Page 57 of If I Loved You Less
I grab a cushion and bury my face in it, letting out a scream of my own.
I do notwantto break boys’ hearts. I do not pride myself on causing others pain! Why did he have to be so stern?
But the anger dissipates quickly, bubbles full of air popping, and I collapse backward onto the sofa.
With a great sigh, I go to the kitchen to get my coffee and phone, where I see I’ve received a text from Naadia.
sorry about unleashing fawad on you
am making lasagna and will bring some over when done
you owe me brownies and a movie. i get to choose.
done
I am not angry with her, really, nor am I angry with Fawad. I am just sad.
I was wrong, and I hurt Emad, and I’ll hurt Shanzay, and I was wrong. I only wanted to help, to be useful and good, to make others happy, and I’ve made a royal mess of things, just as Fawad said I would.
I hate that everything funnels down to this: sadness.
I get up and go to the kitchen. I take out lemons and a zester and a double boiler. I make lemon curd, and after twenty minutes of whisking, I feel calmer. I stare out the windows at the all white, how fresh and clean it is. Another ten minutes, and I am almost right as rain once more.
The lemon curd is just setting in the fridge when Papa arrives home. He sees the kitchen in the aftermath of baking.
“What did you make?” he asks, looking around in search of a treat.
“Lemon streusel bars,” I reply, as he opens the fridge and spots the lemon curd. “But?—”
The curd is a little tart and the streusel mix will balance it, I am about to say, but he dips a finger in to taste before I can.
He makes a face, lips puckered. “It’s so sour!” he exclaims.
Something in me snaps.
“Sometimes things don’t come out perfect!” I say, raising my voice. Papa is startled. He blinks, then clears his throat.
“One time, when I was in college,” he says, beginning a story, “I was trying to make…”
Usually, I love to listen to his stories, but today, even Papa can’t make me smile – that’s when I know I’m in a really wretched mood. I zone him out until he is done, then muster up a polite smile, but it is of course not what he is used to: Naadia and I making commentary and oohing and aahing at the appropriate moments.
“Do you miss Naadia, is that it?” he asks. I always miss Naadia.
I always miss someone or something.
“No, that isn’t it,” I reply quietly, blinking rapidly at the tears that well in my eyes.
“I knew she should not have gone so soon,” he says, starting up again. He isn’t looking at me. “I told her to stay here – she has no need to stay at the Sheikhs’s when she has her own perfectly good room here – but does she listen to me? No!”
“Papa.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She is coming here in a little while.” But my voice is a whisper, I am so exhausted, and he does not hear.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” he asks, focus shifting back to me. I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose again and instead settle for a prolonged blink. Sometimes, it feels as though he is the child and I am the parent.
“No, I won’t,” I say, smiling enthusiastically. I love him to pieces but he drives me absolutely mad sometimes.
I just want to be alone.
But after Papa has gone back to his office, and I am alone, I do not feel at peace. I wish there was a way to be away from myself, to truly bealone, but I take my bleeding heart with me wherever I go.
