Fake It Till We Make It, page 31
“That’s a non-negotiable commitment I’ve made to myself.” Shahzad throws his blue dishcloth over his shoulder. “Your incredible daughter can keep pretending I don’t exist, and I’ll still believe she’s the reason I do.”
My heart gallops out of my chest. Gosh, when did he become like this? I don’t mind it, but I also . . . No, I don’t mind at all.
After a lengthy, understanding gaze, Mama returns to her laptop. “Interesting,” she mumbles with an endless grin.
Shahzad swipes up my glass, drops a note on my lap, and whistles as he strolls away to tidy another table.
I discreetly unfold it.
Come over tonight. Bring Caramel.
“What’s it say?” Mama asks, her eyes fixed on her screen.
Even with her attention elsewhere, she’s somehow always watching me. She mentioned tracking my life through fan accounts on social media and news articles, ignoring every rumor. She even had emails and text messages as proof, recalling the days she cried when Baba denied her the chance to see me.
“He’s asking me to go to his place tonight,” I say, folding the note and tucking it into my purse. “But I’m not going.” Right?
Mama raises a brow. “Why not?”
“Because we have our wine and sketch night planned. I won’t let anything disrupt our plans.”
“Nylana.”
“No.”
“My love, how long do you plan on dragging this out?”
I look up. “Dragging what?”
She shoots a glance at Shahzad, busy taking a customer’s order at the cash register.
“Until I’m ready to forgive him.”
“And when is that?”
“Not tonight. End of discussion.”
Mama’s hand reaches for mine, giving it three reassuring squeezes. “I understand seeing a man on his knees, begging for an apology is a sight for sore eyes, but eventually, you’ll want him to stand tall and proud by your side.”
“Baba didn’t,” I mutter, immediately regretting my words.
“He isn’t a real man,” Mama responds, holding onto my hand, and I reciprocate, seeing her green eyes crinkle with affection. “I’ve been married five times now, Nylana. Abdul was degrading. Terry, well, he was kind but easily swayed by the next pretty thing. Mansoor was the best of them all, but his ex-wife was a world-class bitch, and I just couldn’t handle it. That one was on me.”
“You left before she could murder you, Mama.”
She chuckles from deep within. “Sweetie, my fourth husband was a wrestler. He would’ve broken her nose after getting my permission, believe me.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I never really understood why you eloped and got married to the William Warrior in Vegas.”
“It was my forty-fifth birthday. I deserved a little present.” She quirks up a shoulder and smiles so infectiously that I’m under its control in a second.
“How about now? Are you happy?”
Mama twirls her wedding ring, nibbling on her bottom lip as a rosy hue touches her cheeks. “Did you know Mark has been interested in me since I was with your father?”
I blink. “No way.”
“Yes way. He was invited to one of your early runway shows, back when you were just a tiny baby, as a potential investor for First Class Faces.” Mama pinches my cheeks, making cooing sounds.
“I was nineteen!” I chuckle, taking both of her hands in mine. “Tell me more about Mark and his infatuation.”
“Well, we somehow always ended up in the same room but never spoke because Abdul never involved me in the business end of his nonsense. But Mark said the only reason he invested was because of me.” She fakes a dramatic hair flip over her shoulders. At fifty-one, she doesn’t look a day over thirty. “He even teared up mentioning how he’s seen me get married over and over again an hour before he proposed to me.”
My jaw aches after hearing her story. “He cried?”
Shahzad cries when he sees you, too.
“Bawling, Nylana. Right in the middle of one of his restaurants.”
I tilt my head. “Mark’s a chef?”
Shahzad is a chef, too—Oh, shut up, brain!
“No, sweetheart, Mark’s an investor. He likes to put his money where he sees value. Restaurants, malls, and even an aquarium. He rented it out on our first date.” Mama starts rambling about their initial kiss at the jellyfish exhibition, but my attention drifts to Shahzad getting scolded by Amelia over a spilled tea.
Our eyes briefly meet as he heads to the register. Fireworks shoot down my spine at his lopsided grin and wink. Then, Amelia smacks his back for being distracted and makes him grab the mop and bucket.
I stifle a chuckle—
“Meet him tonight,” Mama cuts through.
“But—”
She rises and eases into the seat beside me, her arms surrounding my shoulders. “My love, I don’t want you to go through the same trials and tribulations I went through to find my one true love.”
I sink into her hug, inhaling a deep breath of her fruity, floral fragrance. “I’m very happy for you, Mama. Having you here means a lot to me. And I really want to meet Mark and thank him for bringing life into my mother’s eyes.”
Mama attacks my cheeks with kisses. And just like before, I can’t help but burst into giggles. “As your mother, I demand you to go to his house tonight.” She takes a sip of her frappé, winking and moving her laptop next to me. “We’ll have a chat over wine when you’re back.”
I rest my head on her shoulder, hugging her arm close to my chest, and gaze at my empty vanilla latte glass.
Shahzad
I tuck my lighter away once the last wick of my candlelight dinner flickers to life.
Nyla’s a little soft-hearted with her mother around. The pair are clearly attached at the hip, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from binging Gilmore Girls with Dua, it’s that mothers always know best. Not in my sisters’ case, though.
Noticing Nyla hasn’t left her place yet, I steal a glance out my bedroom window while getting ready.
“She’ll show up,” I mutter to myself, a familiar mantra. Maira swears by this whole repeating what you want to the universe until it happens. She calls it manifestation, I call it bullshit. Five months of manifesting Nyla’s forgiveness every night before bed, and the universe hasn’t done me any favors.
Finally, Nyla exits her front door.
I drop my hairbrush on my foot.
The pain is momentarily muted by her presence descending her porch steps. She looks up, not at my house, but at the delicate snowflakes falling from the night sky. Dressed in an oversized pink turtleneck, a white tennis skirt, white stockings, and her pink hair tied high in a half-ponytail, she resembles bubblegum candy. And little Caramel in her arms is the cherry on top.
“Goddamn,” escapes my lips like a whisper. Peeking at her in that preppy-polished getup, a smile playing on her glossy, pink lips, and flushed, round cheeks, has me counting my breaths. If I’ve taken any at all.
Shaking my head, I turn to the mirror, fixing the collar of my dress shirt and scowling at my jeans. Jesus Christ, I knew I should’ve splurged on new dress pants. This outfit seemed fine in my head, but the more I stare in the mirror, the more I despise it.
Chimes of my doorbell echo through the house. I rake my fingers through my hair and pop two mints, chewing aggressively as I dash downstairs. Sky barks from the living room, alerting me.
“Come here, honey,” I call, and she rushes to my side, anticipating the door’s opening.
Gripping the knob, I swallow a deep breath. Don’t fuck this up, Shahzad. “Cool. Okay. Let’s do this.”
Nyla’s admiration for my porch comes to a halt the moment I swing open the door. I’m already feeling weak in the knees, on the verge of yelling, “I love you!” at the top of my lungs.
She’s just . . . so ethereal. With the snow falling as the backdrop and Caramel’s puppy face tilting side to side, the whole scene is like a perfect picture of her.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice cracking. She raises an eyebrow. I clear my throat, lower my voice, lean in the doorway with my arms crossed, and flash a smile that brightens those pink cheeks. “Hey, beautiful.”
Nyla sighs, and white fog swirls from her doll-like lips. I figure this woman’s already scheming to avoid talking to me tonight—
“Hi.”
I stumble backward.
Caramel jumps out of Nyla’s arms, and she reaches forward to grab him but hooks onto my hands instead, making me lose my balance.
I know I’m falling backward.
I watch it unfold in slow motion.
Her eyes widen, lips parting in a yelp, and my arms cocoon around her as we both tumble onto the hard wooden floor.
Thud!
“Fuck,” I groan, the back of my skull pounding from the impact. Does it hurt? Kinda. But the ache takes a backseat to the vision in pink stuck to my chest, breathing heavily after our joint tumble. Paradise. “Aw. Thanks for trying to save me, baby.”
Reality hits Nyla, and she quickly scrambles off my chest, grabbing the doorway for support. “You ruined my outfit!” She irons out the creases in her skirt with her hands and fixes the collar of her turtleneck.
“I’m sorry—”
“I knew this was a bad idea.” She composes herself and calls for Caramel. He lingers, intrigued by Sky’s hopping antics. “Caramel, come here.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “You didn’t change his name?”
Nyla ignores me. Tries to ignore me. The subtle flare of her nostrils and the tension in her clenched jaw reveal the fight against asking if I’m okay.
I get up, dust myself off, and say, “You caught me off guard, Nyla. It’s been five months since you last spoke to me in person.” I sling my arm around her waist and usher her inside, closing the door. She leans back on the frame, gripping my shoulders without thinking. She’s here. She’s actually here. “How cruel would it be if this was all a dream?”
Even her short, quick breaths seem in harmony. A wildfire blazes within the depths of her jade eyes. She digs her fingernails into my skin, and I have to gather every ounce of strength not to take her right here and now.
“Step back.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I take a step back and gesture with my arm. “After you, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” she grumbles, kicking off her heeled boots in different directions and following the dogs into the kitchen.
I let out a chuckle, running my hand over the back of my head as I bend down to organize her pink boots neatly beside my darker, muddier ones. Perfect.
When I find Nyla in the kitchen, she’s gazing at the dining table decorated with at least twenty candles, the soft scent of white gardenia and spruce filling the room, casting an orange glow, and her favorite bouquet of marigolds and pink carnations resting on the island bar.
Quickly, I scoop up the bouquet and hide it behind me. Without any smart-ass remarks, I offer it to her with an encouraging nod.
Sighing, Nyla takes it, cradling it in her arms like a baby. She follows me into the kitchen, and for a moment, I’m transported back to our small apartment. “How long is this going to take?”
“I don’t know, Nyla,” I reply, flinging the kitchen towel over my shoulder. “How long is it going to take?”
“I meant this dinner thing.”
“As long as it took for you to get all dolled up and beautiful for me.”
“For myself.”
I smile. “Even better.”
Nyla’s gulp travels down her throat. I want to kiss the constellation of beauty marks on her neck and connect the dots with my fingers. “Why did you invite me over, Shahzad?”
Thank fuck I wasn’t holding a knife or reaching into the oven for the chocolate cake I baked for us. “Want the truth?”
She nods.
Leaning against the counter, I say, “It’s my birthday.”
“What?”
“It’s my birthday. I was born today.”
“I know what a birthday is,” she mutters impatiently, reaching for her purse and pulling out her phone. Her skin pales when she realizes the truth of my words. “Shit.”
Birthdays have never been a big deal in our family. Baba took my sisters and me out to dinner and bought us small presents. Having him take care of his wild children was enough of a gift itself. The rest of the family would send messages, and distant calls from Islamabad would express how much we were missed.
After cutting ties with Maya, everyone distanced themselves from me for the sake of my mental well-being. Now, the only birthday wishes that come my way are from my sisters, the Khan family, Sahara, the Jafri siblings, and Mustafa and Maira.
And I’ve spent every birthday sitting by Baba’s grave with a chocolate cake that I eat on his behalf. Sky joined me after I adopted her. It’s as if Baba sent her to me as a special gift, knowing how badly I wanted a dog growing up.
“Happy birthday,” Nyla mumbles, returning to the kitchen and handing me a bouquet. “I thought it was on December eleven. My mistake.”
I tap my cheek. “May I get a birthday kiss?”
“No.”
“I tried.”
Turning to the stove—
Nyla grabs my shoulder and yanks me back. Her soft lips brush against my cheek for a split second, though it felt like a century to me. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.” She strides over to the table and takes a seat.
I rub my chest, hoping my heart can catch a goddamn break from its marathon every time she’s around. Dying on my birthday isn’t how I want this night to end.
Plating a replica of a fancy steak dinner, I present it in front of her by standing behind and leaning low, my lips inches from her jaw. “Chef’s special for his very special guest.”
“Shut up,” she mutters.
“As you wish.” I run my hand down the back of her hair, catching her by surprise, and sit across from her.
She pauses just after her first bite of steak. “Damn it and damn you.” Her eyes shut, head shaking in disbelief. “Damn your cooking, too.”
I’m going to need a very cold shower every time she curses. “Do you like it?” I ask, scooting down five seats until I’m diagonal to her again.
Nyla’s lashes open slightly. She regards me with a no-nonsense glare. “Why don’t you decide that for me, just like you decided to stab me in the back, Shahzad?”
My playfulness flatlines at her question.
I run my tongue over my lower lip, trying to focus on my plate, but my thoughts are a jumbled mess. I know she’s hurting; otherwise, we wouldn’t be here, wrestling with our struggles to speak up about where our relationship is headed and where we want it to head. It eats at me, knowing that I’m the one who left scars on her heart that loved me with every beat.
Five months is enough time for me to figure out my wants, and I want—need—Nyla if that wasn’t clear enough. As my friend, as my best friend, as my girlfriend, my fiancé, my wife, the mother of our children, the woman I’d grow old and gray with. My future is bleak and cold without her in it, but I also need to make it warm and comfortable for her before she’s a part of it. I’m still figuring out how I’m going to do that without screwing it up.
Something warm bumps against my mouth.
I open my eyes, and there’s Nyla, holding a piece of my steak with her fork. My lips automatically part, and I take the bite, savoring it slowly. She follows it up with a scoop of mashed potatoes and some sautéed vegetables.
No words are spoken, no shots fired.
She continues to feed me and eats from her own plate that I portioned up for her.
There’s a certain calmness in the air. Or it’s her fruity, vanilla scent she carries that makes each breath a bit easier. I used to take deep whiffs whenever she cuddled up to me at night, or just laid on my chest, telling me stories from her past.
That’s one of the many reasons I love Nyla. Her history is a story to her, not a looming gray cloud or a vengeful ghost. To her, it’s a stepping stone leading her to the future. The woman is a firm believer in what she wants for herself, refusing to let anyone, even a sore loser like me, interrupt her.
And it’s taken me five months to realize I’m ready to fulfill all her needs and wants. Because all I want is her. All I need is her. I can’t form any other coherent, solid goals or ambitions until I have her.
We finish our dinner in silence.
I handle the rinsing of the dishes while she loads them into the dishwasher. Clearing the dining table is my task, and she takes charge of extinguishing the twenty candles, giving each one a satisfied whiff.
After an hour of quiet, I break the silence, “They’re yours.”
“The candles?”
“Yeah. All yours. I’ll pack them in a bag for you to take.” I don’t give her a chance to object, immediately moving to the oven where the chocolate cake is cooling. “Want a slice?”
Nyla stays just outside the kitchen, eyeing the dark sponge. “It’s one of my trigger foods.”
Fuck.
Without a second thought, I put the cake back in the oven.
“What are you doing?” she gasps. “It’s your birthday. You should at least have your cake.”
“The café team can enjoy it. How about I whip up some pan—”
“Shahzad.” Nyla takes three steps forward. “Enough worrying about me, please. Don’t try to stop yourself from enjoying the little things because I can’t. Put a candle in that cake, make your wish, and eat the damn thing.”
“I like worrying about you,” I whisper. “I want to enjoy every little thing with you and avoid the little things you can’t.” She reels in a sharp breath when I hold her face in my hands. Her lashes flutter close as I skate my mouth over her left cheekbone. “My wish, Nyla, is a future with you.”
“Shahzad—”
“Please,” comes out of me like I’m being strangled. I stop and step back, dropping my hands at my sides. “All of my wishes now have you in them. And I want every single one to come true, Nyla. Do you understand me? Every. Single. One.”
She lifts her lashes, and the sharp look in her green eyes sends a cold chill down my spine. “You’re not just pulling words out of your ass, are you? Because it’s very difficult for me to trust you after everything that’s happened.”
