Page 68 of If I Loved You Less
I open the fridge and take a deep breath of cold air. I press my cold fingers against my hot cheeks.
Wordlessly, he comes up behind me. My heart is beating so fast I can’t hear anything else. We don’t touch, but he stands so close to me, I can feel him; if I shift back even an inch, I’ll be leaning against his chest.
What are you doing? I want to scream. Papa! I can hear him chatting away in the room adjacent to the kitchen, from where they have a clear view of us. But we’re shielded by the kitchen door, so they can’t see a thing as he reaches over my shoulder, forearm brushing against my cheek, and grabs a piece of chocolate from the top fridge.
I freeze, not trusting myself to breathe, my entire body tingling as his skin brushes against mine. It’s too, too hot. I feel dizzy.
Finally, he steps back, but I still feel faint, and not in an entirely good way. I do not, of course, but the sentiment is enough to put me on edge until they’ve left.
After he’s gone, I think about him, in the manner of someone who wishes to understand.
Do I love him? Could I? Physical attraction with a handsome man is easy enough, but I want something deeper – something bone-deep. I do not simply want my heart racing from physical contact, but from riveting conversation, from just being in his presence, feeling his gaze on me.
I didn’t really feel that excitement when we were sitting together, eating and drinking chai. I just felt … strange. But maybe it was supposed to be like that, at first? Was I overthinking it?
Rizwan was from a good family, handsome, accomplished, clever … so why did I feel no anguish at his leaving?
“That Rizwan character was interesting,” Papa says, later that evening, though “interesting” is surely meant in a derisive manner. “Can’t say I care much for Europeans, though. Something about their manners.”
I bite back a laugh. Papa says the most ludicrous things sometimes! Disliking Europeans, I mean, honestly? That is a blatant lie. Whenever we visit, he has an excellent time and no such complaints. Papa will really come up with anything.
It only gets worse. In the middle of the week, it’s my birthday. Shanzay bakes me cookies and is in a wonderful mood, which is excellent, for I believe she is truly on the mend, and we spend the morning at the coffee station of the office gossiping about which co-workers must be secretly hooking up.
Things go downhill when I receive a delivery.
“Humaira Mirza?” the delivery boy asks. I cannot see his face because he carries a massive vase of flowers in one arm and a box of chocolates with a teddy bear in the other.
Shanzay and I both squeal. Even Papa is pleased, thinking it was sent by a relative, but he scowls once he finds out it is from Rizwan. Thank god the note is simple:
Happy Birthday! – Rizwan :)
If it was not, Papa would be even more vexed.
“This is a workplace,” he grumbles. “Quite inappropriate. It must be because he’s European.”
“Hey, it’s my birthday,” I pout. “You cannot lecture me.”
Papa sighs, resigned. “Fine, let me call this Rizwan character and lecturehim.”
“No,” I say sweetly, kissing his cheek. Mumbling to himself, Papa retreats to his office, leaving Shanzay and I to inspect the flowers. They are beautiful, an arrangement of reds and pinks and whites.
Perhaps it is a bit superfluous, and not what I would have truly wanted, but it is still sweet. I do so love to be spoiled. Maybe I was overthinking my feelings for Rizwan. He is a perfectly adequate suitor. (Right?)
Phuppo and Naadia take me out for afternoon tea, and we have the best time, especially when Phuppo gives me my gift. One part of it is a darling pair of Renee Caovilla heels I’ve been eyeing, and the second part of it is something soft wrapped in white tissue paper.
“What’s this?” I ask, intrigued. Phuppo beams at me, waiting.
“Hurry up! I want to see, too,” Naadia says, reaching to take it from my hands. I swat her away and undo the tissue to see it’s a cashmere scarf.
“How sweet!” I say, unfolding it. But then I see the end and gasp audibly enough for our waitress to give us an alarmed look. For embroidered across the bottom is one word:Aapi, the Urdu word for older sister.
Which can only mean…
“Ohmygod, you’re pregnant?!” I cry, before promptly bursting into a puddle of tears.
“What!” Naadia shrieks, grabbing the scarf from my hand. Phuppo nods, laughing and crying as well, as she hands Naadia her own matching scarf with the same embroidery, though hers saysAapa, another word for older sister.
“Phuppo, this is the very best gift in the world!” I blubber, getting up to crush her with a hug. Naadia joins me, and the three of us squeal and shake, bursting with joy.
