Page 15 of If I Loved You Less
We wrestle for a bit, both of us struggling and laughing. Then Naadia gets off of me, dramatically throwing her curly hair over her shoulder.
“Woo, I think I can skip the Pilates for today,” she says, catching her breath. “I’m going to go get ready, and you better be up in five minutes or I’m coming back with a bucket of water.”
I stick my tongue out at her, knowing she would never dare, but I get out of bed all the same and follow her into the bathroom. She exits to go to her room, which is a mess despite her being there hardly a few hours. I shut both bathroom doors, shaking my head at her sink, which is surrounded with my skincare products that she’s no doubt emptied out.
I get washed up, change into some comfortable wool shalwar kameez, then go downstairs to make coffee. Naadia is already in the kitchen with her coffee, and she’s left the machine on for me.
“Egg quesadillas?” Naadia asks, taking out the ingredients before I even nod. She tosses her hair up into a high bun, then starts cracking eggs into a bowl. When Papa hears us in the kitchen, he leaves his office to see what we are getting up to.
“Papa, do you want one?” Naadia asks. He makes a face.
“Who eats breakfast at 12:30?” he asks. “This is lunch.”
“Do you want one?” I repeat.
“You’ll spoil your appetite for all the food your Phuppo is making, and it will go to waste,” he replies.
“But do you want one?” we repeat.
He considers it. “If you’re insisting.”
Naadia and I shake our heads. Papa is so dramatic sometimes.
As Naadia makes the quesadillas, adding in extra spinach because we all have iron deficiency, I make my latte and Papa’s cappuccino and set the table.
We eat together, and I text Phuppo a quick photo letting her know we miss her. I send it in the group chat I have with Naadia and Phuppo, which is called MMESG (Mahmud Mirza’s Emotional Support Girlies). Phuppo sends back a drooling emoji and a picture of her kitchen, where she is wreaking havoc while preparing Thanksgiving early dinner.
After we eat breakfast, talking about random things, Papa sticks around to leisurely drink his coffee while Naadia and I get to work. We have a brief argument over who will load the dishwasher.
“You do it,” Naadia says.
“I always do it,” I reply.
“You live here.”
“As if you loaded it when you did live here.”
But the bickering is good-natured, and I rinse and stick the dishes in. Anything else that needs to be washed can be done by our cleaning lady, who comes every other day.
Then I finish making my pies, which I had started on yesterday, while Naadia makes a potato casserole. All the while, we chat and argue and laugh, Papa ambling around the kitchen, sneaking tastes, keeping us company.
The house is loud and full once more. It’s enough to buoy me for now, and my mood brightens, though I still feel the rock of sadness wedged within me, as I suspect I always will. I do not think it will ever leave, but I have learned to grow flowers through the cracks.
“Will Asif pick you up?” I ask, putting my pies in the oven to bake, the pecan one first, then the mixed-berry one. “Or you’re coming with us?
“Why would Asif pick her up?” Papa asks, confused.
“I don’t know, maybe because he is myhusband?” Naadia replies.
Papa makes a noise of displeasure.
“Just tell him to meet us there,” I say. Naadia opens her mouth as if to say something further, but I make a pleading face with her, and she concedes, though not without dramatically slamming the oven door shut on her casserole.
While the food bakes, we retreat upstairs to get ready. I have my ensemble already ironed and hanging: it’s this gorgeous forest green maxi dress with stockings and Chanel slingback heels. I want to look extra cute in case Rizwan comes tonight. Phuppo said he might.
Naadia is wearing leather pants with a nice sweater (my sweater). She also hasn’t brought any of her own makeup, so we crowd together over my vanity, handing one another bronzer and brushes and highlighter.
“What do you think you are doing?” I ask, as she slips my lipstick into her pant pocket.
