Page 85 of If I Loved You Less
And it’s driving me crazy. Is he thinking of me, too? What was all of this, and all of that, and everything that has happened, and everything that could happen?
I don’t know. So I do the only reasonable thing: I go back to sleep.
I do not wake up until well past midday, when it sounds like the front door is opening and closing gently. It must be Papa. I am glad he’s come; I should not have been angry with him earlier.
It’s different when Naadia snaps at him because he is used to her moodiness and comes equipped to deal with it. From me, however, such crossness is a harsh blow indeed.
I wait for him to come upstairs, watching from my bed. My door is closed, but any second now, the handle will turn, and Papa will enter, and all will be right as rain.
But the handle does not turn.
Papa does not come.
Perhaps Papa has forgotten a file. Or he is simply ignoring me.
So be it. I do not particularly want to get out of bed as it is.
Though I am starving. The toast I ate this morning is not doing much for me, despite the handsome helping of jam I had lathered across it. I want to eat comfort food, but I’m too lazy to get up and go make any. I feel wretched, truly, and it is twice fold because I can recognize it and do nothing about it.
So I nestle back under the covers, determined to sleep the day away.
But just as I am drifting off, I hear a light knocking on my bedroom door.
“It’s me,” a voice says gently.
My heart stops.
I jump up, then out of bed and head to the door. Maybe I’m delusional and imagining things. Even so, my heartbeat pounds as I lean a hot cheek against the cool door, listening.
“Uncle told me to check on you,” he says. I gasp, leaning closer. I can hear him breathing on the other side. He knocks again. “Humaira,” he says, voice soft. I shiver, hearing him say my name.
“Just a second!” I manage to say, going to tie my hair up and put a scarf on. I sneak a look at my appearance in the mirror: my eyes are a little puffy and my nose is red. Fantastic. But I do not worry about it; instead, my hand goes to the doorknob.
Then, I stop.
He has never been in my room. This is certainly dangerous.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” I say.
“Okay.” I listen to the sound of footsteps receding, my pulse racing.
When I head down, he is sitting at the countertop in the kitchen, drinking a mug of coffee. He’s wearing a button up shirt without a tie, the top button undone.
“Hey,” I say. He stands as I enter, then pulls out a chair for me. I sit down, and he pushes a bowl of cut up fruit my way.
“Yuck,” I say, making a face, reaching for his coffee instead.
“You need nutrients,” he says, deftly moving his coffee out of reach before I can steal a sip.
I frown. “No fair.”
“What’s not fair is you getting sick because of your own silliness,” he says with a frown. He is annoyed, but I can tell it is more out of concern than anything.
“I’m fine,” I say, leaning back against my chair. I wave a hand nonchalantly, then point an accusatory finger. “Though I should have expected you would say I told you so.”
“I did not exactly say,I told you so,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “But, Ididtell you so.”
“And there you have gone and said it.”
