Page 81 of If I Loved You Less
My stomach sinks with disappointment. And that still does not answer the question: whatwashe doing here?
It seemed like he wanted to say something, but he left without saying it. I feel as if I have missed something vital, like that night I fell asleep and he left without saying goodbye.
But I will deal with it later. For now, I must attend to Shanzay and her budding romance.
I go to the kitchen and make breakfast, whipping up some scrambled eggs, French toast, and chai for my guests. We sit together, eating and crowding Shanzay, my little damsel in distress, as she lies on the couch.
She keeps laughing nervously. Then, when the last dregs of our coffee are done, Rizwan stands.
“Time to go, I think,” he says.
“Thank you again,” Shanzay says sweetly. He smiles, then I walk him out, saying goodbye and expressing my own gratitude to him.
After he is gone, Shanzay naps, and I cannot exactly leave her to go see Fawad, so I stay, helping her to and fro. She has injured her left ankle, so she can still drive, but there is the matter of getting her car back, if it is salvageable.
I resolve to help her figure it out tomorrow, and drop her home today.
“You don’t want to watch a movie or anything?” she asks, when I have settled her back in her room and made sure everything she needs is within reaching distance on her side table.
“No, I think you should rest,” I say, handing her a glass of water. I am impatient to return home. “Besides, I have some ... business to attend to.”
Shanzay nods, waving goodbye, and I hurry home.
On the drive back, my phone rings. It’s Asif.
Alarmed, I immediately pick up. Asif never calls me.
“Hey, salaam,” I say, hands tightening on the wheel. “Is everything okay?”
“Uhh,” he replies, drawing the word out. He seems lost. “What did you do to Fawad?”
Relief flows through me for a moment – Naadia is fine – then is quickly replaced by concern.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What’s happened to Fawad?”’
“I popped by the house to pick something up and I found him on the living room floor, his clothes strewn about him, his hand over his face, looking depressed.”
Blood pounds in my ears.
“I don’t see how that’s my fault!” I reply, voice high.
“He didn’t even notice I came in until I kicked him with my foot, and then he just said, ‘She—’ and cut off,” Asif continues. “And I figured you were the onlyshewho could get put him into such a state.”
A thrill shoots through me. Silly little me? Reducing Fawad – immaculately dressed, always put together, perfectly composed Fawad – to a disheveled mess?
But wait, no – it can’t have been me he was referring to. I haven’t done anything to warrant such despair in him. We hardly exchanged two words this morning, and we were getting along so well last night.
Alarm bells ring in my head. Could it beanother“she”? Some other girl in his life? I frown, brows furrowed.
“Well?” Asif asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply crossly. “But I didn’t do anything. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
We hang up, and I continue the drive home in angry silence.Whowas this other girl? And howdareshe bring Fawad to such a state?!
I need to get to the bottom of this.
I arrive home shortly after, and by the time I manage to leave the house again to walk to Fawad’s, the evening is fast approaching. The weather is lovely, but even with the longer days spring brings, the sun will be setting soon.
