Page 31 of If I Loved You Less
“No, I’m not! I want to.”
“Well. If you are insisting.”
“I am.”
A little while later, after I’ve changed and freshened up, I have a free moment away from Papa to call Naadia, but right then the doorbell rings. I think it is her for a moment, stopping by before they leave for lunch, but when Papa opens the door, it’s someone else entirely.
“Fawad!” Papa says. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Yes, I heard Naadia could not make it to lunch,” he replies. I tie up my hair and slip on a scarf, then head downstairs. Fawad is standing by the door with Papa. “As there is now an empty seat at your table, do you mind if I join you?”
“No, of course not, do join us,” Papa replies. “You do not even have to ask.” Papa is already in better spirits as he takes Fawad’s coat and neck scarf. Fawad is wearing a sweater, dress-shirt, and slacks—no suit—and I am glad for it, or Papa would be in a fuss once more.
I go to the foyer to greet him, then pause mid-way as I recall the angry comment I had thrown at him last night. Oopsies. I hope it isn’t awkward. Fawad is not one to hold a grudge, but I was terribly uncouth with him yesterday, I can admit as much now.
Unsure of what to do, I fiddle with the ends of my scarf. Ultimately, I decide to greet him by the door, or things will escalate further.
“So good of you to come and join us,” Papa is saying. “It’s so nice to have friends in the neighborhood.”
“It’s a good walk, and I enjoy it,” Fawad replies, just as I join them.
“Papa, I think we’re merely a part of Fawad’s exercise regime,” I say, teasing. “Though I cannot say what walking four houses down will do for your overall health. Especially in this cold.”
“One should not venture out in this cold, to be sure, to be sure,” Papa says, voice solemn. “But Fawad is a reasonable sort, he did not forget his scarf.”
“One should never forget their scarf,” Fawad agrees. I seek out his gaze, a bit worried. We usually laugh about Papa’s antics, and today I am hoping we can do the same.
He looks at me, and I still. His dark brown eyes are indecipherable for a moment – but then I catch the hesitation in the way he stands. Finally, he raises his brows in Papa’s direction.
All is forgiven.
At the same time, we both smile. Tension leaves my body, and I feel lighter. I had not realized it before, but I could not bear it if he was truly angry with me.
“It’s good to have you joining us, besides,” I add, “because I need a sous chef.”
Fawad laughs. “Of course you do. What are you making?”
Papa leaves us to retreat to his office, while Fawad and I walk toward the kitchen. I lower my voice.
“We’re making drunken noodles,” I whisper, drawing near to him. He smells like rich leather and amber, a deliciously heady scent. I wonder which brand it is. (For scientific purposes, of course.)
I inch toward him and take a deep breath in. God, it smells good. Whatisthat?
“Why are you whispering?” he asks, stepping closer as his own voice lowers to match mine. I inhale another deep breath of his cologne, deducing it is probably Tom Ford.
“We can’t say ‘drunken noodles’ in front of Papa,” I explain, when I remember he’s asked me a question. “He’s positively scandalized just by the name.”
“I can’t say I am surprised,” Fawad says. “What should we call it instead? I think the Thai name is pad kee mao.”
I laugh at his accent, though I do not think any of us rightly knows how to pronounce the names of Thai food dishes, and we all horribly butcher them.
“Yes, or we will simply say Thai noodles so he is not alarmed,” I reply. “Papa is very easily alarmed.”
“That he is. Don’t you remember when you said you were going for cocktail hour sushi?”
I groan, recalling the instance. “God, I was lectured for a half hour about the perils of such speech, even though I was not going forcocktails, merelysushi.”
“He is a particular man.”
