Page 99 of If I Loved You Less
“I’m sorry,” he says, face downcast but concerned. “Subjects of love must be difficult. Are you upset by Rizwan’s behavior at the picnic? He was unkind to Shanzay.” He looks at me carefully. “Is she alright?”
He would ask after her; he really does love her. My heart twists painfully.
“Yes, we made amends,” I say, blinking rapidly. “She’s alright.”
“And—And you?” he asks, voice catching. “Were you ... disappointed?”
I blink, trying to understand what he is saying.
Disappointed? Oh, he must think I am heartbroken by Rizwan’s behavior.
Perhaps I would have seen his rude behavior to my friend as a harsher crime had I been in love with him, but in truth, I have not been interested in him for months.
And the reason stands before me.
But I cannot think that. Not when he is Shanzay’s. I turn away from him and start walking down the driveway, the sun warm on my back. He follows me.
“You don’t have to worry,” I say over my shoulder. “No, really,” I repeat, when he begins to protest. I stop and face him. “I did think I liked him, but I’ve been examining the workings of my heart, and I can truthfully say ... he hasn’t injured me. Or Shanzay, for that matter. We’re both fine.”
Fawad shakes his head. “Rizwan is a fortunate man, for how readily you both forgave him.”
There is an edge to his tone.
“You speak as if you envy him,” I say, confused. He looks at me, stepping closer.
“I do envy him, Humaira,” he says, eyelashes fluttering. “I envy him one thing.”
I don’t understand.
I say nothing.
“You won’t ask?” When I don’t reply, he nods to himself. “You’re wise.” He sighs, then takes a step toward me. “But I cannot be. I have to tell you what you won’t ask, even if I might regret it the moment it is said.”
He must want to discuss Shanzay with me.
“Don’t!” I cry, eyes wide. We are both startled by this outburst. I level my tone. “Don’t say it, if you’ll regret it.”
He nods, stepping back. “As you wish.”
He turns, going back into the house, leaving me alone on the driveway. I watch as he enters the house. He does not close the front door.
I stand still for a moment, heart pounding.
I cannot let him go.
I walk up and into the house, where he is sitting on the staircase. When he sees me, he stands abruptly. I’m shocked to see his eyes are wet.
“I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “We’re friends. If you want to speak to me – as a friend – I’ll listen to what you have to say, about whoever, and give you my honest thoughts.” I swallow. “As a friend.”
He scoffs. “As afriend? I don’t—” He breaks off, shaking his head, then bridges the space between us until he stands directly in front of me. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he lets out a deep breath.
His strong hands fall to my shoulders, making my knees weak, but I am utterly rooted in place, looking up at him, inhaling the rich scent of his cologne, looking into those dark, beautiful eyes.
“Tell me, Humaira,” he says, voice soft. “Is there no chance for me?”
I don’t understand. He forges on, eyes blazing and brilliant.
“I cannot make speeches,” he says. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. You know what I am – I have lectured you and scolded you ... but you understand? You understand my feelings?”
