Page 5 of If I Loved You Less
“Oh, jaani, I’ll miss you so,” she says. Her eyes are misty, as well, but she’s grinning. I console myself with the fact that I had a hand to play in making her so happy, that even though she is leaving me, she has found her love, her companion, and she will never be alone again.
Even if I will be.
“Never mind that,” I reply. “Have the very best time in Europe, and send me a hundred pictures a day! And don’t forget to get me?—”
“The stationary from Florence, yes, darling, I know,” she says, laughing. “Now, give me a kiss, and I’ll see you soon, gudiya.” I do as I’m told and Phuppo squeezes my hands. My heart threatens to break. I don’t want to let go. “And remember,” she adds, “when we return, I’m only forty minutes away.”
I smile at her, though despair cracks within me. Forty minutes is much too far when I am accustomed to her being just across the hall. Of course, she is a doctor and works long hours, so it isn’t as though I saw her all the time, but still. She was always there when I needed a cuddle, and now she would not be.
But I won’t make her upset by mentioning it. I give her my brightest smile, though the tears in my eyes betray my true feelings, and then the ordeal is done with.
We must go.
So we do.
* * *
“Well, that was dreadful,” Papa says, sliding off his dress shoes when we reach home. “No more matchmaking, Humaira, my old soul cannot bear another departure.” He frowns, then meets my eyes. “You won’t leave me, will you?”
I help Papa out of his coat. “No, Papa, I won’t leave you.”
This is what we in Urdu call a jhooti tasali, but I don’t think there is harm in the false reassurance.
He plants a kiss on my cheek, then retreats to his office, where he spends most of his free time. The big house is empty and quiet and dark, like a museum after-hours, filled with magic but missing it all without the visitors.
I slip off my Manolo Blahniks and release a long breath.
While I don’twantto leave Papa either, begrudgingly I think about how I will have to fall in love for that to happen first, and at the rate this is going, who knows how long that will take?
My Prince Charming is certainly keeping me waiting.
And how I hate to be kept waiting.
ChapterTwo
With the wedding festivities over, it’s time to get back to work.
A few days later (after I’ve recovered from the ordeal that is a week-long Pakistani wedding), I dress in a pair of cute trousers in the most darling shade of lavender and wear a ruffled white blouse with a dark purple chiffon scarf around my head. Not the most usual attire for an engineer, but I refuse to change my sense of style in accordance with my profession.
My wardrobe mainly consists of whimsical and romantic clothes from places like Zimmerman, Selkie, and LoveShackFancy, most of which are feminine, frilly, and absolutely gorgeous (and of course, a bit expensive, but dressing cute is a basic human right!).
After I’ve spritzed myself with lemon perfume I got from our last trip to Capri (back before Naadia was married, I recall painfully), I pop over to the bathroom for one last glance in the mirror. As I do, my gaze strays to the door at the opposite end of the bathroom, beside the second sink. It’s closed now, but for years it would mainly remain open, as Naadia’s room was on the other side of it. We’d spend our morning routine getting dressed, chatting, and listening to our latest favorite songs or reading funny tweets aloud to each other.
Now, I get dressed in silence.
“Chin up,” I say to myself. It’s much too early to be melancholy. With a nod to myself in the mirror, I grab my Dior book tote (personalized with my name across it), then exit my room. Across the hall, I glance at the master bedroom’s door, which is open, as I can already hear Papa downstairs, but the other door is closed. Phuppo’s.
I brush away the sadness that follows the sight and instead head down one end of the double winding stairs, hand gliding across the wooden bannister. Downstairs, I set my bag down and pass the family room, which is flooded with light, courtesy of the wall full of windows. Our house has a very classic design, filled with symmetry and sophistication, accented with gilded frames, ornate furniture, heavy drapery, and tasteful chandeliers in every other room.
I go to the kitchen, which has clean cream and beige lines with dark wood accents and quartz countertops. I make avocado toast with eggs for Papa and myself, looking out the windows to the sun washing over our backyard.
The green hedges glisten in the sunshine, the marigolds and azaleas a contrast of yellow and pink. Our backyard is a wide field, with a mini pond and waterfall installed in one corner, and a gorgeous gazebo in the other.
It’s the beginning of September, so the weather is neither hot nor cold – it’s perfect weather, really – and I open the kitchen window to let in fresh air and the harmony of birdsong. Suburban Long Island is filled with greenery, and I am glad for the wide backyard surrounded by trees that gives our estate the perfect amount of space and privacy.
Despite the pang I felt coming into a clean kitchen – no sign of the little mess Phuppo would make upon assembling her own breakfast – I am resolved to be optimistic. Phuppo is off galivanting in Europe, and I will be happy for her. This is what I wanted after all, when I decided to set her and Zeeshan Uncle up: for her to be content.
I start up the espresso machine, which is cafe-grade and only cost a couple of thousand dollars. Since it is still warm out, I make myself an iced latte, relishing the first sip of coffee, then call out to Papa to come eat. I bite into my avocado toast and finish my breakfast, but Papa doesn’t make an appearance. As usual.
