Page 66 of If I Loved You Less
He shakes his head slightly. I frown.
“Are you okay?” I ask, voice soft.
He shakes his head again. I frown. His chest rises and falls as he breathes, and for a moment, it looks as though he is asleep save for the furrow between his brows.
I want to reach out and smooth the crease away, and the impulse startles me. I blink, confused. My fingers go to the pulse in my throat; I press in, steadying my heartbeat.
Before I do something foolish, he opens his eyes and slips his glasses on to look at me, dark eyes perceptive. When he sees my expression, he turns his body toward me, coming a little closer.
“Areyouokay?” he asks, voice low. Something about him asking disarms me. A lump rises in my throat. We must change the topic before I begin to cry. I nod.
“How is work?” I ask. He isn’t fooled.
“Good,” he replies. “How is yours?” I am not fooled either, but it looks like he doesn’t want to talk.
“Boring, I want to quit,” I say, being dramatic.
“Go on a sabbatical,” he offers. “Uncle will surely allow it. Perks of being a nepotism baby.”
I do like my work, and it is good to have something to do, but it is not mylife’s work. I have always imagined I’d quit my job when I marry and have kids. I want to be home for them the way Mama was for us: juggling swimming lessons and tutoring and karate class and tennis lessons and everything in between, making us home-cooked food every day and waking up early to give us breakfast before school.
She was such apresencein our lives. Then, gone.
The memories hurt and heal me both. I am often struck by the duality that exists: the very things that pain me, nourish me. The very people who hurt me, bring me great joy. The things that make me cry, make me laugh and smile.
Why is it so? What can be done? I grow tired of it, which is what makes me afraid.
One day, I will grow too tired of it all, and that will be the end. I will fall asleep, and I won’t wake up.
Shaking my head to clear the thoughts from it, I focus on Fawad.
“How has it been with your parents?” I ask. He lifts and drops a shoulder, not speaking, which is strange behavior from him. He is usually so sure and has an answer ready. I suppose to this question he does not wish to offer empty pleasantries. He never could lie to me. “You don’t want to say?”
He shakes his head. “No, not really.”
“Whatever it is,” I say, voice sure, “you’ll handle it. You can handle anything.”
He smiles, nodding to himself. Some of the dismay on his face fades away, replaced with something else, something I can’t decipher.
“Icanhandle it,” he says, “but you’re wrong. I can’t handle everything.”
I raise a quizzical brow. He looks at me, just at me, his expression both amused and perplexed that I do not understand what he means. A warm sensation spreads through me. His voice is soft when he speaks.
“I cannot handleyou.”
ChapterFifteen
Time passes into spring.
The snow recedes, the ice thaws, and things grow pleasant once more. Naadia gets matched for her residency, and it is in New York after all, and all that fuss was for nothing. We are all relieved, even her, I think.
“I just wanted to have options,” she tells me on FaceTime one day. “So I canchoosethis, so I can choose you all. It makes me feel like things are in my control.”
I can understand that.
Ramadan comes and goes. It’s our first Ramadan without Phuppo and her daily pakoras, which is a sad sight indeed, but we text each other our daily iftar spreads in our group chat and send each other food videos on Instagram. (We also, of course, do spiritual things, like check in with how much Quran we’ve read, or exchange dua lists.)
On the second day of Eid, Rizwan returns for another visit. It’s the beginning of April, and while the weather is still chilly, the days are longer and the sun is gracing us more and more often with her presence. The birds have returned and the sound of their singing fills me with hope.
