Love, Hate & Other Filters(30)

Kareem smiles at me. I catch my breath for a second.

“He loves gadgets. He probably has gadgets that are supposed to make ice cream while they reseed the lawn. You should eat your food before it gets cold. My mom makes the best kheema parathas. Seriously.”

I tear off a section of the buttery warm bread, dip it in the chutney, and stuff my mouth while gesturing for Kareem to do the same. I want to make sure my mouth is full in case Kareem tries to ask me any questions.

Kareem sits back in his chair and smiles. “So … tomorrow is the big NYU reveal. I think it’s awesome. You’re carpe-ing your diem.”

I look up from my plate. I try to smile, but I’m afraid it comes off like a grimace. “Yup. I’ll be sucking the marrow out of life. Probably sucking hard.” I’m not surprised he brings it up; we’ve already talked about how I was dreading today. Of course, he doesn’t realize I have more than one truth to tell this weekend.

Kareem laughs. “Is this the appropriate time for a nihari joke?”

“Ugh. It’s never an appropriate time for a nihari joke. I had nightmares about sucking out the marrow from those bones.”

“What? Are you not a real Hyderabadi? Nihari is delicious.”

“Of course you loved it. That’s why you’re such a Thoreau pusher. You are what you eat.”

“You’ll be fine. Tell them straight up.”

“I was considering using the stomp-my-feet-and-hold-my breath technique. It proved highly effective when I was little.”

“By any means necessary?”

“Whatever gets me to New York.”

“Do you want me to put in a good word for you?” Kareem offers between bites of paratha. “I mean, I’m going to school in New Jersey, and I haven’t turned into my parents’ worst nightmare or anything.”

When I look at Kareem’s bright eyes, my hard candy coating gives way to my gooey inside. But it isn’t attraction; it’s because I feel sorry for what I’m about to do. I know Kareem is sincere and in this moment. I wish my heart would pound for him like it does for Phil. Life would be so much easier. I know that he’s a lot more than the suitable boy trifecta—Indian, Muslim, and from a good family. But I can’t fake it.

My mind time-travels to a future that will never happen, an alternate universe where I’m in love with Kareem. There are afternoons on the couch watching old Satyajit Ray movies, stuffing our faces with samosas. We share an unspoken understanding, two people from similar backgrounds raised in similar ways in America. I will never have to explain so many basic things to him. Explain why every adult is called auntie or uncle despite familial link (a sign of respect), why we always take off our shoes at the vestibule (we pray in the house, so the home is holy), or why the major Muslim holidays are on different days every year (Islam follows a lunar calendar). There will be a big wedding where Kareem rides in on a white horse and I will be garlanded in gold and roses and jasmine.

It’s beautiful and perfect, but I can’t fool myself. I don’t want it. My heart belongs to Phil, even if his heart belongs to Lisa.

“Still there?” Kareem interrupts my Walter Mitty moment.

I take a deep breath. Firmly seize one end of the imaginary bandage. Carpe diem. “Kareem. We need to talk.”

He straightens in his seat. His smile falters. “This can’t be good.”

I look down at the table and then up, past Kareem. My voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this without sounding horrible. I don’t like you the way you like me. It’s not because of anything you—”

“Do not say, ‘It’s not you; it’s me,’” he interrupts, but his tone is gentle. “That is too much of a cliché.”

“But it’s true. You’ve been so nice, and I enjoy talking to you, and I don’t want to hurt you …” The words catch in my throat, and tears well in my eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I should like you, but it’s that—”

Kareem half-laughs. “Maya, you can’t force yourself to be into someone. And we’ve only been on one date, so I get it. It’s not working for you. Plus, you know, I’d like to be adored for who I am.”

Why does he have to be so kind? Can’t he see that he’s just making it harder on me? I swallow hard. “Of … of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that … I was forcing myself. God. I’m doing a terrible job at this. I want to explain. I …” I want to run away. But there is no place to go where I won’t find myself.

Kareem stands up and walks over to my side of the table. He sits and puts his arm around me and draws me close to him. I sob into his chest. He caresses my hair and kisses the top of my head. I don’t deserve this kind of understanding, but I am grateful for it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s okay, Maya. As big as my ego is, this actually does seem to be about you and not me.”

I wipe away the salt and tears and mascara that ran down my face. “Oh, my God. I must look awesome right now.”

“You totally rock the raccoon eyes. Now, what’s bothering you?”

I sigh deeply. I want to tell him. Still, it is infinitely strange to talk to a guy you’ve made out with about a guy you want to make out with. But right now, at this picnic table with his arm still protectively around me, Kareem doesn’t feel like the former. He is the big brother who’d fight off the schoolyard bully for me.