Page 76 of If I Loved You Less
When Naadia reaches them, Ahsen steps back, and Sadaf clutches Naadia’s arm, before being whisked away.
Later, when dinner is served, there’s a bit of a mix-up with the seating. It is not a sit-down dinner, but a buffet, and everyone is moving around their assigned table, being chaotic.
Rizwan has saved my seat beside him, but when I sit down, I realize some chairs are missing from our table. Shanzay approaches and realizes the same. She waves a hand at me, as if to say, “It’s okay!”, then goes to find a place to sit at the table adjoining ours.
There is an open seat next to a suited gentleman, and Shanzay approaches him. But just as she nears, the gentleman turns, and it’s Emad.
Oh no. Shanzay freezes.
“You cannot sit here,” Emad says, putting Jasmine’s purse onto the seat, though I can see her coat on the seat on the other side of him. Shanzay looks to the other seat as well. “This seat is for her purse. It’s Louis Vuitton—a very expensive designer bag.” He laughs shortly. “Though I would not expect you to know anything of it.”
Anger cuts through me. What a dickhead! Everyone at the table notices the interaction, looking away in shame, and a few people even snicker. I can imagine what they are thinking:poor girl!
I get up, ready to put Emad in his place, wanting to do something, anything – but someone is already to the rescue.
“Come, sit here,” Fawad says, taking Shanzay’s plate. He sits her down at my table, where he was previously seated. I silently sit back down as Shanzay takes a seat quietly, her eyes brimming with tears, which she hastily wipes away. Fawad returns a moment later with a chair, setting it beside her.
I want to go to her, but Fawad beats me to it. He’s talking to her, and she smiles and starts laughing. They both laugh, and I feel a strange nudge in my chest.
I try to focus as Rizwan chats with me, but I don’t really hear a word he says and instead watch Fawad from the corner of my eye, the peculiar feeling never leaving me.
After the cake is cut, Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle make their rounds of goodbye, since “the baby needs rest,” according to Zeeshan Uncle.
“What do you think the baby is doing in there?” Phuppo asks, laughing as she holds onto his arm. “An Olympic routine?”
Since they are leaving, Rizwan must, too.
“I should pack, besides,” he says. “My flight is tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I say. “Well, it was good seeing you.”
“Allah hafiz, then,” Rizwan says to me, lingering a moment. He opens his mouth as if to say something more, then stops.
With a final wave, he’s off, and I’m relieved when he’s gone and I don’t have to put up with niceties. Many others take their leave at this time, as well, the formalities of the night over. Papa left even before Zeeshan Uncle, along with many of the other older couples.
Naadia and I look at one another and grin.
“Showtime, baby,” she says, wiggling her brows. We get up, and I grab Shanzay, and we head to the dance floor. Since it is not a family wedding, we do not have to worry about our phuppos tsk-ing and judging.
“I don’t really dance,” Shanzay says nervously, standing stiffly.
“Come on!” I cry. “It’s Imran Khan! Everyone dances to Imran Khan.”
“This is the trash Punjabi music we love,” Sadaf says, joining us.
“Don’t worry,” Naadia says to Shanzay. “We’ll cover you.”
The girls create a group, Sadaf and Madiha and the other masjid girls joining us. Zahra brings Haya out and we all cheer, crowding around her. The steady beat of the dhol moves us, and we dance and dance, outdoing one another and laughing.
I love to dance, and I lose myself in the music, lose myself entirely.
After a little while, I go to grab a drink, my throat dry.
Fawad is sitting alone at our table, lights dancing off of his face. When I approach, he smiles, holding up his glass of soda in a toast.
“You don’t dance?” I ask, sitting down next to him, catching my breath. My feet are aching. I take a long sip of water. He says something, but I cannot hear him over the music. I lean close, and he shouts directly into my ear.
“Not if I can help it!”
