Page 67 of If I Loved You Less
Phuppo and Rizwan stop by for chai, and she expressly tells me not to go overboard, so I only make shami kebabs, egg-salad sandwiches, chicken bread, spiced bundt cake, and raspberry jam thumbprint cookies with the chai and spread it out on the Tiffany and Co. tea set, which is decorated with delicate illustrations of birds, butterflies, and flowers.
“Yes, I can see you did very little,” Phuppo laughs, when she sees the spread.
“Only the best for you, dear Phuppo,” I respond, hugging her side. She kisses my cheek, holding me closer.
Papa seems to be confused as to why Phuppo has brought Rizwan along, particularly when Rizwan keeps trying to talk to me.
Papa has unfortunately noticed Rizwan’s interest in me and does not like it one bit.
“Do you find such a haircut makes you appealing?” Papa asks. Rizwan laughs, running a hand through his long hair.
“Yes, I rather do,” he says. “We’ll have to ask Humaira to confirm, however.”
My heart just about stops. He cannot flirt with me in front of my father! Papa is sorely unimpressed.
“Papa, this is how young men style their hair these days,” I tell him. Papa rolls his eyes.
“Do not try so hard to be a CD,” Papa tells Rizwan. I groan.
“Papa,” I whine.
“CD?” Rizwan repeats.
“Cool dude,” Phuppo translates. We exchange a long-suffering glance.
“Ah,” he replies, as if this is a normal thing. I shake my head at Papa.
“Why are you in the US again?” Papa asks.
“I am working with Shani—Zeeshan Chacha on business,” Rizwan replies easily.
“What business?” Papa asks, launching into a full-fledged interrogation. I smile at Rizwan, heading to the kitchen to check on the chai, which is nearly done.
After it is poured and served, I come back to the kitchen, busying myself with this and that. I rearrange the oranges in the fruit bowl, throwing away one that looks to be getting old. I cannot trust Rizwan not to say anything else untoward in front of Papa, who is especially sensitive in such matters.
“Can I have some water please?” Rizwan asks, coming up behind me. I startle, upending the fruit bowl in my hands. Oranges scatter across the floor, bouncing and rolling out of place.
I drop to pick them up, and he does as well.
“Let me help you with that,” he says. I avoid looking at him, nervous.
His fingers brush against mine, sending a jolt through me.
What is he thinking?! Phuppo and Papa are right there, sipping chai!
Clearing my throat, I stand. He sets the bowl of oranges on the table, then notices the trash bag is full.
“I’m gonna go take this out,” he says, oh so casually, but with a glance towards me that says I should follow.
His eyes are full of mischief. My neck heats. I am filled with exclamations and question marks. What on earth is going on?
Without looking at me again, he walks away, heading out. I wait a few seconds, make sure Papa isn’t looking, then head in the direction he’s gone.
I don’t need to make an excuse – I know Papa wouldn’t suspect me of anything. It is my house, anyway. I could be doing anything.
Halfway there, when I’m out of sight, I freeze, my whole body tingling.Bad idea, I decide.
Swearing under my breath, I head back to the living room, picking up the discarded tea time snacks. I bring the tray to the kitchen, shuffling the items, trying not to think of him waiting for me. I feel lightheaded. Too hot.
