Page 33 of If I Loved You Less
“You will not believe this.” I giggle. “Guess who showed up to Zeeshan Uncle’s house last night, soaking wet and beautiful?”
“No,” she gasps. “No. Way.”
“Yes!” I give her a brief rundown of last night’s events, ending with breakfast this morning, and when I am finished, Naadia screams.
“WHAT?”
“I KNOW!”
“What is it, what’s wrong?” I hear Asif ask in the background, concerned. Naadia squeals. I hear her shaking him and his responding groans.
“Can I tell him?” she asks me, returning to the phone.
“Yes.”
“Basically, Rizwan, AKA Zeeshan Uncle’s nephew, AKA London’s most eligible bachelor, AKA the man Humaira thinks is her match, AKA?—”
“Naadia, you suck at telling stories,” I say. She draws things out so much, and not in a good way.
“Hey! Asif loves the way I tell stories, don’t you, Asif?”
“Yes, angel, of course,” he replies in the background.
“Tell him the abbreviated version!” I say. “The one in which I seem least like a hoe.”
“I gotchu, sis,” Naadia says to me, then turns back to Asif. “Basically Rizwan is here, and spoiler alert he is a major hottie, whose accent is, and I quote, ‘like butter melting in the pan of Humaira’s heart,’ whatever the hell that means? You know how poetic she can get.”
Asif says something in response to this, but I don’t catch it.
“I can’t hear him!” I cry into the phone.
“One sec.” Naadia puts her phone on speaker.
“I said, is he as charming anddreamyas you thought he would be?” Asif asks in a dramatic tone. I giggle. Asif is such a great team player.
“Yes!” I squeal. “He is! Also very amiable and clever.”
“Who is?” I hear Fawad ask.
“Rizwan,” Asif replies. I can almost see Fawad roll his eyes.
“God help us,” Fawad mutters.
I make an indignant sound at his scornful tone and am about to say something when Naadia says, “Don’t bother, he left.”
“Whatever,” I reply. “Anyway…”
I continue telling her and Asif more, feeling excited. Even Fawad cannot ruin my good mood.
Rizwan is here!
ChapterEight
The next day, on Saturday, Naadia has gone back to her place, which is literally perfect for me.
I could never invite Rizwan over to my own house for various reasons (beginning with Papa, then going on to I don’t want to seem too interested, then going on to it would not be proper, then ending once more with Papa) but because Naadia is amarriedwoman, she can do such things. In desi society, married women can get away with quite a lot.
“You have to throw a brunch party tomorrow,” I tell Naadia on FaceTime, while I sit on a patch of sunlight in the family room, painting my nails (halal nail polish for the win!). “I’ve already worked out who to invite: me, of course, then Shanzay and Emad, and Rizwan. And whoever else you want to invite, I guess.”
