Page 44 of If I Loved You Less
“I don't coddle him!” I protest. “I’m simply trying to be nice to him. After all, we do owe himeverything,” I remind her in a pointed tone.
Naadia groans, avoiding my gaze as she strains the boiled pasta. “Anyways, if you weren’t such a kiss up, I wouldn’t look so bad. So really, it’s all your fault.”
I stiffen. She and Papa must really be getting on each other's nerves for her to say such a thing. It’s the gripe she used to have with me years ago, when she was more rebellious and constantly staying out late with friends, or sneaking around driving when she didn't yet have a license, or the one time she went to a hookah bar.
“What are we, in high school?” I ask, tone unpleasant. “This is an old argument, one I thought we were past.”
I am used to being the beloved, but it isn't as though it's entirely unearned. I've worked hard for years for the regard Papa has for me. I am loved because I work for it. Not like Naadia, who is allowed to be prickly and is still adored.
We can’tbothworry Papa and Phuppo; they wouldn't be able to handle it.Someonehad to be good, and if it wasn’t going to be her, ithadto be me.
Did that affect my adolescence? Of course it did! Was it enjoyable? Not always! But what choice did I have?
I release a measured breath. I do not allow myself to go any further down that line of thought because I do not want to get into a proper fight. I do not want to dwell on what has passed.
“Let’s move on,” I say, resigned. “Just come home tomorrow and Papa will be fine.”
She opens her mouth as if to respond, then decides to drop it, too. “Okay. Now go sit, and tell Asif to come help me,” she says instead. “I can’t get this stupid pot out of the drawer. I don't know why Fawad insists on using cast iron skillets.”
“I wonder how he lifts them,” I say.
“Fawad looks lean, but he’s pretty strong,” Naadia replies. “I’ve seen him and Asif wrestling.”
This is not at all interesting to me.
I wave a hand, then go to deliver the news to Asif that he is needed. When I enter the family room, he and Fawad are playing chess.
“I’d offer to take over for you, but Fawad is unbearable when he wins,” I tell Asif, sitting down next to him.
“We’ll continue this later,” Asif tells his brother, before getting up to help his wife in the kitchen. That leaves Fawad and I.
“Try your hand, you might win,” Fawad says, but I won’t be fooled. I only play chess with Naadia because we are evenly matched in that we play once or twice a year. Fawad plays much more often than that and even reads those boring books about strategy.
“I don’t think I will,” I reply. “Let’s play ping-pong instead.”
“I thought you didn’t want to lose?” he says cockily.
“And I am in no danger of it,” I reply just as arrogantly.
We go down to the basement, where there’s a ping-pong table set up next to a billiards board. We play, and while we are neither of us particularly skilled, something about playing games loosens something inside of me. I get very competitive and high-spirited.
Which makes me lose my good senses and fall prey to delirium.
Fawad dives for a few shots and misses them, or gets struck right in the face by the ball (which is worth losing the point), or slips and nearly falls in his enthusiasm to stretch to the shot, and I cannot stop laughing.
And the more I laugh, the more I laugh.
I try to cover it up, not wanting Fawad to think I am enjoying his company, but I cannot help it. Suddenly, everything is funny, and I am sure Fawad is exaggerating his motions to make me laugh further because it is making me lose.
“No fair!” I say, trying to stomp my feet as I miss another point. “Stop making me laugh!”
But he doesn’t. He only becomes more ridiculous, until I lose. And then he looks at me, just looks, an amused expression on his face as he watches me giggle and giggle. I clutch my stomach, trying to stop, my cheeks aching.
Good God.I must be terribly tired or some other reasonable explanation for such strange behavior.
“E-Excuse me,” I say, disappearing to the bathroom. Once there, I flatten my cheeks, pulling my mouth down to stop the smiling.
When I return, Fawad is sitting on the couch reading some dreadful looking novel. Even the cover is all black and white, and the font is very severe. I sit beside him and turn the book so I can read the synopsis on the back.
