Love, Hate and Other Filters(25)

“I’ve never brought anyone here. Except you. You’re the only person I can talk to about this stuff. Tom won’t get me not wanting to play football. You know Tom, right? He’s going to Eastern, too, along with Megan. All of them—Tom, Megan, Lisa—especially Lisa, have this idea that we’ll be together there and after college be back here …” Phil’s voice trails off.

I shake my head. I do know Tom, but in my mind, he’s pretty much indistinguishable from the rest of Phil’s teammates. “They’re your friends; they’ll get it.”

“Maybe.” Phil turns his attention away from the clouds and focuses on me. “Remember the other day when we were at the café and you were saying how you wanted to be in New York and were sick of being so different here? I got that.”

My heart is still beating fast. “You get wanting to go to New York and being the only Muslim girl in school?” I make a joke, but I’m keenly aware that Phil understands me more than anyone else because he’s keeping a secret, too. Maybe more than one.

Phil laughs and sits up. “Exactly. It’s cool that my whole family stayed in Batavia, but I want to see what else is out there. I want to take some time to explore. On my own. Out in the wild. I’ll carry everything I need to live in my backpack.”

My talk with Kareem springs to mind. But I don’t see him; I don’t even hear his voice. I see only Phil in front of me. “You want to go to the woods to live deliberately. You want to suck the marrow out of life.”

He blinks at me. “That sucking marrow part went over my head, but yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

“I’m quoting Thoreau.”

“That explains it.” Phil laughs again and fishes out a worn piece of paper from his wallet. “I want to show you something. A couple seasons ago, Coach Roberts had this sports psychologist come and talk to us, and he did this exercise where he told us to write down three goals on a piece of paper and then fold it up and put it away. We weren’t supposed to show it to anyone. Of course we did, anyway. Turned out that we all wrote pretty much the same thing. We wanted to win homecoming or bench-press more weight or set the school rushing record …”

“Is that what you wrote?”

He shrugs. “More or less. Because I knew what would happen. But it felt phony. Laughing with all my friends later, I almost felt sort of sick inside, and I’ve never felt that way before around them. You know, fake. So that night at home, I wrote another list and put it in my wallet. It’s been there ever since.” Phil slowly unfolds the piece of paper and hands it to me. “Here …”

I take the crinkled treasure from his hands and read his chicken-scratch writing.

1. Hike along the Knife Edge Trail to the top of Mount Katahdin.

2. Swim in the Pacific Ocean.

3. Kayak the Colorado River.

A tiny lump wells in my throat. I’m quiet.

“It’s stupid, right?”

I shake my head. Is Phil taking my silence as judgment?

“Not at all,” I say in a rush. “It’s nice. No. That’s not the right … I mean, it’s—it’s beautiful.” I stumble for words. I can imagine how difficult it must’ve been for him to show me this hallowed piece of paper. “I hope you get to do it all and much more.” I place the paper back in his hand, letting my fingers linger across his palm.

He smiles. “Number four was ‘teach Maya to swim.’”

“Liar.” I laugh.

“Okay, maybe I just added that one. But I’m going to do it.” His eyes meet mine. “You believe me, don’t you?”

I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.

“I like that I can be myself around you.” Phil rolls up a towel and places it on the ground, snug against my thigh. Then he puts the top of his head on my leg, his neck supported by the towel roll. He closes his eyes. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I manage to whisper. I bite my lip. I’m thankful he can’t see my face, that his eyes are closed, because I am flushed. Every muscle in my body seems to be screaming, but I am as still as the woods. I watch the rise and fall of his T-shirt. I breathe evenly to relax, to match it.

Without a word Phil reaches out, grazes my fingers, and pulls my hand gently toward his chest. I’m not sure how much time passes. No one else exists. Only us. We sit, hands clasped, until it is time to leave.

She wakes before dawn to say her first prayer.

She’s always loved the ritual: starting off the day with a devotion to God. Sitting on the prayer rug with her legs curled beneath her, as the thread of dawn appears against the horizon.

This is the moment when she feels most at peace, before she makes breakfast for her husband, before they drive together to their small grocery store, before the shop fills with the cacophony of women searching for fava beans, cumin, apricots, dried lentils, rose water, pistachios, cardamom, pickled eggplants in vinegar.

Even after many years in this country, some still try to haggle as if they are in the bazaar back home.

She pushes the complaints from her mind.

In a few days, she will be the one preparing the feast. Kamal comes home, and there will be reason to celebrate. He will drive the entire way, seven hours, from Springfield to Dearborn. She worries the drive will be too tiring for him, that he will eat too much fast food on the way and not be hungry for dinner.