Page 28 of If I Loved You Less
This is the very best part: the initial excitement, the flirting, the wondering. In my experience, the mystery is the most fun. (After you get to know them, men can be quite uninteresting.)
With a dramatic sigh, I fall backwards on my bed, stretching like a contented cat. Perhaps true love is not so far away.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of knocking on the door. I moan in response as the door opens and Phuppo enters.
“Jaagooooo, hua saveraaa,” she sings in Urdu. “Good morning, jaani.”
She opens the blinds as I blink away the last vestiges of sleep, recalling where I am, what day it is, and most importantly, what happened before I fell asleep.
“You must wake up,” Phuppo says, voice excited. “Guess who is here.”
My grogginess immediately vanishes the moment I remember last night’s ... adventure. An apt word if anything.
My heart quickens just at the memories. I shiver involuntarily at the phantom touch of a bead of water on my collar.
I bite back a laugh and cover my mouth with my blanket. “I already know!” I squeal. Phuppo gasps and promptly shuts the door. She rushes to the bed.
“Tell meeverything.”
I make room for her, and she climbs in with me, not caring about wrinkling her new shalwar kameez. I giggle as I detail last night’s events, highlighting my most clever lines, and Phuppo reacts appropriately, releasing little shrieks and squeezing my arm.
“While as your phuppo and elder, I must say I do not condone the inherent inappropriate nature of a late-night rendezvous,” Phuppo says, tone serious for a moment, “as your dearest friend and self-labeled cool aunt, I absolutely love this for you!” She grins.
With an exhale I fall back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling with the stupidest grin on my face. Having a crush is so fun! I am overwhelmed with exhilaration.
“Now, come, we must go to breakfast,” Phuppo says, pinching my cheek. She gets out of bed and heads for the door.
“I’ll be down soon,” I assure her, getting up as well. She leaves as I wash up and get ready in my clothes from yesterday sans some of the jewelry. When I arrive downstairs, Zeeshan Uncle, Phuppo, and Rizwan are sitting at the smaller dining table adjoining the kitchen.
“Assalaamualaikum,” I say, entering.
“Walaikumassalaam,” Zeeshan Uncle replies merrily. “Humaira, this is my nephew, Rizwan. He’s here on business from England.”
Finally, I turn to look at Rizwan’s face, and my breath hitches. He is just as beautiful as I remember, if not more so. A string of exclamation points run through my head.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says, smiling benignly, though there is mischief glittering in his eyes. So we are pretending last night did not occur – good plan of action.
Zeeshan Uncle would freak out at the thought of his nephew in a late-night assignation with me because Papa would surely kill (or hire someone to kill) him for allowing such a thing to occur beneath his roof.
“Salaam.” I say, going to sit next to Phuppo, in the seat across from Rizwan. “I’m glad to see you’re at least punctual for this meal.”
He smiles a golden smile that I am sure has gotten him out of scoldings from teachers and law enforcement alike. “Yes, my flight was delayed, so I unfortunately missed dinner.” He turns the smile to Phuppo. “Faiza Chachi, I do hope you can forgive me for missing your delicious food.”
One thing is for certain: the accent has most definitely not gotten old. I kick Phuppo lightly under the table, and she quickly kicks back.
“No worries at all,” Phuppo replies, turning to Rizwan. “I’m just glad you could make it for the weekend.” As she butters her toast, she glances at me, then back at him, biting back a smile. I try not to laugh, stirring sugar into my chai.
We busy ourselves with breakfast, while Rizwan delves into further details about his horrific flight, and Phuppo and I tell stories about the babies from yesterday, highlighting my progress in teaching Aizah how to crawl and Haniya’s inquiries about various family members’ sleeping positions.
Zeeshan Uncle finishes the last of his juice, then puts his napkin on the table.
“When you’re done, meet me in the office,” he says, standing. “I’d like to get started right away.”
“Yes, of course,” Rizwan replies. Then he glances at me with widened eyes, “Work, work, work!” I smile, amused.
When Zeeshan Uncle leaves, Phuppo picks up his plate and her own, taking them to the kitchen, but not before wiggling her eyebrows at me in a most indiscreet manner.
