Page 40 of If I Loved You Less
He leaves early, slipping away when no one is looking, but I notice.
And I do not want to notice.
He was being weird, weirder than usual, and I did not appreciate it one bit. I focus instead on Rizwan, how well he and I get along. (Naadia even takes a discreet picture of us to send in our MMESG chat for Phuppo to see.)
I focus as well on Shanzay and Emad, who look to be enjoying themselves, as well. Emad does keep trying to pull me into the conversation, but that must be because he is shy speaking to Shanzay alone.
Eventually, it is time for the rest of us to go as well. When Emad leaves, he says goodbye to Shanzay, then shares a private smile with me, and I give him a wide smile in return, understanding his excitement.
Then, it is time to say goodbye to Rizwan, indefinitely, for his flight back to London is tonight. My stomach drops with disappointment, and I can see he is dispirited, as well, as we say goodbye.
“I do hope you will remember me when I return,” he says, giving me a slow, sweet smile. “For I will not so easily forget you.”
My heart skips a beat.
“Come again, and we shall see,” I reply, feeling excited already.
ChapterNine
Most of December came and went quickly in anticipation of the next holiday break. I went to work and schemed to set Shanzay up with Emad, and I missed Mama, and Papa was mercurial, and Naadia was away, and I was sad, and I thought of Rizwan.
Then, the real fun began.
Winter in New York. It’s romanticized in holiday movies and in novels, but for me, it has always simply been home. The sprinkling snow like stars and the frozen wind howling against our house were the backdrop while I sat by the fire, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in my hands, my toes wrapped in fuzzy socks.
Naadia came home on Christmas Eve. She had the week off and was spending it with us, so Papa was in high spirits, not even protesting as we went out for a girls’ brunch.
“You’re sure Rizwan is coming to dinner?” Naadia asks me, taking a bite of lemon ricotta pancakes. Rizwan is coming to Zeeshan Uncle’s tonight, to stay for a week, and we’re hosting a fancy dinner in a few days, on the weekend.
“Yes,” I say, cutting into my eggs benedict. “Zeeshan Uncle is picking him up tonight, and he’s staying until New Year’s.”
Phuppo called to confirm as much, and I’m jittery with excitement to see him again. Oh, to be in love! Just the idea warms me.
The taste of old dreams is at once bitter and sweet: like too strong coffee with too much sugar. First, you recoil from the flavor, but then it settles, and you remember just how much you love the taste.
“How exciting,” Naadia agrees, waving a waitress over. “Hi, yes, can we have virgin mimosas please?”
The waitress is clearly confused by this request. “So ... orange juice?”
“Yes,” Naadia says. “But in champagne flutes.”
“The champagne flutes are imperative,” I affirm.
“Okaaay.” The waitress gives us strange looks but goes off to get them. Naadia and I giggle.
I miss having her around for stupid little things like this. We have such a specific sense of humor, compiled of random references to movies or things Papa has said or old Tumblr posts, and no one else understands but the other.
Which is why we are laughing at the most insane things throughout the day. Later that day, while I bake peppermint brownie cookies, we’re chatting and laughing and being obnoxious. We only grow more and more delirious as the evening advances, and then we lounge out in front of the fire.
“You know someone was telling me to buy you pepper spray, like he got for his daughter,” Papa tells us in a somber tone, as he listens to us cackle over an Urdu Tweet. He is sitting on the couch in his NYU Medicine sweatshirt. Whenever Naadia visits, he wears it. “But I told him there is no need, for if my daughters are ever robbed, they would surely annoy the poor robbers so much, they would leave of their own accord.”
This, of course, only makes us laugh more.
“Papa!” I scream. Naadia laughs so hard she snorts, which is such an indelicate sound, I reach over to smack her. “Naadia! Stop snorting! Be a lady!” She hits me back.
“As if I can help it!”
“Oh, you girls,” Papa says, smiling to himself.
