Page 75 of If I Loved You Less
“Deep breaths,” I instruct, breathing in and out with her. “There’s nothing wrong with saying salaam.”
“Yes, you’re right.” She nods. “I ought to go.”
I watch as she approaches Madiha hesitantly. Madiha’s face lights up when she sees Shanzay, then a bit of a reserved expression covers her initial excitement. Shanzay and she speak to one another, and I can tell Madiha is a bit withdrawn at first, and Shanzay a bit nervous, but as they begin speaking further, both girls warm up.
I’m pleased to see Shanzay opening up, back to her overexcited, rambling self. Madiha is really nice – I’ve met her a few times at the Chaudrys’s house.
Was I too hasty in judging the Rajas? Perhaps I was a bit harsh on Huzaifa. I think about what Emad said, how Shanzay wasn’t good enough for him, and how awful I’d thought him for it.
But had I not been equally snobbish in regarding Huzaifa?
Unease settles through me.
But there’s nothing to be done, not now at least. Anyway, I’ve given up matchmaking.
I join Naadia and the rest of the evening carries on. After we eat appetizers and the speeches are given, Naadia and I go to say salaam to Haya up on the stage.
“Thank you so much for coming!” Haya exclaims, grinning. She’s positively glowing, and my heart warms at the sight. I reach out and take her hand, squeezing.
Her gold bangles jingle, a little melody adding to the symphony of the wedding around us: the loud music, the droves of family members and friends chatting and laughing, the children running around screaming with glee.
“You look beautiful!” Naadia tells her.
“I’m so happy for you!” I say.
Haya introduces us to Carlos, who is grinning just as wide as she is. He is a real sweetheart, with golden curls and the deepest dimples. His attention is barely diverted from Haya; he is staring at her with open adoration, his hand entwined with hers in his lap.
I feel overjoyed for them, but something in my chest nudges with a twinge of jealousy, and once it comes, I make dua for her happiness.
There is enough love in this world for all of us, I remind myself. She has gotten hers, and I will get mine. I will. What is mine will be mine. I must believe it.
As we head back to our table, I pass by Papa, who is speaking to Haya’s father. My mouth drops at what he is saying, and I politely pull him away.
“Papa!” I scold, squeezing his arm. “You cannot give the bride’s fathercondolenceson his daughter's wedding day! She is notdead!”
“This is a sad day,” Papa says solemnly. “I was merely wishing to comfort him.”
“Papa,” I tsk. “How would you feel if people gave you condolences onmywedding? Would that not worry you?”
He looks at me as if I am absurd. “Of course not. I would appreciate their solidarity in my time of grief.” He pauses. “Besides, you’re not getting married, anyways, so what a silly thing to say.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, Humaira.”
No, I am not,I think to myself sullenly, as I flit away.
Zahra’s brother, Ahsen, is here as well, so perhaps the night is not entirely uneventful, for Sadaf and he havehistoryand might one day have a future.
From what I’ve heard from Naadia, they've been in emotional politics for years, only exacerbated by the fact that he lives a coast away in California and is probably afraid of commitment like most men.
“I wish I had some popcorn,” Naadia whispers to me when I join her. She’s watching Sadaf and Ahsen interact, and I follow her gaze. He’s a good-looking guy and tall; there’s a cool and confident air about him, but I catch the way his fingers drum restlessly against his leg. Not so cool then.
He and Sadaf are standing off to the side, nearly eye level in Sadaf’s massive heels. Sadaf is talking, and even from here, I can tell she is speaking a million-words-a-minute, mouth moving fast. Ahsen is listening intently, head cocked, amusement in his eyes and something deeper, too.
Sadaf lifts a hand to adjust her hijab.
“On no,” I say. Sadaf’s eyes widen when her bangle gets caught in the fabric of her scarf. Ahsen laughs – there is the endearing way his eyes close Sadaf has mentioned – then reaches over to untangle the bangle and scarf.
Sadaf looks like she is going to faint. Or simply drop dead.
“Hai Allah, let me go rescue her,” Naadia says, handing me her piña colada. I sip it, watching the scene unravel. It is unnerving to see Sadaf so flustered because she is ordinarily so easy-breezy with boys, putting them in their place and not dealing with their bullshit.
