Page 83 of If I Loved You Less
“I do,” I say, but my head is still pounding. It really is the perfect gift.
What does that mean?! I can’t think straight.
I feel feverish, both physically and metaphorically. Life can be so symbolic sometimes. It must be the weather changing.
As if on cue, I sneeze. Fawad frowns, taking a step toward me. “I hope you didn’t get sick because you refused to wear your jacket properly,” he says, inspecting my face with concern. I avoid his perceptive gaze.
“Oh, pish posh,” I wave a hand nonchalantly.
He shakes his head, laughing to himself. “Pish posh.”
I sneeze again, and he furrows his brows. “Okay, I’m leaving,” I say quickly, turning around. “Thank you for this!”
I hold up the book, then dash out before he can stop me.
Outside, I hold the book to my chest tight, as if that can calm my heart’s beating, but it cannot.
When I get home, I eat a quick dinner then nestle into bed with the book he’s given me, wanting to read his thoughts.
But when I open the first page, it feels too intimate, and I’m afraid of what I’ll feel if I do read it.
I put it aside and instead grab my copy ofThe Secret History, which I haven’t begun yet, but has been sitting on my bedside table all this time. I start reading. I owe Fawad that much, to read the book he recommended to me.
And, my God, I love it.
I feel a little thrill reading through it, as if he is just beside me, reading over my shoulders. It is as if I can hear his thoughts on certain passages, and it summons something soft in me, like he is in my head, like he is nestled in my heart, and I don’t want him to leave.
I read until late, despite how sleepy I am. I read until I am exhausted and cannot keep my eyes open a moment longer.
Reading it feels like going out to the sea from the sands: at first, the waves are gentle and shy against my feet on the shoreline, lukewarm and sweet; but as I go farther and farther into the waters, the waves crash over me, cold and unrelenting, submerging me, leaving me gasping for breath, until finally, I am drowning in the story.
It’s a bit like falling in love.
ChapterNineteen
Idream about Fawad.
When I wake up, I cannot recall what the dream was about, but it tastes like memories, like something sure and real, like something I have done and will do again, a thousand times.
I blink the last vestiges of sleep away, my chest tight. Nausea comes over me, and I feel wholly disoriented.
I do not know what is going on. It is like with each beat of my heart, the truth runs further from me, and I cannot catch up to my thoughts, my feelings, any of it.
“Humaira, have you made my coffee yet?” Papa calls from downstairs. I groan, shifting in bed.
“No,” I try to call back, but my voice comes out as a croak. My throat is dry, but even after drinking water from my bedside table, it does not get much better. I press my palm against my neck; my skin is burning.
Oh dear. I may actually be sick.
I close my eyes, feeling drowsy.
“Humaira, where is the Hoffman file?” Papa calls from downstairs, a moment or ten moments later. I hear him rummaging about in his office, things falling to the floor.
I drift back to sleep before I can respond.
“Humaira, my keys?” Papa calls. “Humaira! Humaira!”
The sound grates on my nerves, even as I sleep. I twist in my sheets, agitated.
