Counting Down with You(54)
“What do you want to do?” Ace asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“If it matters to you, it matters,” he says softly. “What is it?”
I lean my head against the back of the couch and loll it to the side to look at him. “English. But my parents don’t think that’s a real degree.”
Ace’s gaze is heavy. “Why not? What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I laugh hoarsely. “I’m sixteen. I don’t have the answer to that. Do you know what you want to be?”
Ace hesitates oddly. “No,” he says, and it sounds like a lie. Before I can press, he follows with, “But you’re so hardworking and focused. You must have some idea what you want to be. A teacher? A journalist? A lawyer?”
I bite my bottom lip, the tiny seedling of a dream eagerly sprouting to life between my ribs. “I think being a teacher would be cool. But I don’t know. There are so many options.”
“That’s a real career, Ahmed. What about that isn’t a real career?” Ace asks, his thick brows furrowed in genuine confusion.
I sigh, wishing there was an easy way to explain. Even Nandini and Cora often grow frustrated with me when it comes to this. They insist my dreams of pursuing English are just as valid as any other. I don’t know how to say I know, but who’s going to tell my parents that?
Even now with Ace, I’m empty of words. He’s asking because he cares, just like my friends, but at the end of the day, none of it matters.
“It’s just not in the cards for me,” I say quietly. “Can we continue the movie?”
Ace observes my countenance for a moment before he presses play.
Ten minutes later, I’m bawling as Shah Rukh Khan’s character, Aman, runs for his life.
Ace silently passes me three tissues, and I nod gratefully. His phone buzzes and, this time, he flicks the side of the screen, switching it to silent.
Five minutes from the end of the movie, I look over to see that Ace is crying, too. He’s not bawling like me, but there’s definitely a tear sliding down his cheek.
I want to poke fun at him for it, but it’s sweet. He notices me watching him and hastily wipes at his face.
“What?” he asks defensively. “That was sad, Ahmed.”
I offer him a watery smile. “Ready to watch another one?”
Ace glances hesitantly at the tissue box. “Will it be as sad?”
“Maybe not as sad. This one kind of takes the cake.”
He nods slowly. “Put it on.”
We switch movies and he reaches forward to grab the paper bag he brought, pulling out a container of soup and plastic bowls. “Here, you should try to have some of this before it gets cold.”
“You’re such a mother hen,” I say, the realization causing fondness to spring up inside me.
Ace sticks out his tongue in reply and ladles soup into a bowl for me. He glances at his phone again, and his expression grows darker. When he notices me looking, his features soften and he hands me a spoon. “I hope you like shrimp.”
Ten minutes into the movie, I reach forward to pause it.
“What?” Ace asks, looking me over. “Is everything okay?”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to figure out how to express my gratitude. Finally, nothing seems to encompass it as wholly as, “Thank you.”
His expression shifts with surprise and he tilts his head. “For what?”
I flush, feeling small under his inquisitive gaze. “I don’t know. For bringing me soup and watching Bollywood films with me, I guess. Just being you.”
Ace looks even more surprised at that. “You’re thanking me for being me?”
For the first time in days, I feel shy in front of Ace. I duck my head and offer him a bashful smile. “Yeah, I am. For being you and not who others expect you to be.” I shrug, my heart fluttering uncomfortably in my chest.
He’s smiling now, his dimples digging craters into his cheeks. I can’t help but think I’ve never seen someone so alarmingly beautiful in my entire life.
“You’re kind of wonderful, you know that?” I add unthinkingly. Before I can fumble over my misstep, his grin becomes impossibly wider.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Ahmed,” Ace says before he checks over my shoulder—for Dadu, probably—then reaches over, taking my hand in his, and squeezing.
Dadu’s words about Dada linger in the back of my head, about him turning out to be different from what she expected.
Ace isn’t exactly what I had in mind, either.
27
T-MINUS 17 DAYS
We’re figuring out a third movie when Dadu calls us for lunch. Ace looks a little wary. I understand why a second later when he whispers, “Is it going to be really spicy?”
I struggle not to laugh. “You’re so white,” I say, without considering whether I should watch my tongue.
Before I can regret it, Ace sighs and nods. “Mia tells me all the time. So is my tongue going to fall off?”
I snort. “You don’t have to eat it if it’s too spicy.”
Ace gives me a sharp look. “Your grandmother made it. Of course I have to eat it.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, grinning. He wants to impress my grandma. I don’t know why that makes me so stupidly happy. “I don’t eat things that are super spicy.”