Page 72 of If I Loved You Less
He stands so close, I feel the breath of his exhale against the fabric of my scarf, fluttering against my neck like the wings of a bird. My heart pounds.
“Thank you,” I squeak, turning to take the bottle. He holds it up in the minimal space between us, right between our hearts. I grab it and swallow.
I lean back so not to be in an embrace, gripping the cold countertop, looking up into those impossibly long eyelashes as he looks down at me.
We do not touch, and it’s as if that is worse. He is close enough to kiss; it would be so easy, really. I imagine myself grabbing a fistful of his immaculate shirt and pulling his face down to mine.
The idea of it sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I bite my lower lip.
“You’re welcome,” he says pleasantly, then steps away. I release a breath as he returns to his work. Trying to get a grip, I shake my head.
What! Has gotten! Into me!
I return to my task, assembling the dough, then pouring it onto the clean counter to knead. Before I work the dough, I go to wash my hands, and as I do, I walk past Fawad’s back.
For a moment, I have the strange impulse to rest my cheek between his shoulder blades. Just for a moment. Just to rest. I would fit so perfectly. I even slow just behind him as I walk past.
Then I shake my head again, fanning myself with my hands as I look up, entreating the Good Lord to have some mercy on my feeble heart. The heat must be getting to me.
I need to focus. I return to my counter and start kneading the cookie dough. It is enough to divert me. The steady back and forth centers me, and my heartbeat regulates as the dough forms.
Until my blouse sleeve unrolls, getting in my way. With an aggravated sound, I try to push it up with my cheek, seeing as my hands are buried in sticky cookie dough. It does not work. I try again, meeting the same result.
“Fawad,” I say, calling his name as if by instinct.
Too late I realize I need him to stay far away from me before I do something untoward.
“I got it,” he says, seeing my struggle.
“Actually, it’s okay,” I say, as he comes close. I squirm away, but he tsks.
“Hold still,” he orders. Standing just beside me, he reaches and takes hold of the edge of my sleeve. He drags it past the delicate skin of my wrist, then up my smooth forearm. The fabric glides across my skin like a caress, stopping above my elbow as he folds it in place.
As he does, his finger brushes against my bare skin. My entire arm tingles.
My breath hitches violently, and I snap my mouth shut.
But not quick enough.
He hears and turns to look at me, still holding my sleeve, fingertips hovering just above my skin.
Feeling brave, I look up at him. He stands close enough that he must turn his chin downwards, but I cannot tell if it is my eyes or my lips that have ensnared his sight.
His eyes are molten as he looks at me, and there is his gaze, flicking once more to my mouth. I am sure he can hear my heart, it is beating so fast.
We are both frozen in place, holding our breaths.
Then the door opens and I hear a sigh; I am not sure if it is his or mine. He steps back, and I automatically shiver from the cold air enveloping the space his body has left behind.
“What’s taking so long?” Naadia asks, entering the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
I consider throwing a ball of cookie dough at my sister’s face, but I can barely stand.
“Is there anything else you need?” Fawad asks, clearing his throat. His hands are behind his back, his biceps flexing as if he is holding his hands together very tightly.
“No, you go,” I say, clearing my throat. I offer a bright smile. “Keep Rizwan company; tell him I’ll be out soon.”
I don’t know why I say it, but the effect is immediate. Fawad’s face shutters, and all the warmth from earlier is truly gone.
