Page 18 of Heavensent & Hellbent

“I mean, are you going to tell me what really happened yesterday? Or are you hoping me beating you atTekkenwill make me forget?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you won’t be beating me atTekken.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, which seemed to only amuse him further. “I’d put money on the fact that I will.”

Zain obviously didn’t know I had a little brother who had a penchant for vintage video games. I’d had more than enough practice playingTekken, though Ehsan argued that I just smashed all the buttons until I won. That didn’t stop me from being victorious, so my method was ultimately very effective.

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we?” he said.

I shook my head. “You’re distracting me.”

“From?”

I groaned in frustration. “You know what.”

He sighed. “Later. I’ll tell you everything later. For now, have fun in your new city.”

I kicked a rogue soda can from the sidewalk to the gutter. “Okay, fine.”

And that was when I saw it. In the window of a vintage shop: a nylon Prada backpack. I stopped in my tracks, despite the situation. It took Zain a beat to notice, and he came back to my side, looking from my shocked face to the object of my affection.

“I can’t believe it,” I muttered.

“What?” he said, and then, realizing, added, “This is about a purse?”

“Now definitely isn’t the time, but it’ll get snapped up. Just give me a minute.”

“Sure, whatever,” Zain said, looking amused. “I’ll wait outside.”

I went into the store; it was tiny and curated, each pieceunique and beautiful in its own way. But I was a girl on a mission, so I asked to see the bag and the shopkeeper cooed that it had just come in that morning.

The bag was black, the nylon smooth, the silver triangle Prada logo shining under the fluorescent lighting. This would be perfect for university. Then I looked at the price tag:$200.It wasn’t cheap by any means, but for Prada, it was very reasonable. Suspiciously so.

“Is this…real?” I asked.

The shopkeeper looked vaguely offended for a second before evidently realizing why I was asking. “Of course. There is a rip in the lining, and the strap is fraying, so it’ll need to be fixed—that’s why it’s discounted. It normally retails for much more.”

I looked at the offending issues. I had taught myself how to sew and hem my trousers (being five foot four, it’s necessary). This was nothing I couldn’t handle.

“I’ll take it,” I said, feeling my heart race as it often did when I found something great—and this was my best secondhand find yet. Sure, it would be a dent in my savings, but some things were worth it.

I left the store feeling high—forgetting, momentarily, about everything.

Zain was leaning against the shop wall.

“So,” he said as we continued walking. “You like bags?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I mean, I personally don’t have that reaction to them,” he said, smiling.

“It’s like a historic artifact. It’s from the noughties, and the nylon line was so popular that Prada brought it back and is selling them for thousands. It just needs a little TLC and then it’ll be perfect again.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He raised both hands in the air. “So tell me, did you always live in England?”

“Yeah,” I said, but then backtracked. “Well, I was born in Iran and came over to the UK when I was like six, but I don’t remember anything from when I was younger. And I haven’t been back since.” Whenever I spoke about Iran, I felt the need to add disclaimers. I never felt Iranian enough. I might have looked it, but I was so distanced from the place racists said I should go back to.

His eyes brightened. “I knew it.”