Ayesha At Last(84)

HARIS was in the food court eating chili-cheese fries. The moment Ayesha spotted him, she wanted to hug him for being so predictable. She plopped down in the seat across from him and gave him her most severe teacher look.

“Where’s Hafsa?”

Haris leaned back in his seat, a smear of liquid cheddar at the corner of his mouth. “Who?”

Ayesha grabbed the chili fries and dumped them into a garbage can.

“Hey!” Haris said, his eyes widening in surprise. “What the hell!”

She slammed her hand down, hard. People at nearby tables glanced over uneasily, and Haris looked ready to bolt.

“Where. Is. Hafsa,” Ayesha asked. She was enjoying the tough girl act. If the mall food court was his preferred hangout, he wouldn’t want to chance being thrown out by security. Ayesha on the other hand had no such qualms. She hated malls.

“Relax, aiiight?” Haris said, motioning for her to calm down. “I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

Ayesha reached out to grab him, but he leaned away, waving his hands in the air. She noticed how young he was. His facial hair hadn’t even really come in yet, and his efforts at shaving were clumsy.

“It’s the truth, I swear.”

“She ran off with someone else,” Ayesha said. “Tarek Khan. Do you know him?”

Harris looked around as if bored, his bravado back. “We weren’t going steady, you know? She could do whatever. We only hanging out.”

“Did she say anything to you about where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do?”

Haris shrugged. “She complained about her family a lot. Kept talking about her big business plans, how her dad wouldn’t give her enough money. She was a whiny little bitch. I was going to dump her ass anyway.”

Ayesha’s hand flew of its own accord, and she slapped him, hard, across the face. They both look stunned.

“What you do that for?” he asked, holding his cheek. “I told you what you wanted.”

Ayesha spied the security guard heading toward them, and stood. “You’re disgusting,” she said. She turned and ran for the exit.





Chapter Thirty-Seven

Khalid called in sick on Monday. He emailed Amir to reschedule the meeting with WomenFirst Design. If anything counted as a genuine family emergency, it was the current chaos that was his life.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling. How had he arrived here? The plan was for him to marry the pious, modest woman his mother picked out. Not to fall in love with someone like Ayesha, agree to marry someone like Hafsa, and then help a scoundrel like Tarek bankrupt the mosque, all in the span of a few weeks.

Allah was testing him, and he was failing.

Khalid flipped onto his side and checked the time on his cell phone. It was nine in the morning and he hadn’t heard Ammi in the kitchen. She had been so secretive since the conference, distracted and silent, leaving the house for hours at a time with no explanation. One more thing to add to his growing list of worries.

The doorbell finally roused him out of bed, and he padded downstairs in bare feet and pajamas, his hair and beard standing in tufts around his head like a lion’s mane.

A young woman dressed in a black cotton shalwar kameez stood on the landing, a red suitcase by her side. Her face was round, eyes the same colour and shape as his own. A dupatta shawl loosely covered her hair. One hand clutched the bag, the other cradled her large, very pregnant belly.

Khalid’s face drained of blood and he clutched the door, knees buckling.

“Zareena?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

His sister threw down her bag and launched herself into his arms.

ZAREENA refused to come inside the house, so Khalid picked up her suitcase and carry-on bag—she had come straight from the airport—and they walked to the park, which was empty this early in the morning.

Khalid could not stop staring at his sister. When she had lived with them, she’d hated to wear shalwar kameez or any traditional clothing, preferring hip huggers, platform heels and belly tops. The minute she was out of Farzana’s criticizing glare, she would put on bright-red lipstick, tease her hair and coat her eyes in black liner and sooty eyeshadow. The Zareena that Khalid remembered looked like an indie rock star. The Zareena sitting beside him looked like an Indian housewife. She saw him staring and grinned mischievously, and Khalid caught a glimpse of his long-lost sister behind her tired, jet-lagged face.

“You look like you’re about to go on religious pilgrimage,” Zareena said, nodding at the grey robe Khalid had thrown on before they left the house. “Have you heard of beard clippers?”

“I’ve been trying to email and text. I even called, but some man said you were gone. I was so worried.”

Zareena laughed, and Khalid realized how much he had missed the sound. “My father-in-law. He’s so dramatic. Iqram and I lived with him, and when we told him we were moving to Canada, he didn’t take it well. Did he complain I burned his breakfast every day?” Zareena laughed again. “He’s sweet, really. He’s going to be lonely without us.”

Khalid’s gaze was now fixed on her swollen belly. “How far along are you?” he asked.

Zareena’s hands tightened around her stomach. “Almost seven months. We gave up, and then it happened. She’s the reason I’m here. I’ve been thinking about coming back for years, but when I found out I was pregnant, that I was having a girl, I knew it was time.”