Page 82 of If I Loved You Less
When I arrive at his house, my heart is beating quickly, much too quickly, and I tell myself it is due to my brisk pace.
“Hellooo,” I call, opening the unlocked door and entering. The house feels empty; I cannot hear him anywhere. I do catch a slight breeze, coming from the back of the house, and when I go to investigate, the door is opened a crack, and I hear the crunch of a trowel hitting soil.
I know where he is.
Smiling to myself, I head out back, then step down the steps until I find him. There’s a chill in the air that makes me shiver, but when I step into the sun, it’s heaven, and I tilt my head back to soak in the sun.
Then, I see him.
Fawad is gardening. He sits sowing seeds, gloved hands sure and steady, and I watch the tendons in his arm move as he does, brown skin bare from where he has rolled up his sleeves. His dark hair is curling at the nape of his neck from sweat.
“Salaam,” I say. Fawad turns and looks up at me with sunburnt cheeks and smiles as bright as the sun, just as warm, just as lovely. I feel the heat all over me.
“Salaam,” he replies, smiling.
I don’t know why I’ve come, or what to say exactly. What is the plan? I don't know. For a moment, this stops me in my tracks. I am always in control – except when I am with him, apparently. It’s disarming, and my chest twists with the dangerous concoction of exhilaration and fear.
We just look at one another. It seems he does not know what to say either.
Then, it seems as if something turns in his mind, and he stands. Taking his gloves off, he walks towards me, stopping when he is right before me. There’s dirt on his cheekbone.
Instinctively, I lift a hand to brush it aside, then stop midway. Both of our eyes snag on my hand midair, and I drop it to my side.
“Dirt,” I say, rubbing my own cheek. He wipes it away, then smiles, shaking his head.
“Come on, then,” he says softly. He heads inside, and I follow. “Sit,” he instructs, pointing to the living room. I obey, watching as he disappears.
The moment he is gone, it’s as if something in me jolts, and I feel a little ill, my head pounding.
What was I doing here? I must be terribly tired; all that lack of sleep is catching up to me. I can’t get my footing. I feel dizzy.
This was a bad idea. I head towards the foyer and front door, ready to bolt.
Fawad comes down the stairs and sees me. He has something in his clean hands. It is a package, wrapped in brown paper and twine.
“A belated birthday gift,” he says, handing it to me.
“Oh!” I smile. I love receiving gifts! Without preamble, I undo the twine, then rip the paper off and hand it to his waiting hands.
It’sThe Piper’s Son.I lift it, puzzled.
“I already have my own copy of this,” I say, amused, “as you might recall, since you borrowed it.”
“Open it,” he says. Puzzled, I do as he’s asked, and then I understand. I flip through the pages; it is filled with blue ink in the margins—his thoughts. “I didn’t want to desecrate your own copy, in case you wanted a version without my intrusions.”
“Good thinking,” I say, voice breathless as I touch the pages. It was excellent thinking, really. I would have had to buy another copy if he had left the notes in mine.
“You said you love discussing your favorite books,” he says, waiting to see my reaction. “This is a bit of a permanent discussion you can access whenever you please.” He hesitates, eyes hopeful. “Do you like it?”
There are notes on nearly every page, underlined portions and clear sticky notes and arrows and exclamation points.
It must have taken himhours.
My eyes well up with tears, and I hastily blink them away. Goodness, what is wrong with me?
“I ... I love it,” I say, meaning every word. It is subtle and sweet and exactly what I would have wanted, yet I never would have been able to voice that want. He excavated it from within me.
“Really?” he says, grinning. “Good.” He nods. “I was going to give it to you on your birthday but—” He breaks off, scratching his neck. “Anyway. I’m glad you like it.”
