Ayesha At Last(58)

The words were starting to sound convincing. Maybe if she said them out loud, she would actually believe them. “It would never work between us,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean you should give him to your cousin without a fight!” Clara grabbed Ayesha’s phone and waved it in her face. “Text him. Call him. Ask what’s going on.”

“And should I tell him that it’s Hafsa or Ayesha on the line?” She covered her face with her hands, voice muffled. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.” Tears leaked down the sides of her face, pooling beneath her palms.

Clara gently lifted her friend’s hands and looked at her seriously. “Don’t call my best friend stupid. She’s the smartest girl I know,” she said. “Text him. This is Khalid we’re talking about. He’ll understand.”

Ayesha wiped her eyes and sat up. “No, he won’t. He hates anything deceitful. He won’t even wear a regular shirt because he doesn’t want to hide his identity. There were so many times I could have told him who I really was. Maybe I knew he wanted someone like Hafsa all along, not me.” She shook her head. “Besides, my uncle has given me so much. I can give him this one small thing.”

Clara threw up her hands in frustration. “What is wrong with you? Hafsa only wants him for his money. What about what Khalid wants? He likes you. I saw you two sitting outside my house last night.”

Ayesha wiped her face. “He told me he wanted an arranged marriage, and his mother has made her choice. Farzana probably showed Khalid a picture of Hafsa and he forgot all about me. It’s done. I’ll get over him.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Clara said. “When I met Rob, I wasn’t looking for anything either. I was only eighteen! But I knew, after only a few days, that this was it. When I saw you with Khalid, it was the same thing. You just fit. I’m not sure why, but it works.”

Ayesha turned her head away and bit down on her lip. She had cried during the entire drive to Clara’s house, and now her head felt swollen, her ears full of cotton.

Clara sensed her advantage and pressed. “Just text him. You’ll always regret it if you don’t.”

That night as Ayesha lay in bed surrounded by sodden tissues, her purple notebook flung to the floor, she took out her cell phone and sent Khalid a single question:

Are you happy?

Khalid responded an instant later:

I am getting exactly what I wanted. I have never been happier.





Chapter Twenty-Five

Ayesha had already set up two dozen folding chairs in the Taj Mahal for the engagement ceremony. Now she held two colourful silk saris in her arms, with instructions from Samira Aunty to “hang them on the wall like streamers, jaanu,” before the guests arrived to witness the engagement of (the real) Hafsa and Khalid.

Ayesha was dressed in a hot-pink shalwar kameez covered in gold embroidery, her ornate dupatta shawl a leaden weight on her shoulder. The outfit was uncomfortable and itchy, but Hafsa had insisted that her sisters and cousin dress the same. Hafsa had settled on the white lengha dress, which was decorated with so much lace and beadwork that it weighed close to ten pounds. It had also cost $2,000, and had the label of a famous designer.

Sulaiman Mamu walked past Ayesha, his stomach straining against a too-tight white sherwani, a traditional shalwar kameez that resembled a long suit jacket. He was adjusting a stiff brown felt prayer hat on his head.

“Have the caterers arrived yet?” he asked Samira Aunty, who was taking out plates and cutlery from the hutch. “They’re late. I told you to order from Kamran Khan.”

Her uncle wandered back into the living room and gave Ayesha a wan smile. “I hope this makes Hafsa happy,” he remarked, looking vaguely at the golden balloon arc and paper lanterns.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Ayesha assured him.

Her uncle wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Thank you for helping set up. Everyone has been so busy with shopping and buying things. The expenses . . .” he trailed off, looking worried.

Ayesha reassured him that everything was under control and that Hafsa was ecstatic. Her cousin was a bubbly ball of energy, delighting in every detail and crowing about all the money her engagement had cost, according to her mother and Idris.

In contrast, Ayesha had spent the days following Hafsa’s engagement alternately crying and writing bad poetry until, disgusted with her swollen-eyed self, she had arrived at the house early this morning to run errands and generally be helpful.

It was nobody’s fault that Khalid had chosen the real Hafsa instead of the real Ayesha. He had been upfront about his plans to marry the woman his mother chose, just as she had been honest about her disinterest in marriage. This overblown reaction was simple . . . disappointment. Misplaced, ill-advised disappointment. Khalid said he was happy. And once Khalid officially became engaged to Hafsa, Ayesha could continue with her plan to teach high school, write poetry and die alone.

What about the way he looked at you? What about the pull between you? What about that night you looked up at the stars together, outside Clara’s condo?

Ayesha pushed these unhelpful thoughts away. Hafsa was the princess, and princesses always got their happily-ever-afters. Ayesha was the one left wearing the itchy, uncomfortable dress and running last-minute errands, watching as everyone around her got exactly what they wanted.