Page 47 of If I Loved You Less
Shanzay releases a sigh of relief as well. “Alright, good.” She nods. “Okay.” She bites her lip. “So I will call to refuse.”
“Do so now,” I say. “There’s no use in delaying.”
She nods, dialing his number, setting things right once more.
Really, this is what’s best for her. I only want her to be happy, and I believe she will be happiest with Emad. Besides, I have such a good track record with these things. Just look at Naadia, and Phuppo. Shanzay will not be led astray so long as I am her friend.
ChapterEleven
On Saturday night, we’re hosting a nice fancy dinner.
It’ll be a good chance to push Shanzay and Emad together, and a good chance to see Rizwan again.
Naadia comes over to help, and we cook desi food and a pasta dish. Phuppo is bringing kheer (I’m not that skilled at Pakistani desserts yet) and I make flan. The last thing to do is make magic bars today, which are always a hit.
I shuffle through the cupboards but find we’ve run out of vanilla extract.
This cannot be happening.
“Naadia!” I scream.
“What!” she screams back from upstairs.
“Did you finish the vanilla extract?”
“Uhhhhh…” Her prolonged pause is enough answer. I groan.
“I am going to sue you!”
“My husband is a lawyer!” she shoots back.
I do not have time for this ridiculous conversation.
Luckily, Fawad is good for something, and that is his house being closer than a grocery store. I grab my coat and dash out. It isn’t so cold that I can’t walk, though it looks like it will rain soon. The sky is filled with stormy gray clouds, the sun nowhere in sight.
With a brisk pace, I am at the Sheikhs’s house in a few minutes. I knock on the door and as I do, find that it is already partially open.
“Hellooo,” I call, pushing the door open. Asif must have just stepped out. “Anyone hooome?” I sing-song, entering. Just as I do, Fawad comes down the stairs to meet me.
“Coming!”
His hair is wet from a shower, tufts of hair falling to his forehead like curved blades of grass weighted down by dew in the soft sheen of early morning. Droplets of water fall from his hair and land across his collar, which is open at the neck.
My eyes snag on the long line of his throat, the bare skin of his exposed collarbone.
I am so used to seeing him with a tie and blazer that he looks practically undressed to me. My stomach twists violently. A bead of water drips down his neck and I watch its slow descent as it disappears into his shirt.
My lips part open. I am momentarily stunned.
As Fawad comes closer, I get my wits about me and clear my throat.
“Should I close the door?” I say.
“I got it,” he says, going to close the door, but my hand is already there, and his hand covers mine as we push it closed together.
His hand lingers for a moment, just a moment, his palm warm against my cold fingers. Something skitters across my chest. I fidget, restless.
Before I can think anything of it, he withdraws his hand. I find I rather miss the point of contact.
