century!”
