Counting Down with You(45)
“Of course,” Mia says, expression lighting up as she accepts my phone. “We can do a little photo shoot! Daniela loves photography. Here you go, babe.”
Daniela grabs the phone from Mia, eyes bright with delight. “We’ll have to skate to the other side. There’s better lighting there.”
She and Mia take off before I can protest that I don’t care about the lighting. “I’m not going to make it over there for another ten minutes,” I complain, judging the distance between us and them.
“I’ve got you,” Ace says, squeezing my hand. A jolt goes down my spine, strange and unfamiliar. “Just don’t let go of me.”
I nod my agreement, and he pulls us toward the other side of the rink. Halfway there, Ace gives me a contemplative look. “I didn’t peg you as the type to post stuff like this on Instagram.”
“I’m not,” I say, biting my bottom lip as I search for a lie that isn’t I panicked about whether this was a date and got manipulated by my best friends into treating it like one. “Cora and Nandini threatened to...murder me, if I didn’t post a picture of me ice skating on there.”
Ace raises an eyebrow. “They care that much about ice skating?”
“I guess so,” I say under my breath. Wait. Is Ace asking because he doesn’t want to be in a photo with me?
After he let me follow his Instagram, I looked through his profile. It’s all but barren, except for one picture of the night sky. The location is Istanbul, Turkey, and the only person tagged is someone named Ben Wang. Probably the same Ben that Ace mentioned the other day.
Mine at least has pictures of Nandini, Cora, and me doing stupid things and the occasional selfie when they coerce me into posting one. “Do you not want to be in the photo?” I ask. “You don’t have to be.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Ace says, his gaze still thoughtful. “Will you send me the pictures when you’re done?”
I squint. “For what?”
He takes one of my hands and raises it above my head. I don’t understand what he’s trying to do until he spins me around in a slow circle. Not far from us, I hear the sound of a camera shutter go off.
“To remember,” he says as he turns me back toward him. “There’s something magical about this moment I don’t ever want to forget.”
I think Ace is trying to kill me. That’s the only explanation for why he keeps saying things like that and expecting me to have an appropriate response aside from slipping and breaking a bone.
I swallow roughly, my heart stuttering in my throat. “Okay. I’ll send them.”
Another clicking sound draws my attention to Daniela, who’s on one knee, my phone tilted up toward us. She smiles when she catches my eye. “Ready for a mini photo shoot?”
Ace looks at me expectantly. I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Later, I lie on my couch, staring at my phone with wide eyes. My homework sits in front of me untouched. I’m too busy looking at my last Instagram post, which has nearly two hundred likes. That’s basically all of the people who follow me.
“This is unbelievable,” I say under my breath.
I let only people I know and trust follow my account, and I’ve never been more grateful for that than right now.
If this picture somehow got back to my parents, I would be done for. I don’t even let Samir follow me for that reason alone.
I scroll through my feed, trying to discern why all of these people are suddenly showing an interest in my life and why they’re commenting on my picture saying:
ugh cuties :((( absolutely outsold
#RelationshipGoals
INVENTED LOVE AND PHOTOGRAPHY??? (That one is Mia. Of course it is. She requested to follow me immediately after the ice skating date.)
so happy for you both
WE HAVE TO STAN!!!
#karstair DID invent love, you’re so right. (And that one is Cora. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.)
waiting for my wedding invitation! (Just for that, Nandini isn’t getting an invitation to my actual wedding, whoever it’s with.)
you look beautiful (A comment from @AlistairClyde. The comment itself has thirty likes. I don’t know what to make of it, but it’s causing strange feelings to blossom inside me and flutter in my stomach.)
As I’m liking comments, my phone lights up with a call from my mother. All the butterflies in my stomach plummet as I debate whether to pick up.
Eventually, I give in, sliding my thumb across the screen. My mother looks back at me, her eyes squinted. “Myra!”
“As-salaam alaikum, Ma,” I say, clearing my throat. “How are you?”
“Wa-alaikum salaam. I’d be better if you picked up the phone more often,” she says pointedly and I wince, lowering my gaze. “What has you so busy?”
“Just school,” I say, wondering how to shift the topic when I notice her henna. “Oh, your mehndi looks so good! Who did it?”
“Your cousin Zahra,” Ma says, holding her hand out so I can see the design better. I’m always so impressed by the talent Bangladeshi artists have. Every year, I await Eid eagerly, for many reasons, but especially for the clothes, jewelry, and henna designs. “She’s trying to teach me, but...” She holds out her other hand where the design looks as if it was drawn by a three-year-old.