Ayesha At Last(35)

Hafsa sat down abruptly. “I’ve never had a boyfriend either. That doesn’t mean I want my family to pick out my husband like they’re ordering something off Amazon.”

Khalid kept his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “This is the way things are done, the best way to keep families united and avoid problems. Love comes after marriage, not before. Whatever you feel for someone before marriage is just attraction and chemistry. It’s not real.” He looked up at her. She looked irritated, thoughtful. And beautiful, Khalid thought, and swallowed hard.

“Your words sound rational, but it doesn’t seem like you completely believe them,” she said slowly. “Does your mom ask you to dress like that?”

Khalid glanced down at his white robe, the tasbih prayer beads on his wrist. “This is who I am,” he said. “I’m not hiding what’s important to me.”

“But don’t you know how you look to everyone else?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“You wear hijab,” Khalid said. “That’s an act of faith and bravery. All I’m doing is wearing a really long dress shirt. Besides, Ammi said the beard makes me look manly.” He smiled, clearly taking her by surprise. She laughed, and his smile widened.

“Maybe you should write a poem about your rishta,” he said.

“Are you mocking me?” she asked, face flushing.

“When something bothers me, I read the Quran and pray about it. You could try that too, but since you’re a poet, you should write about it.”

“I’m not a poet. I’m a substitute teacher.”

“I heard you at Bella’s,” Khalid said, locking eyes with her again. “You’re a poet.” His pulse began to speed and he looked at her hands instead, her long, delicate fingers, smooth and copper-coloured and . . .

“You could title it ‘Rishti-culous,’” Khalid said, desperate to distract himself. “The poem, I mean.”

“‘Rishta Rage,’” she said, smiling. “‘Runaway Rishta.’”

“‘Risht-ocracy,’” Khalid said.

“‘Hasta La Rishta,’” she said, laughing. “Have you seen the Terminator movies?”

Khalid froze. “No,” he said, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

His sister had quoted Schwarzenegger too, right before she had disappeared from his life forever. The memory was still so painful, his hands clenched.

Zareena hugging him tightly at the airport, full of bravado and unshed tears, their mother shifting impatiently beside them.

“Did you even want to help with the conference?” he asked, his voice rough. “I’m not your friend, Hafsa. We need to focus.”

Her face registered surprise and hurt before she wiped it clean of emotion. “White and black for the conference colour scheme. We should put together an ironic video we can post on our website and YouTube. I’ll take care of the posts.” She spoke quickly, but he was not listening.

Khalid knew he had failed his sister. His guilt lurked below the dark shadow of his anger and rose to the surface whenever he thought of his grim-faced mother marching Zareena toward the security gates at Pearson International Airport. His sister, a light sheen of sweat on her face, had looked so meek. So hopeless.

He should have done something. He should have stopped them.

Instead, he had looked to his father for guidance and found none. Faheem couldn’t bear to watch his daughter leave. He had kept his back to her the entire time.

Hafsa picked up her bag from the floor. “I should go. I think we’re both having trouble staying focused right now.”

She was almost at the car when Khalid caught up to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You apologize an awful lot,” she said. “You might want to get that checked out.”

“I’m sor—” Khalid paused. A smile eased the grim line of his jaw. “I’ll make an appointment with my doctor,” he said instead. “Thank you for meeting with me, Hafsa.”

Her answering smile faded. “Listen, Khalid. I don’t know how much longer I can help with the conference. I’m very busy right now, with work.” She didn’t look at him.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll ruin everything?” Khalid tried for a light tone, a return to the moment they had shared earlier in the conference room, but it was long gone.

“Men always expect women to pick up the pieces and then they swoop in and claim all the glory,” she said, her voice flat. “If you ruin everything, you’ll only prove me right.”

The call for sunset prayer began, but Khalid didn’t move. “I’ll tell the imam you aren’t feeling well.”

“Don’t make excuses for me.”

Khalid watched her get into the car with a sick feeling in his stomach. “The mosque is going bankrupt!” he announced, surprising himself.

She stopped, door half-open. “That’s impossible.”

“The imam told me. That’s why they want to host the conference. It will drum up donations and business. Otherwise they will have to sell the building. You don’t want our mosque turned into condominiums, do you?”

She paused, biting her lip.

“Khalid, we’re too different,” she said quietly. “This isn’t . . . real. Please, just let me go.”