Fake It Till We Make It, page 18
He raises an eyebrow. “You realize you sound pretty hypocritical, right?”
“Whatever.” I bump my sunglasses up my nose, shaking my head and feeling squirmish. “Did you meet her mom?”
“Why do you care?” He’s watching Sky play with a lazy smile on his mouth.
“I just wanna know.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’? I’m only curious.”
“I don’t see how it concerns you, Troublemaker.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I go back to picking at the grass and braiding stems into a flower crown for Sky. Alina and I used to make these when we played princesses, and we’d make some extra for our mothers. Mama preferred little flowers, but she settled for grass over her head because I didn’t like plucking them from their roots.
I wonder if Cass and her mom get along well. They must, considering she talks about Shahzad to her. I don’t even think I can talk about my mom without breaking into a million shards and endless tears.
Finishing the crown, I squint in the sunlight. “Sky!” I call, and she rushes over with Mr. Chewy.
“Good girl,” Shahzad praises her, taking the toy, and I crown her with the finished product.
“Pretty girl,” I whisper.
Her tail wiggles with joy, the crown bobbing up and down on her head.
“Is it okay if I can take a picture?” Shahzad asks, putting his phone on silent and taking a test picture.
My heart joyously vibrates from his gesture. “Of course.” I throw my arm around Sky’s neck and press my cheek against hers, smiling ear-to-ear. “Say, Mr. Chewy!”
Sky barks.
He captures the moment with his camera and smiles warmly at the image of me and Sky now preserved in his camera roll. “Should we go meet Cookie now?”
19
Cookie
Shahzad
“Cookie is a parrot?”
Nyla’s puzzled gaze is focused on the cockatoo of Pets-A-Lot, perched on Sky’s back as she roams around the dog food aisles.
“Technically a cockatoo,” I correct.
“Oh, sorry,” she mumbles. “It’s kinda cute how she’s best friends with a cockatoo. He’s so adorable!”
“Cookie is a she.”
“Oh!” She laughs in surprise. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I found out the gender from one of the store employees.” I grab a basket and toss in a couple of Sky’s favorite treats.
“How’d she meet you both?”
I stifle a chuckle as Nyla takes a whiff of one of the beef chew sticks, suppressing a gag behind her clenched fist. “Cookie was just a baby when she ended up crash-landing on my balcony.” I take the stick and place it in the basket.
Her brows arch up. “What? How did a cockatoo crash-land on your balcony?”
“We didn’t know where she came from, but Sky, who was only a puppy then, took a liking to her easily.” I trail behind the delighted pair, earning “awes” from the customers and familiar workers. “Anyways, we rescued feather-face and learned that she loved eating cookies, hence—”
“Cookie,” she interrupts. “Sorry. Go on.”
“Don’t be.” I grin at the twinkle in her emerald eyes. “We couldn’t keep Cookie because I didn’t know how to care of a bird. Plus, they fly all over the house and shit everywhere. Sky was enough to keep me company.”
“So you brought her here? This doesn’t exactly look like an animal shelter to me.”
“Pets-A-Lot works as a third party with local shelters to get the animals visible for adoption.”
“That’s so sweet—oh. My. God!” Nyla inhales sharply and bolts towards the enclosures holding rescued puppies behind a wide glass pane. This is the happiest I’ve ever seen her. She’s skipping on the tips of her toes, hands pressed against the window, squealing for her life. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Look at the little one yawn, Shahzad!”
“That’s the tiniest pug I’ve ever seen,” I mutter, eyeing the small guy nestled in his oversized gray cushion with a blanket decorated with dump trucks. He lets out another yawn, eliciting yet another squeal from his pink-haired admirer, before dozing off again.
“Rescued him last night,” a friendly voice from behind says. Harriet strides away from the doorway she was leaning on to shake my hand. She’s the one who had my back with Sky’s adoption process, her food schedule, and playtoys. I even stepped up to volunteer for a few more local rescues. “You’ve never brought a girl here before.”
I follow her gaze to a dumbstruck Nyla, stuck to the wall like a fruit fly, totally smitten with the pug. “She’s a . . . friend.”
Harriet shoots me a look that’s calling me out on my bullshit. Honestly, I’m not entirely clear on what Nyla means to me. Am I attracted to her? Undoubtedly. Would I like to be friends with her? Sure. Friends with benefits? That’s not something I can do to her. For now, she’s just Nyla to me. Or Alyn to our friends.
“Interested, Shahzad’s friend?” Harriet asks, slapping me in the face with humiliation. She opens the door and heads to the puppy’s cage. Lifting the pug, she deposits him into Nyla’s gentle hands. “Popcorn was born under extreme conditions, hence his state. He’s the runt of the litter. But with a little love and nourishment, he’ll grow into a big boy in no time.”
Nyla sighs, carefully stroking from the top of his head to the tip of his little tail. “He’s so adorable.” She wipes the ends of her eyes. Is she seriously crying over the little puppy? “Sorry, I get really teary-eyed over cute things. And Popcorn is so—” A sniffle. “Cute.”
Jesus, this woman and her heartbreaking dramatics.
“Would you be interested in giving him a home?” Harriet’s throwing me quick glances as she poses the question to her. “Give Sky a friend? A little brother? I’m sure she could use the company in that apartment. Perhaps Shahzad could, too?”
I shake my head at Harriet’s subliminal messages. “We don’t have space. Isn’t that right, Alyn?”
Nyla’s wet, green eyes dart towards mine, growing to ten times their regular intensity. In an instant, the pet shop closes in around me, drowning out all the background noise and colors. “We don’t?”
“We—” I gotta shut my eyes tight and shift my focus elsewhere. Otherwise, she’s gonna drag me into her emotionally manipulating vortex. “We don’t have space, and we don’t have funds for a puppy either.”
“You’re right.” Nyla surrenders with a sigh. Shoulders slumped, she turns to Harriet, giving the pug one last hug by pressing her cheek to his back. “Please give Popcorn the safest, happiest home in this world for me.”
Harriet takes him and gives her back a few comforting pats.
“Go check on Sky, please,” I tell Nyla. She’s in autopilot mode, gaze fixed on Popcorn, dragging her feet forward.
Harriet locks up the cage. “If you don’t propose to that girl with Popcorn, I’m banning you from entering my store.”
“You’re joking?”
“Am I laughing?”
No, she’s not.
“Harriet, we’re only friends. She’s just crashing with me for a couple of weeks.” I spy Nyla at the front cash, with Cookie casually perched on her shoulder. My troublemaker doesn’t show a hint of concern. She’s squeak-testing out the toys for Sky, sporting that . . . very bright, blooming smile. God, she’s beautiful.
“Friends, my ass,” Harriet mutters. “Friends, Shahzad, don’t look at each other the way you’re looking at her.”
I rake my fingers through my hair, a nervous habit that’ll turn me into the poster boy for male pattern baldness if I don’t quit. “And how exactly do I look at my friend, Harriet?”
She folds her arms and sizes me up. “Like you’ve been resurrected. You look at her with veracious, infinite happiness. And son, it’ll damage you whole if you don’t plan on doing something ’bout it soon.” She gives my back a couple of hearty pats before striding back into the staff room.
Biting down on my lower lip, I rub away at the heavy burden on my chest, eyeing the dozing pug.
Stay rational, Shahzad. A puppy isn’t in the cards. Not when you’re going to send her back to Abe by the end of the month. She won’t have time to care for it once she’s busy. Be responsible, stash those bucks for smarter moves down the road.
Rationality wins once again.
“So, where’s Nyx?” Nyla asks through a mouthful of strawberry-chocolate crêpe.
“At one of my cousin’s residence buildings.”
“You have a cousin here?”
“No, she’s in Europe at the moment.”
“Cool. What’s she doing in Europe?”
I pause in the middle of devouring my fish taco, raising a brow at her evident case of clinical curiosity. Maybe she’s genuinely trying to understand me because, well, she likes me. “She’s the Chief of Marketing at Sun Tower Hotel in London.”
Nyla’s eyes pop open. “Wait— Sahara Khan, right?”
“You know her?”
She nods excitedly. “She’s Azeer’s adopted sister, isn’t she? And we met at an after party that took place at Sun Tower in Europe. Briefly, though. But she seems very hospitable. Which makes total sense because she works in hospitality.” A slice of strawberry slips from her crêpe and lands on her lap. She offers it to Sky, who’s sitting by her feet, tongue sticking out at the sight of my taco.
We lounge on a bench in Madison Square Park, observing the lights of a nearby apartment building twinkle to life as half of the moon hides behind it.
“Are you and Sahara close?” Nyla asks.
“She’s practically my third sister.” I wipe the splotch of chocolate on her lip, then lick my thumb clean. “Azeer isn’t the person she’d go to for advice. But then again, who would?”
Her pink cheeks flush as a sweet giggle escapes her. “He is a bit of a grump.”
“Yeah, well, he was the fucking Grinch before he met Alina. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy like an older brother, but we’re like oil and water. He was—is—studious and polished, and I was more rebellious and rugged. He likes an orderly system; I like creative chaos. Well, I liked creative chaos.” I stare at my fish taco, stuffing the shredded lettuce back in its place. “But as you grow out of those childish habits, you realize that society functions according to a system. Hell, I work at a restaurant. I take and work on orders each day, trying to keep that system in check.”
“Hmm.” Nyla chews thoughtfully. “Can I tell you something, though?”
“Always.”
“I’m proud of you for getting where you are today, Shahzad. For what it’s worth, every stepping stone that’s brought you here is remarkable. Even if you tripped and fell between the cracks now and then. What matters is that you’re here, chaotically creative, and pursuing what you love.” She seeks out my hand and gives it a reassuring, tight squeeze, causing my chest to constrict. “I’ve always seen myself as a soldier, never the commander. I thought I was. Closing high-paying runway shows, booking Vogue’s September issues, even meeting Beyoncé— It always felt like I was the girl that . . . everyone wanted to be.
“Unfortunately, I was the girl that my father wanted me to be. From Dad to a dictator, his influence transformed me, turning me into a beautiful, obedient follower of his strict system and rules. And I went to war for him. Over and over again. Up and center at the frontlines. Hit after hit after hit until the pain became unbearable.” A slight tension grips her jaw as she tucks a delicate strand of her pink hair behind her ear. “And I lost.”
A sudden prickliness catches in my throat. With hesitation, my hand gently rests on her back. “Within your loss, Nyla, you gained a victory.”
“And what might that be, Chef?”
“You, Troublemaker,” I murmur softly. “Not Nyla Ghilzai, the highest-paid model in the universe, or the phenomenal rising actress in Hollywood, but simply you. Just Nyla.” My hand deliberately glides up to the nape of her neck. “Nyla, the one who dyed her hair pink because it’s her favorite color. Nyla, who finds joy in the scent of fabric softener and the sounds of water splashing in the washing machine. Nyla, whose excitement spills over into a river of tears. Nyla, who apologizes like it’s her first language, despite my constant warnings against it.”
My hand gently cups her left cheek, and suddenly, I’m controlling my actions, my continuous stream of words. “Nyla, who sees her perfections as imperfections. Nyla, who needs to believe that all her imperfections are fucking perfect to me.”
For once, my brain is pin-drop quiet.
And the only thing I hear is the sound of her breaths matching the vicious pace of my heartbeat.
“Thanks for always listening to me, Shahzad,” she murmurs, shying her eyes away from mine and onto her crêpe.
“Always.” I gaze into the city lights, observing the ebb and flow of people, with apartment lights blinking on and off in the background. “What’s one thing you’ve regretted not doing?”
“Oh.” Nyla ponders, twisting her lips thoughtfully. “Grocery shopping.”
I raise a brow. “Grocery shopping?”
“Yes. I’ve never been grocery shopping, let alone step into a grocery store. I don’t know how to bag vegetables or fruits. I’ve never wheeled a shopping cart before or felt that warm gust of air when you walk in.” She takes tiny bites of her dessert, smiling solemnly. A smile that doesn’t sit right with me. “I sound stupidly privileged, don’t I?”
I shove the final bite of my taco into my mouth, crumple the wrapper, and rise to my feet. “Let’s go.”
“Huh? Where?”
“To the grocery store.” I grasp her hand, coaxing her to stand alongside me. “We’re going grocery shopping.”
“Right now? What about Sky?”
“We’ll drop her off at home with her new toys and treats.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, Troublemaker. I’ll show you how to bag produce, read expiration dates, and maybe we can grab some snacks for a movie tonight or something.”
Nyla’s brows crinkle with concern. “You just did grocery shopping two days ago. Are you sure you want to spend money on more groceries?”
“For you?” I chuckle, holding her by the shoulders. “Absolutely.”
“Shahzad.”
“Nyla.”
She dissolves into a sweet smile, catching my soul off guard. “Fine. Take me grocery shopping, Chef.”
20
Grocery Shopping
Nyla
“Step one, Troublemaker.” Shahzad inserts a quarter from his pocket into the cart’s lock system. “Step two.” He yanks back the chain and releases the shopping cart with a proud grin on his face. “All yours.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“Fuck if I know. America?”
Chuckling, I wrap my fingers around the cart’s plastic handle and wheel it forward. “Woah. It’s like walking Sky. If she was a metal, creaky trolley.”
“Trolley.” He snorts. “Did you have one too many martinis with the Royal Family?”
I smack his back, scoffing a chuckle. “I’ll have you know that the Royal Family doesn’t indulge in martinis. I’ve only ever had them with Meghan and Harry.”
“Who’s that?”
“Prince Harry? Meghan Markle? Oh my god, Shahzad. You lived in Canada! How do you not know?” I cover my gasp with my hand. “Do you at least know that the Queen is dead?”
“Why would I care about the Royal Family? I live in America now.”
My body goes rigid as Shahzad’s hand gently rests on the small of my back, guiding me into the store. The welcoming warmth fans against my face as I step inside, immediately met by the scent of fresh produce and the almost blinding glow of fluorescent lights.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, feeling like an alien experiencing Earth for the very first time, discovering where humans stash their basic supplies.
Shahzad leads us toward the fruits and vegetables aisle. “Tear that apart.”
I shoot him a defiant look.
“Please,” he adds.
I grab one of the loosely hanging, translucent bags from the roll. Shahzad does the same to demonstrate. “Now what?”
“These things can be a bit tricky. All you need to do is rub the center of the bag and create some friction until you find an opening to separate it. Exhibit A.” He follows through, warming the bag between his fingers until a tiny opening appears, which he then splits open. “Your turn.”
Rub. Friction. Open sesame.
“Great job,” he praises, gently patting my cheek. Oh my. I flutter my hand in front of my warm face as he twirls around to grab some broccoli.
“Pick and choose whatever doesn’t have plans of growing fungi on it in the next couple of weeks.”
“Got it.”
Our cart is soon filled with green apples, fresh baskets of strawberries, coriander, and romaine lettuce. As we wander to the dairy aisle, Shahzad lectures me on expiration dates, using a crate of omega-3 eggs.
“Since today’s June sixteenth, ideally, we’d want something with a shelf life extending into the first week of July.”
“Knowing you, this crate will be finished in three days, Rocky Balboa.”
“Guilty.” He picks up two crates. “Problem solved.”
I share a laugh with him and stamp a friendly smack on his back. “What’s next?”
“Snacks?”
“The key to seducing me.”
Shahzad rolls his eyes, lips lifting high. He slips his fingers through mine and steers the cart with one hand, allowing me to choose our movie snacks. “What are we watching, by the way?”
“On the count of three. Ready?”
“Ready.”
“One, two, three—”
I say, “Thriller,” in unison with his “Comedy.”
“A comedic thriller?” I suggest dropping a box of extra-butter popcorn and grabbing two bags of chips. “Pizza flavor or jalapeño?”
“Anyone who directs a comedic thriller wasn’t loved as a child,” Shahzad mutters, reading the ingredient list of some almond bar. “Jalapeño, please.”
