Fake It Till We Make It, page 16
“Where’s your mother now?”
“Dubai,” Nyla replies with a sincere smile. “She’s about to be married soon. Again. For the fifth time.”
“Any plans of meeting up with her when you’re ready?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. We haven’t seen each other for a while. I did invite her to my sham wedding. Speaking of, did you see it?”
I raise a brow. “See what?”
“Me being abandoned at the altar. It’s kinda hard not to see it since it was a viral spectacle for months.”
“Will you believe me if I said ‘no’?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. The sudden pressure of Abe’s deal pricks at the nape of my neck, making me rub my hand over the spot. “Oh, my God. You did watch it.”
“What? No. No, I didn’t. I never watched it, and I never will.” I tuck back a loose strand from her forehead. She blinks slowly, watching me retrieve my hand as I slide it into my jacket pocket. “I promise I didn’t.”
She absentmindedly picks at a thread sticking out from a mannequin’s t-shirt, lost in her thoughts. “I hope Mama didn’t either.”
Now I get why she’s always striving not to disappoint. Her parents—especially Abe—fucked her over repeatedly during her childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood. She’s shouldering their pain on top of her insecurities, crushing whatever confidence remained from our last encounter.
A neglectful mother hits close to home. All she ever cared—still cares—about is herself and preserving appearances. She never appreciated Abbu’s kindness and adoration, even though they were arranged at a young age. At least he was making an effort.
He was exceptional.
Zineerah, Dua, and I made sure he knew that until his final breath.
Abbu was the knot that tied us together, and with his passing, the fibers snapped, tearing us apart. Maya relocated to Islamabad, inheriting Abbu’s property as per his will. Dua and Zineerah moved to Toronto shortly afterward, and I distanced myself from the family right when Maya chose not to attend Abbu’s funeral.
“You, too, huh?” Nyla murmurs, giving a subtle tug on the sleeve of my leather jacket.
“Hmm?”
She motions towards her jade eyes. “You’ve got that ‘family trauma’ glare in your eyes. I’m here if you ever want to open up about it.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m good.”
Her lips set into a determined line. Delving into discussions about my family or emotions isn’t part of our arrangement. I’m consciously avoiding forming a bond with the woman because of my terrible tendency to get attached to things I’ve been working on for some time now.
“We should probably get the mannequin now,” Nyla whispers, clearing her throat. “Maira’s requested I make a dress for her to wear at a networking event next week.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s what we came for, anyway.”
“Cool.”
I wipe my perspiring hand on my jeans before extending it toward her. “If you want to.”
Without any hesitation, she intertwines her fingers with mine and gives three firm squeezes, guiding me ahead.
17
The Origins of Arain
Shahzad
Maybe I’m looking too much into my fake girlfriend’s personality, but she’s been acting strange lately.
Nyla’s on a cleaning spree, handling all the laundry, studying YouTube guides on washing dishes efficiently, giving the living room and bedroom a thorough wipe and vacuum, and even asking me to teach her how to make toast. On top of that, she’s been pulling double shifts at Jia’s shop, all while expertly working on Maira’s dress.
“I’ve got it!” Nyla swoops in, snatching the salad bowl from my hands. Our fingers graze, making my shoulders tense up. Her vivid green eyes, filled with a mischievous twinkle, briefly meet mine before she turns her attention to the dining table.
Control yourself.
I run my fingers through my hair, grabbing the duo of plates as Maira plans to dine out with her new friends. I made it clear she needs to keep her location services on and stay within the city. I don’t want Mustafa flying in from Toronto, ready to cut off my neck for losing track of his little sister.
You did this to yourself, buddy.
“White or red?” Nyla asks, revealing her stash of red and white wines from Rhode Island. “Choose wisely.”
“Beer.”
She cringes and gags, producing a grin from me. It’s a glimpse of the Nyla I used to know. All that’s missing is her teasing me about—
“I’d never touch something that looks like pee. Probably smells like it too.” There we go. She hands me a can, and I catch it, setting it aside amid the surprise of her comeback.
“Red.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. For . . . real.”
Nyla lets out a delighted squeal and rummages for wine glasses, assuming I have any. I don’t even have proper glasses. “Mugs it is.” She effortlessly pops the cork with her teeth, pouring a quarter cup for me and a full, overflowing cup for herself.
I grab the bottle from her. “That’s enough, Troublemaker.”
“What the hell? I wasn’t done pouring yet.”
“Look, I know you love to drink, but last I remember, you’ve got a low tolerance.” She’s not exactly hitting the bottle like a seasoned alcoholic, or else she’d be pairing it up with every meal of the day. Though, I did catch her eyeing a soju bottle during her shift. “Can I trust you to drink moderately? One sip for every ten bites?”
“Five sips.”
“One.”
“Four.”
“One.”
“Three?”
“One.”
She sighs and nods, picking up her fork and poking her food around. “Ass.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Sounded like ‘ass’ to me.”
Nyla glances up from her lashes and mirrors my smile. “You’re an ass.”
“Yeah? Well, you’ll be thanking this ass when you’re not diagnosed with some rare liver disease.”
She rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her food, a permanent smile on her lips and on mine, too. “You know, I’ve noticed you don’t talk much about yourself.”
“It isn’t an interesting topic.”
“To you, maybe. But not to me,” she says. I slow down my chewing as I watch her play around with her food. “Like, you know everything there is about me—it’s all one Google search away.”
Been there, done that.
She continues. “It’s vital information for every fake girlfriend to know about her fake boyfriend’s origin story. And because we’re friends. Right?”
I clear my throat, piecing together the fragments of my life in my mind. It’s true I don’t often talk about myself to others because the company I keep around has been with me for years. I don’t actively seek long-term friendships, either—well, I’ve got a few exceptions with Jia and her team. Maybe the reason why I don’t find speaking about myself an interesting subject is because no one’s ever bothered learning about it, which is why I stopped caring, too.
“Shahzad?”
I break out of my thoughts and take the first sip of the red wine. It’s disgusting, but I’ll need it as support. “Right. So, a year after my father and, uh, Maya—that’s—”
“Yeah, I know who she is. It’s kinda hard not to.” Nyla takes her first bite and listens intently.
“After they immigrated from Islamabad to America, I was born. Well, technically not born here, in Koreatown. It was in a one-bedroom apartment in East Harlem. My abbu was working as an electrical engineer in construction—entry-level, so we didn’t have much in our pockets or on our plates. Then, two years down the line, Zineerah was born, and we just couldn’t afford to live in America. So, thanks to Azeer’s family, we moved to Canada, and as my eleventh birthday present, I got another baby sister as a gift, Dua.”
“Aw,” Nyla coos.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to wake up every school night taking care of her little hungry ass.”
“Still. Aw.”
I roll my eyes, smiling. “Moving on. We lived in a decent-sized apartment—two bedrooms, one that my sisters and I shared and another for Abbu and Maya. It was hell on Earth, but thankfully I had Zineerah to handle Dua’s needs.”
“What was Maya doing? Sleeping?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. She didn’t really give a shit about us.”
“Then,” Nyla drawls, brows wrinkled, “why did she want kids?”
“Well, the first time, she wanted a distraction from her arranged marriage, but I wasn’t good enough. Second time was familial pressure on Abbu and Maya from both their families. Third time was, shockingly, Maya’s decision.”
“Really? Why?”
I put on a smile and rub my fingers together. “Canada Child Benefit.”
Nyla scoffs. “Of course.”
“But fast forward to when I was thirteen, Abbu got a job offer in New York that was impossible to not accept.”
I smile at the memory of Zineerah and Sahara baking Abbu a congratulatory cake while Mustafa, Azeer, and I cooked a feast for the celebration. Dua and Iman, Azeer’s little sister, played in the living room. Maya had decided to visit her relatives in Islamabad that weekend, so thank fuck she wasn’t there to sour the mood as she did on every birthday or special occasion, and Abbu was coming back from work to a surprise.
“Anyway, we moved to Hell’s Kitchen,” I say. “It didn’t take a lot to convince Maya after Abbu had shown her the big apartment we’d be living in. It was bigger than the pictures. There was a playground nearby where Zineerah, Dua, and I would spend all our evenings playing with the other kids. I even got banned from the community center’s pool for cannon-balling.”
Nyla laughs. “Oh, my god. That is something little Shahzad would do.”
I smile lopsidedly, shrugging. “I was a bit of a troublemaker. Always getting into petty fights like Eric, and then when I was home, I had to deal with Maya’s bullshit.”
Her smile unwinds for a second, then she tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “Go on.”
Nodding, I continue. “I did my senior year at Theodore Roosevelt, as you saw at the basketball game, and a few months after I graduated . . . ” I tongue the inside of my cheek when I realize I’m at that part of my story where I wish the words didn’t exist. “Uh, after I graduated, Abbu passed away from an aneurysm.”
Nyla’s mouth parts, and she lowers her fork. “Shahzad, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to—”
“No, I do. I want to talk to you and tell you these things. I don’t know why, but I just do.”
Nyla carefully considers my words. She lays her palm outward on the table. “You can hold it whenever you need to take a rest.”
I stare at the softness of her skin, the three deep creases, and the smaller lines running across the surface. “Maya didn’t show up to his funeral, but she did at the will reading.” My fingers clench into a tight fist as I recall holding both my sobbing sisters’ hands, with Azeer, Sahara, Mustafa, and Maira spending the next couple of hours in the graveyard with us until we were told it was time to go home.
But I came back the next day. And the day after. For weeks and months, sometimes with my sisters, sometimes alone. Just telling him stories about Zineerah singing their favorite songs in coffee shops or how Dua joined the girls’ volleyball team. I’d even mentioned Maya’s well-being in passing.
“At twenty, I decided I wanted to put my culinary talent to the test,” I say. “I waited until Zineerah turned eighteen, and with the help of the Khan family, I had my sisters move back to Toronto. I permanently cut ties with Maya and took a one-way ticket to Switzerland, and spent two years busting my ass in fine-dining restaurants as a waiter. I lived in a shitty hostel with three roommates of all ages. One of the most skilled chefs I worked with, Chef Solomon, who could remove meat from a lobster in under five minutes, wrote me a letter of recommendation to a prestigious culinary school, and with a scholarship that cut my tuition in half, I was a student for a whole year.”
Nyla takes a sip of her drink and smiles wide. “Were you the best?”
“Looking back on it, I was decent than most applicants. Working in different kitchens or food trucks since I was sixteen diversified my skill set. Sometimes I’d even cook without any measurements and still get away with a great grade.”
“You do that now, too, and it’s safe to say”—she holds up her plate—“it works flawlessly.”
“Yet, you haven’t eaten more than two bites.”
“Hey, hey. I’m a slow eater, okay?” She squints an eye at me and takes a bite as if I offended her. Maybe I did. I don’t know.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.”
I eye her hand on the table because the next part is just as bad as Abbu’s passing. My fingers spread out, inches away from her rosy fingertips. “I got an apprenticeship at a three-star restaurant in France after I graduated in the high ranks. I was bat-shit drunk at the graduation party and missed a bunch of calls from Dua.” I barely graze her middle finger, but the touch sends an electric shock through me. “Zineerah was in the hospital because of a boyfriend I never knew about.” I take Nyla’s hand without looking at her, and she squeezes hard. “I . . . fuck.”
“It’s okay. We’ll stop here for tonight.”
“No, I just—I wasn’t—” I put down my fork and cover my eyes with my free hand, rubbing the top of my face back and forth. “At that moment, I didn’t even care about the apprenticeship anymore. I dropped everything and took a flight back to Toronto the next day. For two years, I worked patiently with Zineerah’s recovery and spent every second with my sisters. On the side, I was getting my license in security and thanks to Azeer, again, I started working at Sun Tower Hotel.”
Nyla brushes her thumb back and forth over my knuckles and places her second hand over mine.
I run my fingers through my hair and take a larger gulp of the red wine. “Uh, I think Azeer noticed how miserable I looked working as a nightguard and offered to help me find a job in a fine-dining restaurant, but I was just . . . I was exhausted. I had fallen out of love with everything I loved doing. It was just all about the money now and supporting my sisters.” My chest tightens at another reminder of the deal with Abe, at how I’m holding his daughter’s hand, the woman I sold off without her knowing. “Long story short, Azeer pulled some strings, and I moved to New York to work . . . for your father.”
She tries at a smile. “Mm-hmm.”
“It paid well. I was educated enough in the role to lead a team of rookies. I think at that point in my life, it was all a means to an end. Whatever I earned went towards my sisters, and whatever was left of it was in my savings or for Sky after I adopted her. When I quit, I had a little remaining to get this apartment. Jia gives me an employee discount on my rent because I work for her. “
“That’s sweet of her.” Nyla’s grip loosens on my hand. “Can I ask you another question? You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to.”
“No, ask me. What is it?”
“Did you . . . Did you quit because of what happened between us that night or because of something else entirely?”
I look at her and immediately understand the answer she wants. “I quit because of what happened. And it was my fault.”
“It wasn’t—”
“It was, Nyla. I was supposed to be your bodyguard that night and the day after. I mixed my personal feelings with my professional—”
“We were drunk, Shahzad. We were stupidly drunk, and we both mixed personal feelings with our professional. But I remember it was a mutual, consensual hook-up. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I smile. “I do.”
“And it was fun.”
“It was.” It really was.
“And we should probably never drink in close proximity again.” She creates a distance between her dinner plate and mug, and I follow. “Thank you for sharing your life with me, Shahzad. I always knew you were a great guy.” I shouldn’t have signed that contract. You needed the money for Dua’s education. “But I didn’t know you were such a great son. A great brother.” I shouldn’t have signed that contract. You needed the money for Dua’s education. “And a great, great friend. You’re also a decent fake boyfriend, I guess.” I shouldn’t have negotiated with that conniving son of a bitch in the first place. You. Needed. The. Money. For. Dua’s. Education. “I want to tell you something, too.”
I swallow hard. “Yes?”
Nyla chews her bottom lip and holds my hand tightly. “Well, since we’re being vulnerable with one another . . . ” She scoots her chair closer and searches the scratches on the table before speaking. “I like you, Shahzad.”
I don’t think I heard her correctly. “What?”
“I like you,” she mumbles. “Like, like-like you. Not as your fake girlfriend— Well, no, I like you as your fake girlfriend, but I also like you in reality. As Nyla. Kinda like how . . . Tae likes Hye-jin, but not, like, I’d stalk you or something.”
My heart’s beating fast. It’s never willingly beaten for a woman before. Only once. Only with her. Now, it’s only for her.
And I don’t know how to feel or what to do about it.
“I really like how encouraging and hardworking you are,” she whispers, inhaling deeply. “I like that you don’t judge me for everything that’s happened. I like that you’ve given me a space to follow my ambition. I like that you’re in my past, in my present, and . . . I’d like you in my future, too. If you want. Even as friends. No pressure.”
In stillness, I think carefully about my response. Nothing arrives as she continues speaking.
