Counting Down with You(52)

Dadu laughs. “I see. Should I refrain from setting you up with strange men, too?”

“Please never do that,” I say, only half-joking. “There are enough strange men in my life.”

Dadu raises an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t push the subject. If she did, I would’ve just mentioned Samir and my father, but she seems to know better than to ask.

Halfway through the movie, the doorbell rings.

I sit up, confused. It’s barely noon, and our mail doesn’t get delivered until three. It’s probably a solicitor.

I’m about to sink back into the couch when the doorbell rings again, followed by someone knocking.

“Do you want me to see?” Dadu asks.

I shake my head. I don’t want her to strain herself to understand English if I can help it. I stand up, keeping my blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”

When I open the door, my grip on the blanket goes slack, and it falls to the floor. I must be hallucinating. The cinnamon-scented candle has to be playing tricks on my brain. “What are you doing here?”

Ace smiles at me from the other side of the door, holding a large brown paper bag. “I brought soup.”

“What?”

“Your friends told me you were sick,” he explains. “I thought I’d drop by.”

I shake my head, aghast. “What about school? You can’t skip class!”

Ace gestures to his side, and I realize he’s carrying a book bag. For the first time ever. “I brought my notes. We can study.”

My expression twists in disbelief. “You skipped school to study for school.”

Ace snaps his fingers, nodding. “Now you get it.”

Before I can comment, a warm hand situates my blanket on my shoulders again and I look back to see Dadu standing there, examining Ace.

“Myra, who’s this?”

“As-salaam alaikum!” Ace says which is enough to give me a head rush. Did he just say salaam to my grandma? “You must be Karina’s grandmother. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Alistair Clyde.”

“Oh my God,” I say under my breath. I can’t believe he showed up here. My one relief is that my parents are far, far away, otherwise my head would already be on a pike on the lawn.

Dadu raises her eyebrows. “Wa-alaikum salaam.” Even though she’s far from fluent, she definitely knows enough English to understand Ace’s introduction. Still, she continues in Bengali, “Myra, is he your friend?”

“Kind of?” I say, offering her an uncertain look. “I can tell him to go.”

“No,” Dadu says, and she smiles. The relief I feel at the upturn of her lips is enough to unlock my muscles. “He can come inside. I’ll start preparing lunch.”

“But...our movie marathon,” I say, glancing back at the television from the doorway.

She pats my cheek fondly. “There will be other movie marathons,” she says before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

“What’s the verdict? Does she like me?” Ace asks. “Can I come in?”

I shake my head, incredulous, but open the door wider. “I guess so. Did you really say as-salaam alaikum to her, or did I hallucinate that?”

“I Googled proper etiquette for addressing Muslim elders on my way here,” he admits, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair. “Did I butcher the pronunciation?”

“Surprisingly, no.” I lead the way into my living room after Ace takes off his boots. “Welcome to my humble abode. Except mine is actually humble compared to your mansion.”

He snorts. “It’s not a mansion.”

“You’re not allowed to have an opinion.” I take my seat on the couch again. I wiggle my foot toward the other couch, but Ace sits down next to me. I don’t know why I even bothered.

“Watch yourself,” I warn him lightly. He raises his eyebrows and I add, “My grandma could come back any second.”

His response is to smirk, which is far from reassuring, but he makes a point of scooting over a few inches.

I sigh, shaking my head at him. I’d be more worried if Dadu hadn’t invited Ace into our home, but as it stands, he’s already here. So long as he keeps his hands to himself, it’ll be fine.

I hope.

“Where’d she go anyway?” he asks, glancing toward the dining room. “Did I scare her away?”

“You give yourself too much credit,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “She went to make lunch.”

“But I brought soup,” Ace says, bemused.

“That’s a liquid,” I say, laughing quietly at the thrown expression on his face. “She’s making real food.”

After a moment, it seems Ace decides not to question it. “So what have you been doing all day?” he asks instead, taking off his leather jacket and draping it across his lap. Underneath is a preppy designer sweater that’s sure to heighten my grandma’s impression of him.

I gesture to the television. “I’ve been watching Bollywood films.”

“I thought you weren’t Indian.”

“I’m not. I can still watch Indian movies, asshole,” I say, rolling my eyes. It feels good to settle back into our usual routine.