Page 35 of If I Loved You Less
He nods. I move to exit, and his voice calls out. “Where is your coat?” I hold it up to him. “Gloves?”
“It isn’t so cold,” I reply.
“If your car breaks down and you are stranded on the side of the road and it starts to snow, then what?” I release a measured breath, clenching my jaw. Papa is of the attitude that catastrophe can come at any moment, so you must prepare for the worst. “Perhaps I should go with you.”
“I’ll be fine, I’m leaving, Allah hafiz,” I say, kissing his cheek and scurrying out the door before he can follow.
It is cold out, but my car warms quickly, and I’m on my way. It is a bit of a hassle to get there, and I don’t understand why they choose to pay so much in rent when they could stay at the Sheikhs’s, which is such a large house. Fawad lives there alone, but Naadia and Asif wanted a place of their own – even if it is only a modest two-bedroom – to save them the commute.
By the time I reach my destination, everyone has already arrived. While I hate to be late, I do love making an entrance.
It has the desired effect. I walk in through the front door, which is unlocked, and loudly say salaam.
Everyone immediately looks my way as I saunter in: Shanzay, Emad, Rizwan, Fawad, Asif, Naadia, Sadaf, Haya, and Zahra. Everyone is squeezed together on the dark green sofas in the living room. Naadia’s apartment is small and feels even more so with how much she’s decorated it.
Every surface is covered with interesting lamps, photo frames, trinkets from various travels, or ceramic pieces from her college days. The walls are filled with art prints, and the sofas have various throws and pillows messily arranged on them. Tassel curtains hang in front of the windows, and a huge, fluffy rug covers most of the hardwood floors. Still, the boho interior has a warm ambience to it, especially with all the people crowded inside.
“Oh, you made it!” Naadia says, tone loudly surprised. She gets up to greet me in the entryway, and Rizwan does as well, trailing behind her.
“It’s good to see you again,” Rizwan says. He takes one of the plates of chocolate croissants from me, and I hand the other to Naadia, who slips away to the kitchen, leaving me and Rizwan alone. Good job, Naadia.
“I couldn’t let you go without giving you a chance to make yourself memorable,” I reply, taking off my coat. “I am quite generous like that.”
Rizwan smiles, taking my coat with his other hand, but a moment later, he scrunches his face with puzzlement, remembering he does not know where the coats go.
“I’ll take that,” I laugh, going to hang my coat on a hook. “We can put that in the kitchen.”
Rizwan follows me to the kitchen with the chocolate croissants where Naadia is brewing coffee. There is a nice spread of bagels and eggs and lox on the countertop with orange juice and milk.
Fawad is in the kitchen, as well. He is standing in front of the counter, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he cuts up some strawberries. I watch his slender hands move, the deft fingers, his signet ring glinting.
Fawad looks up as I enter, and our eyes meet. Then he looks behind me, to Rizwan holding what I’ve baked, and his eyes narrow.
“Fantastic,” Fawad mutters to himself. I furrow my brows at his comment, wondering why he is in such a surly mood so early on in the day.
“These smellamazing,” Rizwan says, distracting me. “I love chocolate croissants, and even if I didn’t, I’m sure after today I would have been converted.”
I smile up at him, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. He is sosweet.Naadia exchanges a glance with me, wiggling her eyebrows as he sets the croissants down. I go to stand beside Naadia, elbowing her while I pretend to help her with the coffee.
“Do you need any help?” Rizwan asks Naadia and I.
“No, she’s alright,” Fawad cuts in before Naadia can answer. I give him a strange look, which he ignores.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Naadia says to Rizwan. “You can go sit with the others.”
Rizwan nods, taking his leave, and I huddle close to Naadia so we can giggle together. She pinches my arm.
“What acutie,” Naadia affirms. “That accent!”
“I know right,” I respond in a hushed tone.
“And you’ll be pleased to know he came in a gray trench coat,” Naadia adds. We love a man in a good Burberry trench coat. I gifted Asif one for his birthday when he was courting Naadia, and it definitely played a hand in her falling in love with him.
“How long has everyone been here?” I ask.
“Not too long.”
I glance at Fawad, who is clearly trying to listen to our whispers without seeming like he is.
