Fake It Till We Make It, page 34
I cock my head back. “Ketchup packet?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well . . . considering I am super-duper anxious asking anyone for anything, I’d carry an entire ketchup bottle with me for us. I’ll buy a ketchup company. No, no, no, I’ll build us a time machine and find the inventor of ketchup, right?”
“Right.”
“And I’ll pay him a trillion, gazillion dollars to give me the patent, and then when they ask me how I invented ketchup”—I hiccup—“I’ll say that the love of my life in the future was too scared to ask for a ketchup packet so I bought the rights. Easy-peasy. So now, every time you ask for a ketchup packet, just say, ‘Oh, my girlfriend actually invented the ketchup.’ Isn’t that just so genius?”
Shahzad’s eyes disappear into the widest grin I’ve ever seen on his face. “You’d go through all of that for me?”
I boop his nose. “Only for you, my gargantuan puppy.”
Shahzad observes me, his irises flickering back and forth as if I’ve slapped him with a revelation or something.
“Gosh, you are so cheesy giving me that innocent schoolboy look, you dirty, dirty man.” I pinch his cheeks and stretch them. “So squishy!”
He takes my wrists. “And another thing?”
I hold an invisible microphone up to his mouth. “Speak, Ketchup Man.”
I feel his smile against my skin as he says, “I’m very proud of you for the step you’ve taken today and the steps you’ll continue to take from here on out, Nylana.”
Melting. I’m melting against him. My head rests on his shoulders, and my arms belt around his strong waist. Every laugh, every kiss, every particle of intimacy in the air reduces at the sound of his rapid heartbeat beneath my ear. I’m on cloud nine.
“I love you, Shahzad,” I mutter. He sucks in a sharp breath, belting an arm around my waist. “I wanted to stay with you on your birthday and kiss you for thirty minutes or hours, or however long. I wanted . . . I wanted to sit super close to you and watch another thriller and eat popcorn from the same bowl.” The line between soberness and drunkenness blurs, and now I’m just saying whatever I’ve been mulling over since December. “I’m sorry if I broke your heart that night.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” He tips my chin up, genuinely taken back as if my words caught him off guard. “It’s not your fault, baby. You weren’t comfortable with where we were going, and I wasn’t going to force you to do anything you didn’t want to.”
I bury my face in the crook of his neck. “You’re so sweet, you know that?” Somehow, we fall into slow-dancing to a fast-tempo pop song. “Can you write me your little love notes again?”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s a demand.”
His calloused, warm hand runs down the back of my head and cups around the nape of my neck. “Yes, ma’am.”
I fall into a soothing darkness.
37
Talk
Shahzad
March 10th
Zinneerah calls me on FaceTime right as I punch out of work.
I control the madness brewing within me regarding her impending arranged marriage and swipe right, using sign language and my own voice to speak with her. “Glad to know you didn’t forget about your brother.”
Zinneerah doesn’t smile. She hasn’t smiled since everything that happened to her. Her face remains deadpan, dark brown, almost black, eyes hollow and hooded from mental exhaustion. Her knee-long, black hair, which she’s been growing long since high school, is tied into a side braid. And she’s in a black sweater, sitting inside the comfort of her closet.
It’s raining, she signs. I missed you.
My sister despises the rain. Always has since we were children. She thought the raindrops pattering against the window were gunshots and thunder, frightening the living shit out of her. She’d always end up hugging me in bed until I left the family.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. How have things been?”
Surprisingly okay.
“Yeah? Is Maya giving you any shit?”
No.
“And your . . . fiancé?”
He’s fine. We’ve only spoken verses during our— She pauses and thinks. “Nikah,” she mouths, holding up the golden band with tiny diamonds encrusted in the octagon in the middle. Wish you were there.
I frown. “You know my stance on Maya’s decision, Zinnie. I would’ve torn the place apart if I saw you consenting to a marriage forced upon you.”
Zinneerah chews her bottom lip. He’s not him, Shahzad.
“Better the fuck not be, or else I’ll shoot his brains out before he can even think of hurting you.”
Normally, there’d be an appalled reaction, but Zineerah sighs and nods. This is good for me despite what you think. I needed an excuse to get away from Mama’s clutches.
“She doesn’t even live in Toronto, sweetheart.”
She’d control me even if she was in hell, Shahzad! Zinneerah huffs and fidgets with the end of her braid, chin quivering. Raees is a good man. Dua always compliments him and praises his personality. He’s a bit talkative and smiles too often, the complete opposite of me, but he’s the only key I have to freedom. She holds up her ring finger again. This is the key, Shahzad. Deal with it when you come to my wedding.
“Zinn—”
You will come to my wedding. She ends the call.
I sit back with a thud and rubber-neck at Nyla casually strolling down the street with Caramel. She’s gotten more comfortable chatting and taking pictures with her fans while Mickey and Grayson trail behind her.
Ever since Nyla made herself public to the media with an array of pictures of her hiatus, one of which was Jia’s BBQ House, the restaurant’s sales have skyrocketed, according to Tae. They’ve made me take a vow to visit as soon as I’m forgiven for extra marketing and also because Bao and the team miss Nyla and me.
Besides, I’ve been recently under fire from everyone about keeping Nyla’s identity a secret when we lived above the restaurant.
A text notification from—Alina?—pops up on my phone. I click on the Twitter link that she sent me with a smirk emoji.
“Ah, fuck.”
Blurry, noisy pictures of Nyla with her arms locked around my neck and mine around her waist are being spread like a virtual plague across the internet. It’s so obvious it’s her with the pink, wavy hair and the fact everyone knows she’s currently in Rhode Island.
Fucking A.
Either way, I’m not pissed. Sooner or later, I will be pulled into her spiraling A-lister lifestyle. Might as well get a head start on it now.
I stare at the pictures a little longer, ignoring the tweets below saying, “Who’s the lucky lumberjack?”
I scoff. “The fuck? I don’t look like a fucking lumberjack.” Checking the rear-view mirror, I notice my beard has grown out again.
Fuck, I do.
The tweets aren’t negative, though. At least not towards me. Regarding Nyla, they’re a horrendous wildfire. Incoming bullet shots that pierce through my chest.
@gionikolas: Not surprised that the serial dater has come out of hiding with her next target. One word, buddy: Run.
“Oh, fuck you, dickhead.” I go to block him but realize I don’t use Twitter at all. So I make an anonymous account, similar to the one I have for Instagram, and report and block the fucker.
And I do that to every misogynistic, sexist, body-shaming tweet I can find. I spend an hour digging under news articles slut-shaming or using derogatory terms toward my woman and reporting whoever dares to even tweet: “Eh, she’s okay.”
Of course, I follow the die-hard Nylatrons (unfortunately, that’s the best they could come up with), along with fan sites that update every breath she takes with heart emojis and a lot of: ASFDHFJFKDLS.
I don’t know what those chunks of letters stand for, but yes, I agree.
“You know what? Fuck it.” I grin as I change my default icon to a picture of Nyla. One that I stole from a fancy magazine article she recently interviewed for. Her pink hair is braided like a crown above her head, her jade eyes are sparkling, and her sandy-brown skin is glowing and dewy. She’s in a pink pants-suit and leans against a window of an empty studio in New York, grinning ear-to-ear. “Hmm. Pretty girl.”
In my bio, I write: Nylana’s #1 fan. And I change my username to: @Nylana4life0416. The sixteen is because her birthday is on April 16th.
Which is coming up soon.
Something pink flashes in my peripheral.
I catch Nyla speed-walking back to her Mercedes, clutching her stomach. My first instinct is to race out of the driver’s seat, but I sit alert instead, not wanting to cause a scene in public.
The guards escort her in the backseat and drive her back to her place.
Naturally, I follow.
I park in my driveway just as the Mercedes does and rush over to Nyla exiting the back. Her facial muscles cringe, and she physically grunts, still clutching her gut.
“Hey, hey, hey.” I take her face in my hands. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
Nyla nods. “Take the rest of the day off, boys.”
“You sure, Miss Ghilzai?” Mickey asks.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says.
I stare at the pair, who continue to linger, but again, they’re just doing their job. “Go. I’ll take care of her from here.”
Mickey and Grayson clear their throats and return to their Ranger, driving off down the two-way street.
I safely take Nyla inside her house, unleashing Caramel. “Did you eat?”
“Yes,” she groans, struggling with her shoes.
“Stop.” I take her heel and slip it off her foot, followed by the other. There are red lines all around her skin from the uncomfortable shoes. “Want me to bring you your sandals?”
“Please.” She shrugs off her coat and hooks it onto the hangar by the door, followed by her beret and scarf.
I open the shoe closet and pick out her pink house sandals. Then I crouch and slip them onto her feet.
“Uh, I’m good now, so. You can head back home,” Nyla says in a hurry and slips past me in a jiffy.
“Not so fast.” I trail after and find her ravaging her pantry for a box of oatmeal cookies and then her fridge for whipped cream. My blood runs arctic. “Oh my god, are you pregnant?”
“Ow!” Nyla hits the back of her skull, trying to stand up from scouring the fridge. “What the fuck kind of assumption is that, Shahzad? We’re dat—never mind.” She scoffs a million times over and sets her food down on the counter. “I got my period. So no baby.” She pouts. “Not yet.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that seems to piss her off further. “I’m sorry. I don’t why I just—” I stop speaking at her ferocious yet attractive glare. “Let me help.”
“You can help by leaving.” She sprays a tall mountain of cream over the cookie and shoves it into her mouth, deflating into a whimsical smile. “So, so good.”
I approach her slowly, whisking Caramel’s needy ass from the floor and into my arms. Sky’s probably having a nap back in my bedroom, so I’ll wake her up later after handling Nyla. “Do you need me to get you something from the store?”
She shrugs, half asleep and chewing.
“Nyla?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you need me to get you—”
“I don’t know,” she snaps, green gaze narrowing on me. I smile. She softens and rolls her eyes. “If you really want to help, and I’m only saying this because I want you out of my hair—”
“Impossible. I love your hair.”
She groans.
“Sorry. Continue, please.”
“Pads,” she states. “With wings. It’ll be in a purple and green packaging. And white chocolate. If there’s a heating pad, grab that, too. Oh, and Advil. Two hundred milligrams is fine.” Grabbing her oatmeal cookies and whipped cream, she drags her sandaled feet across the floor and toward the living room. “Fifteen minutes, Chef.”
I finish the task in twelve minutes.
I park in my driveway, grab Sky, and take the bag of her items back inside. Caramel’s already scratching at my legs for attention, so I pick him up, too, and enter the living room, letting our dogs play around in their toy corner.
Nyla’s sitting up on the couch, chewing a licorice stick, and watching . . . Pride and Prejudice, obviously. She’s changed into her pink pajamas with black stars, and her hair’s high up in a tangled bun.
“I brought your essentials,” I say, taking everything out of the bag and lining them up on the table.
She pauses the movie. “That was fast.”
“There’s ten kinds of white chocolates—one of them has to be your favorite.” I place the pads on the coffee table. “With wings.” Then the sweet and salty treats. “Snacks.” And the heating pad. “I’ll go fill this up with hot water.”
“You’re a saint.” Nyla continues to chew on her licorice and dismisses me with a wave.
Grinning at her behavior, I enter my natural habitat and warm up the sink water in a pot over the stove. I wash the heating pad with precision, then pour the scalding hot water from the depths of hell inside.
Cap twisted close, shawl wrapped around the pad, I walk back to the living room and sit down next to her on the couch.
“Lift your sweater for me,” I say.
Nyla curls up the hem of her sweater, fixated on Darcy’s aloof appearance. I tuck the heating pad there, and she pulls down her sweater.
“Can I feed you?” I ask, cracking the white chocolate pieces into singular cubes. “Please?”
Nyla nods and sticks her tongue out.
Excitement overtakes me in an instant in a lot of different areas of my body. I sit straighter, placing it on the pad of her pink palette, and watch as she savors the sweet, creamy taste. The tiny bob in her throat rises when she swallows and drops when she sighs.
“Is it good?” I ask.
She nods. Five times. Adorable.
I continue feeding her the snacks, getting comfortable under the throw I spread out on both our laps. At every contact of my fingertips with her soft lips, I crumble. It takes every restraint in me to not steal a kiss on her cheek or hold her for eternities.
Soon, Shahzad.
“Why are cramps so much worse the second day?” She winces, hunching over and gripping her stomach. Her legs buckle together, and a small whimper follows. “Hurts . . .”
“I know, baby.” I run my hand over and down the back of her head. “What can I do to make it easier?”
Her head shakes. “Nothing.”
“That word doesn’t exist in my vocabulary when it comes to you, Nyla.” I open my arms. “I’ll carry you to the bathroom.”
“No,” she breathes out, digging her nails into her gut. “Advil.”
“On it.” I twist open the cap of the medicine bottle and place a tablet on her palm. She pops it and drinks it down. “Lay your head on my lap.”
“No.”
“Nyla, please. Just for today, give in to me. Tomorrow, you can give up on me.”
With a pout, she hugs the blanket closer and plants her head on my lap. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Have you forgiven me inside that pretty little head of yours, Nylana?”
“Shut up. Only my mother is allowed to call me that.”
I lick my lips and stretch my arms behind on the couch. “I’ve been meaning to ask about your reunion with her. Everything sorted out?”
Nyla remains silent, eyes trained on the movie she’s seen a couple of million times now. She even muttered the dialogue under her breath before the characters said it. “We’re sorted.”
“Okay.” I tuck a strand of her pink hair behind her ear and slide my hand behind her neck. “Is she staying?”
“I said we’re sorted, Shahzad. What part of we’re sorted do you not understand?”
I contain my smile at her adorable outburst. “Apologies, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby,” she grumbles.
“You don’t mean that.”
She glances back at me. “I mean every word I say to you, Shahzad.”
“Even the ones under the influence?” I raise a challenging brow at her silence and shying cheeks. “They say there are two types of honest people. Children and drunkards. You were both on Valentine’s Day. A drunk child.”
She sits up and glowers at me from beneath her lashes. “Yes, Shahzad, even the ones under the influence. What are you gonna do about it?”
“You keep giving me those eyes, and I’ll find a hundred different ways to make them roll back to your skull.”
Nyla’s breath hitches, her fists curling at her sides. “Gosh, you’re so—you’re just so—”
“So what?”
She grumbles, “Charming.” Her small hands press against my chest and take a trip up to my neck. She relaxes her forehead over mine and brushes her button-nose against the tip of my straighter one. “I wish you hadn’t done it.”
I cuff her frail wrists, keeping my eyes open on her behalf. “Me, too.”
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know, Nyla. I should’ve known better than to bargain with Abe,” I explain quietly. “I knew I couldn’t afford to pay a stranger to act as my girlfriend, nor could I lie to Mustafa and risk Maira’s ambitions, so my selfishness drove me to you.”
“Because I was the easier option.”
“At the moment, yes. You were an easy option. I knew you somewhat. We shared a tiny, intimate history together. If I felt comfortable with you, I knew Maira would, too. Though . . .” My lips curve up at the memories of our time together at our shabby apartment. “Your smile does make it very difficult for me to act properly around you.”
Nyla remains blank-faced and focused on investigating the answers. “If you couldn’t afford me, why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you ask Azeer to pay for Dua’s tuition? Anyone except my father.”
“Pride. Ego. Embarrassment. Self-consciousness.”
She scoffs softly. “And you went to the one man who took advantage of your weaknesses.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Nyla. I didn’t want to do it. I really didn’t want to do it—I shouldn’t have done it.” My hands leave her wrists and slide down to her waist. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I agreed to return you back to him.”
