Page 62 of If I Loved You Less
Something stirs low in my stomach.
I shake my head, cheeks flaming.Goodness. It must be the late hour.
I throw a book onto his lap, and he opens his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asks, looking at me curiously as I sit on the other end of the sofa.
“Giving you backup,” I say breezily. “You know, in case a real robber comes.”
Leaning against the corner so I am facing him, I pull my legs up and set my own book on my knees. I do not look at him, I simply begin reading, and from the corner of my eyes, I can tell when he has picked up his book and begun reading as well.
I’ve given him my copy ofThe Piper’s Sonby Melina Marchetta, the book I recommended to him at dinner a few days ago. In my own hands, I have my copy ofThe Secret Historyby Donna Tartt, the book he recommended to me. I haven’t started it yet, but even now as I try to read, I find I cannot focus at all.
My gaze sneaks away from the page to linger on his face: the dark shadow of his beard, the glint of his glasses, his warm eyes half-lidded and enraptured as he reads his own book.
His hair is disheveled, sticking out in all directions, and I want to bridge the gap between us, to tip his head up and smooth his hair with my hands. I focus back on my book, but reread the same passage a dozen times, sneaking a glance at the end of each, imagining his soft hair between my fingers.
Good Lord.Whathas gotten into me?
He is doing nothing to warrant such attention. We sit in comfortable silence, and yet…
It must be the hour, muddling my senses. He is a man, and I am a woman, after all, and with him sitting so close, smelling of rich leather and amber, it is easy to be distracted.
Too easy. He does smell lovely, and the couch is so comforting and warm, and after all the fear of the past hour, the exhaustion and sadness of the entire day, it is easy to nestle deep into the pillows, my eyes dropping languidly with each blink, dropping ... dropping…
I wake to Papa shaking me gently.
“Humaira, wake up now, jaani,” he says. I blink away the confusion, looking around. I am in the living room, my book on the table.
There is a blanket across my lap, tucked around my legs; when did that get there? The room has been cleaned as well, all the stray popcorn and chocolate picked up and disposed of.
“Go to bed, jaani,” Papa says.
“Did Fawad leave?” I ask, voice scratchy with sleep.
“Yes, just now when I got in.”
My heart squeezes. I press a hand to my chest to push back the strange sensation. It hurts.
I feel as though I've missed something vital while I was asleep, and I have no way of recovering it.
ChapterFourteen
With Rizwan back in London and no Emad for Shanzay, we are sadly back to square one in the romance department. I decide to give up my matchmaking, due to the catastrophic result it’s most recently yielded. We begin the new year in low spirits, even after another movie night (period dramas this time, thank God).
January is sullen and filled with snow which is usually magical, but with Shanzay’s anguished mood, it appears more as sleet, and I cannot be happy either.
Fawad and Asif’s parents also come in mid-January which means Naadia is busy with her in-laws. I go over a few times, when Auntie invites me, but it isn't much fun. Fawad is quiet, suspiciously so, and is always in a rush for the lunch or dinner to end. He looks exhausted, not his usual self, but when I mention it to Naadia, she says she hasn’t noticed anything amiss.
By mid-February, after lots of hot chocolate and baked goods, I believe Shanzay is recovering, and the snow has regained some of its magic again, though tinged with something I cannot place.
It is a strange sensation. Do you ever see something so beautiful it makes you sad? Most days, I sit watching the snow fall and there is an ache in my chest.
I think love and grief come from neighboring chambers in the heart, and sometimes they overlap, so you cannot tell which feeling it is that you feel. A mix of both, to become something else entirely, red and blue mingling to create purple.
Though Shanzay is on the mend, she mentions Emad whenever she can, and constantly seeks news of him. He had the common sense not to complain to his mother, so no argument has erupted between Mahum Phuppo and Papa. I have not seen him since that dreadful night, but I know Shanzay secretly hopes her path and his will cross again.
She is very prone to crying, which I do not appreciate, for it is so messy and fussy. It isn’t that I am averse to theactof crying, for I find it very healthy, it is just that I think it should be done in private.
