Page 86 of If I Loved You Less
I lean forward to put my arms on the table, then rest my head on my arm and look over at him. With a pitiful pout, I reach for his coffee again. “Please.”
I bat my eyelashes for full effect, but he is either immune to my charms or truly cares too much about my health to succumb to my infamous pout. Tragic.
“Have you eaten anything?” Fawad asks. I shake my head. “Would you like some tomato soup? Grilled cheese?”
My mouth juts open, and I lift my head to give him an astonished look. How did he know? That’s exactly what I want right now.
He flashes me a brilliant smile. “Give me some credit.”
He gets up, then does something with the kettle and a bag of leaves he pulls from his pocket. A few minutes later, he hands me a cup of tea, which smells like jasmine and mint.
“The mint is from my garden,” he says. “Drink that, while I make your food.”
I obey, sipping the sweet tea in silence as I watch him cook. He rolls his sleeves up, showcasing his forearms, then washes and sets tomatoes, onions, red peppers, and garlic on a tray. While that roasts in the oven, he shreds blocks of cheese, making the sandwiches.
When the vegetables are roasted, he transfers them to a pot and purees them, then adds in heavy cream and basil leaves from the fridge, telling me how he is growing basil in his garden, and how I must stop buying it from the store.
I do not respond, really, I simply watch him. The sunlight washing over his brown skin, the glint of light on his glasses. The way he dips a spoon into the soup, blowing on it gently before bringing the liquid to his lips to taste.
The furrow of his brows as he thinks for a moment before sprinkling some more salt in. The movement of his long, lean body. The shift of the muscles of his back, his arms. The ring on the slender third finger of his right hand. How another ring might look mirrored on the other.
Watching him arouses something ancient in me, a feeling I have never felt yet recognize all the same – something irrefutable and bone-deep. It does not leave me even as we eat together, nor after, when we shift to the family room and I lie down on the sofa. He buries me beneath a fortress of blankets and pillows.
“Feel better?” he asks.
It is strange to be looked after like this. I am usually not fond of such fuss, but with Fawad, I do not mind giving him some of the control. I look at him, his watchful dark eyes, the angle of his jaw, the purse of his soft lips.
He sits down beside my legs, which are covered in blankets, but still; if I stretched, my feet could be in his lap. A little voice dares me to do it.
“I do feel better.”
“Have you taken medicine?”
“It’s just a little cold,” I say flippantly. “Nothing to worry over.”
“Is that it?” he asks.
“Really, I’m just sad,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes are so warm and genuine, I can’t help myself from telling him the truth. I stop once the words have left my mouth, regretting them at once. I’ve never spoken thus with any man; I rarely speak thus with Naadia or Phuppo.
Around him, I am uninhibited: no facades, no pretenses, it is all truth, and that frightens me. Perhaps I am a coward, and the only reason I am so well-liked is because I am careful about what I show people. Beloved because I make myself lovable. But what about the truth?
If he sees who I really am, will he stay?
I shift uncomfortably, closing my eyes. “Will you go, please?”
“Why?” he asks, voice gentle.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” I say, voice soft. He doesn’t respond, and I open my eyes again, to see if he’s heard.
His eyes are steady. He has heard me. “Why don’t you want me to see you like this?”
“I don’t have the energy to be good-natured.”
He gives me a puzzled glance. “Surely I have seen you in a worse state.”
He is right. I rub my nose against a blanket, covering half my face in the fabric. My pulse beats erratically, uneven.
