Always Be My Bibi, page 12
“Hate to break it to you,” he deadpans, “but this is one of those times.”
I brandish my baleful pout at him. “You don’t sound very sorry. Why doesn’t your cousin text? I thought we clicked.”
I’ve had plenty of time to wonder. Maybe he only met me as a favor to Sunny. Maybe he goes around flirting with anything on two legs. Maybe I scared him off with my impulsive overeagerness for a second date.
“This is all my brother’s fault,” Sohel mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He never should have introduced you to that prat.”
I study him accusingly. “Did you sabotage it?”
“What? No!” He scowls at me like I’ve besmirched his honor. “You know, I have better things to do than meddle in your affairs, Miss America. This job, for one. My cousin doesn’t do second dates, and that’s nothing to do with me.”
“Oh.”
It’s not like I hadn’t figured as much. Why would there be a shortage of girls interested in a tall, handsome, rich athlete like him? There are plenty propositioning him in his social media comments alone. When I looked up videos of his games, he had entire fan clubs screaming his name from the stands while he played.
“Look.” Sohel clears his throat until I lift my despondent gaze to his. “I know Akash. More than my brother does. You’re honestly better off if he doesn’t get in touch. Trust me.”
“If you say so,” I mumble.
“Don’t give up,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “The—what did you call it? Big Book of Biodata?” I nod. That name is more accurate, anyway, since the book isn’t half as great as I thought. “It has plenty of options left if you keep an open mind.”
As if he hasn’t been viciously mocking everyone inside.
Just then my phone vibrates in my pocket. I’ve spent so long without it that I jump half a foot into the air, grasping at my chest. My heart is still working overtime when I retrieve it, only to do a double take at the name on the screen. “Oh my God—you manifested him! It’s Akash!”
Sohel narrows his gaze. “It is?”
I ignore his leeriness to read his cousin’s message: Bibi, so sorry for vanishing on you. I had to make an impromptu trip to Singapore for a last minute interview, but I RSVP’d to your sister’s sinifaan next week. Can’t wait to see you again.
Holding my phone out for Sohel, I smirk, butterflies aflutter in my belly.
“He doesn’t do second dates, huh?”
It’s not a cricket match but I guess it’ll have to do, I text back. I expect you to make it up to me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I daydream about seeing Akash again the whole time we prepare for the sinifaan—aka Halima and Sunny’s engagement party. Technically it’s the first formal event of the wedding, since most of our closest friends and family have flown in to attend it, with the main ceremony mere weeks away.
While the majority of the estate staff—me included—string up lights throughout the entire courtyard in front of the manor, the teahouse bakes delectable treats to accompany mishtis catered by a premium sweet shop all the way in Dhaka’s swankiest neighborhood, Gulshan.
There’s kalajam, roshomalai, roshogulla (my cat’s namesake), zilafi—all the classic Bengali desserts. But it’s the teahouse’s specialties that have me swooning: intricate leaf-shaped pastries piled onto the banana leaves lining every table, veins etched with gold icing and bursting with lemon, pineapple, mango, and banana curd.
“Are these tea leaves?” I ask Ireima as she stacks some into a precarious pyramid. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to steal one.
She offers me a blank look, then casts her gaze somewhere over my shoulder. I don’t need to turn to know who will be standing there.
Sohel kisses his teeth. “You have no idea what ‘sinifaan’ means, do you?”
“Let’s agree I don’t,” I rejoin, “since you’re clearly dying to tell me, smart-ass.”
He rolls his eyes. “Sini. Faan. Sound it out. It’s a simple concept, Miss America. You at least know what each individual word means, don’t you?”
Although I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right, the second I consider it that way, it makes perfect sense. “Sini” means “sugar,” and “faan” is… well, faan. It’s a leaf that older people like my grandma like to chew with various fillings. There are separate tables arranged around the courtyard with carefully wrapped parcels of faan and shubari: betel leaves with chopped areca nuts and other delicacies inside, such as slaked lime, aniseed, and cardamom, sometimes even tobacco. It’s not as popular with younger people because it can give you a serious case of gum disease.
Sohel eyes me expectantly. Rather than inflate the air in his already ginormous head, I turn back to Ireima and her sister as they continue creating pastry towers to declare, “Khub shundor! Good job!” and clap with a wide smile across my face.
Yumjao claps back, while Ireima returns my smile with a hint of pride. Jui and the sisters are starting to get used to my Bibi-ness at last. I wish they could attend the party as guests and not waitstaff, but since Halima and I haven’t been on the best terms since my blowup at her, I didn’t have a chance to propose the idea.
Without bothering to glance back at my know-it-all shadow, I continue, “I’d better go get dressed now. See ya later.” The girls wave, but I’m sure Sohel must be fuming, which is more than enough of a victory.
Halima is sequestered in her room. Even though it’s huge, I suspect it won’t accommodate all of the nosy relatives from both sides who’ll be popping in nonstop to give her their unasked-for opinions about everything. It’s too bad, because I’m dying to see her in her engagement dress, but not enough to brave the vultures. She and Sunny have decided to take a Western angle for their sinifaan, since they want the mehndi and shaadi itself to be traditional, and I just know they’re getting a dressing down over it.
While humming under my breath, I put on silver crescent-shaped chandbali earrings, opting against a necklace. A matching tikka glistens like the sun on my brow instead. The V-neck of my midnight-blue sharara suit accentuates my collarbones. The wide, flowy, paler blue pants flutter like a billowing skirt so that the shorter, actual skirt of the kameez above them forms an elaborate second layer. A gauzy silver urna and shimmery makeup complete the ensemble, matching the starry sequins of the dress.
I twirl one last time in front of the mirror before making my way out of my room. Abbu is waiting for me in the hall, dressed in an Armani suit I picked out for him back home, smoking against a windowsill. The second he spots me, he snubs out the butt of the cigarette against the frame of the window, then pitches it into a trash can.
“Ugh, Abbu, gross,” I complain, running back into my room to snatch up a vial of my Miss Dior perfume. “You know that stuff will kill you, and it stinks.”
He coughs when I spritz the perfume around him. “You might just kill me first, Bibi zaan.”
“Oh, I bet Ammu would get there before me,” I quip, but don’t press the matter.
He all but gave up the habit when I was a baby but occasionally takes it up again when he’s nervous. I suppose a day like today, his oldest daughter’s engagement party, is one of those times. Maybe nerves are also why his face darkens when he notices the way my urna has slipped off my shoulder. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Why?” I bristle. “I think it’s pretty.”
“It’s a beautiful dress,” he relents, “but isn’t that gauzy sleeve a bit too much? What did Sunny even pay those tailors at that blasted boutique to do? Shouldn’t he know how his family gets? Did your mother—”
“Why are you here?” I grind out, as I pick up my skirts and make to hurry past him. “No one will be looking at me tonight. It’s Halima Afu’s big day.”
Well. That’s not strictly true.
Akash and I exchanged a few more messages since his return from Singapore, but if Abbu knew I’d be seeing him tonight, he’d frog-march me right back to my room and force me to change into something frumpy that would make Akash ghost me for real.
I grimace when I hear my father’s footsteps, but he drops the subject of my dress. “I thought since your mother and grandmother are with your sister, I might escort you down to the party.”
I don’t answer, but don’t refuse his help into the baby taxi outside the guest house, if only because the pencil heels on my Miu Miu slingbacks make it tricky to hold my skirt and climb at the same time.
We can already hear drums and singing from the courtyard, and arrive to find guests beginning to flow in from both the guest house and elsewhere. They stand around the plaza, chatting with one another. It isn’t long before my sociable father finds a familiar face.
I slip away without him noticing and wander off on my own, making a beeline for the desserts I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since this morning. They’re separated into piles based on filling, so of course I grab a mango. A single bite has me moaning with pleasure at the subtle combination of bitterness from the matcha used to dye the pastry green and the sweetness of the fruit. It’s so fresh. No wonder the teahouse has a Michelin star.
“That’s my favorite too,” a voice chimes behind me.
Pivoting on my heel, I catch Akash smiling at me. He looks impossibly suave in a deep indigo fanjabi with a silver chain sewn in an arc around the breast pocket. A heavy stole hangs off one arm, decorated in shimmering geometric patterns.
“You’re early!” I blurt before slamming a hand over my mouth to keep crumbs from flying out. So not sexy.
“I couldn’t wait another minute to see you,” he replies. “The whole time I was in Singapore, I could only think about how much more fun it would be in the right company.”
“And whose fault was that?” I tease, trying not to let on the way his words get my pulse racing. “Do phones not work there?”
He holds up his hands. “Guilty. Sorry, Beebs. My manager takes my phone to make sure I’m avoiding my vices.”
My smile fades as I recall what Sohel told me about Akash being a player, but I shake the concerns out of my head. Sohel may have known his cousin longer, but he’s clearly biased. “Do you want one of these cakes? They’re delicious!”
His eyes stray to my lips. A rush of embarrassment burns my cheeks when I slip my tongue out to catch a fat glob of mango in the corner, but it changes to an entirely different kind of heat when he murmurs, “Tempting, but I’d rather spend some time alone with you.”
Something about the intensity of his words makes me accidentally squeeze my pastry too hard. Mango curd spills onto my fingers. I yelp, and Akash leaps into action, grabbing an emerald cloth napkin and wrapping it under my hand between both of his own. His touch sends an electric charge through me, even through the napkin.
“Th-thanks.”
His cheeks dimple. “Anytime. How about we go sit by the fountain?”
Just then a wave of excitement ripples through the crowd. We turn to observe Sunny and Halima’s entrance, followed by an entourage of parents and grandparents. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of my sister, who shines like a dove against the twilight in her opalescent gown. The balloon skirt pinches at her waist and pools onto the ground like a train, the entire silhouette embroidered with intricate zardozi work in rose gold. Rather than a veil, there’s a sheer urna pinned carefully into her hair by a tikka, the chiffon material trailing to the floor.
Sunny looks incredibly handsome at her side, decked out in a Jodhpuri suit—cut in a way that emulates the length of a western suit jacket, but with a silken gloss to the material, jeweled buttons, and embossed gold threadwork in the pattern of elegant vines winding down half of his torso. Black velvet pants tailored close to his tree-trunk legs complement his livery, his hair slicked into a dignified man bun.
My doubts aside, they might just be the most gorgeous couple I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Their enamored audience appears to be in agreement. Although I want to tell my sister as much in person as a peace offering, they are soon swarmed by their new fan club. The entire party is now warbling with curiosity, wondering where Sunny found such an enchanting wife, and musing over how adorable their future children will be. Not even Sunny’s grandfather’s complaints about too many immodestly dressed women can deter them.
I hesitate for only a second, remembering my sister’s warning, before I tell Akash, “Yeah, let’s go sit by the fountain.”
He offers his hand, eyes twinkling. It would be such an innocent gesture back home, but in Bangladesh, where PDA can get you a hefty fine, around so many ogling eyes, the mere thought of lacing our fingers together sends a thrill through me.
When he looks at me like this, it’s easy to give in to the temptation and place my own hand in his. I take a few less than subtle peeks around us, but no one is paying attention, with Sunny and Halima at the center of the universe.
I wonder what they’d think of Akash and me. Whether they’d think we suit each other too. Because I feel so comfortable at his side.
The fountain is teeming with other guests when we arrive, but Akash manages to find space for us beneath the arc of a leaping koi, its stone scales visible even in the falling dusk. There are living koi swimming around in the algae-green water beneath, lit from below by the lights built into the fountain to brighten every square foot of the courtyard.
“I’ve been here hundreds of times before, but tonight is really beautiful,” I whisper, trailing a hand in the water and creating a ripple that the fish first dart away from, then flock around, ticklish against my fingertips.
“It is,” Akash murmurs.
When I glance up to meet his gaze, I find that he’s watching me already, his face so close that I could bridge the distance between us if I leaned forward a few inches.
My heart pounds hard in my chest like there’s a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage inside. I want to set it free. I want to forget about everything else and take the risk with this boy, who looks at me like he’s never seen anything so wondrous.
Instead I confess, “I know this is only our second time seeing each other, but being around you makes me…”
Happy? Nervous? Excited?
“I know,” he answers with a smile. “You—you’re not like any girl I’ve ever met, Bibi.”
Heat blazes on my cheeks.
It’s silly, the sort of pickup line my friends and I have snickered at while watching cheesy nineties rom-coms. A voice that sounds remarkably like Sohel’s reminds me that the chances of him meaning it are almost negligible, given how popular he is, but…
I want him to be my first kiss.
It could never happen here when we’re surrounded by so many people, but before I can so much as fantasize about pressing my lips to his, a shadow falls over the two of us.
I jolt so much at its abrupt appearance that I might have tumbled backward into the fountain, if not for Akash reaching to steady me with an arm around my waist.
“Fancy meeting you here.” The bane of my existence greets us with a smirk.
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I demand.
His forehead furrows in faux confusion. “I take my chaperoning duties pretty seriously, yet here you are… chaperoneless. I can’t just ignore that, can I?”
“Yes, you can,” I hiss back, even as my eyes scream for him to take the hint and have mercy on me for once. “Please, if you’ve even sort of started to consider me a friend, go away.”
He does not.
Instead he wedges himself against my other side, trapping me between both boys on the fountain. He then shoves Akash’s arm off my back and taps one of the AirPods poking out of his ears. “Just pretend I’m not even here. I’ve been meaning to listen to this podcast I downloaded about getting rid of stubborn, invasive pests without using harmful pesticides, so I won’t hear a thing.”
I drop my face into my hands to smother a wail. My neck snaps up only when Akash says, “Bibi, I think I should go,” ice in his voice.
“What?” I exclaim. “No, you don’t have to!”
“No.” He levels Sohel with a cool look and gets an equally frosty glare back. “I’m afraid if I don’t go now, I’ll ruin your sister’s night.”
“Big talk,” Sohel replies, all traces of amusement gone. “The way I remember it, you’re not the type to get your hands dirty off the pitch.”
A sneer twists Akash’s handsome face. “Well, I prefer to leave that to you.”
“Oh yeah?” Sohel challenges. I can practically see little bolts of electricity zapping between them. “How’s that hamstring injury, mate?”
“Okay, okay, enough!” I say placatingly, voice rising in pitch. A few people look our way with disapproval. More quietly I repeat myself. “Enough. Save whatever this is for some other day.”
This snaps the boys out of their standoff.
Akash stands, offering me his hand again. I take it and let him tug me to my feet, heart still pounding from the proximity to him… and the uncomfortable tension between the cousins that felt like it could escalate any second.
Eyes might still be boring into us from every angle—one pair certainly burns a hole through my back—but when Akash leans to breathe against my ear, it’s as if we’re the only two people in the world. “I’ll call you later. I mean it this time.”
“O-okay,” I stammer, too flustered to think of a clever comeback.
I track him until he disappears into the crowd, then whirl toward Sohel. “What was that? Were you actually about to hit him?”
“What do you mean?” He gives me a blank look, cocking his head. It’s the same exact mask he wore that first night when he pretended not to know me, except after weeks of being forced together, I can see right through his act. “I was only making sure you didn’t get in trouble for sneaking around without a chaperone. If I noticed you, your parents or another busybody would have soon enough. So, you’re welcome.”
“Oh, you are so full of it,” I grind out. “Are you not going to tell me? Seriously?”
