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Truffle (flower): Surprise

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A loud honk startles me as I'm wearing my shoes. "Coming!" I yell out the open door to Abeer.

Once my shoes are tied, I head into the living room to kiss my mom goodbye. She's out of her room today, and even went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

"Mama, are you sure you'll be fine?" I ask as I kiss her temple.

She waves me off and nods. "Yes, don't worry about me."

"I'll be back soon, okay? I just need to give something back to someone from school."

It doesn't feel good to unnecessarily lie about something arbitrary, but I can't risk the follow up questions I'll surely receive when I tell the truth. That I was sleepwalking through my neighborhood streets, and a guy I consider an older brother prevented me from collapsing in a ditch somewhere, after which he gave me his shoes and blanket.

Yeah, I'll pass on the awkward questions.

I give my mom another kiss, grab the tote bag containing Mikaal's belongings, and rush out the door. My feet are feeling much better today, and the blisters are morphing into faded scabs.

I had woken up this morning and experienced a dilemma. I wasn't sure how to express my gratitude to Mikaal. Hey, thanks for showing up at the right time and making sure I didn't get run over didn't seem appropriate. Neither did I'm sorry I was wearing my donut pajamas when you luckily stumbled upon me and woke me from sleepwalking barefoot in our neighborhood.

Initially I thought maybe I could just walk over to his house and hand him his belongings. But that seemed oddly anticlimactic and ungrateful. Plus, his mom would be super weirded out, understandably, that I'm bringing in her son's blanket and shoes. The amount of questions that would raise, I can't anticipate.

Then I thought maybe I could get a thank you card or something. But that seemed wildly inappropriate given the circumstances under which he had stumbled upon me.

After much contemplation (at the end of which I was just frustrated above anything else), I decided to make him a plate of food. Rice, chicken, salad, the works. That seemed like the safest thing to do considering families generally give each other food often. That, and I still had to keep my boundaries intact.

I was frustrated beyond measure by how much thought I had to put into the simplest situation. I never had to contemplate something so deeply when it came to Mikaal. The only times we ever interacted were when he hung out with my brothers or when I visited Arafat in the hospital. So I felt depleted of energy after having to think so much about an interaction that was once second nature.

I break out of my thoughts and huff out a "sorry" to Abeer as I reach her car. I stop abruptly when I spot her in the passenger seat before my gaze shifts abruptly to the driver.

Rameez.

Immediately my heart stutters, and I stumble out a surprised, "Salaam."

He smiles, the gesture bringing light to his eyes. "Wa 'Alaikum Salaam."

"Sorry!" Abeer exclaims loudly as I sit in the backseat. "My idiot brother tagged along so we could run some errands together. Says I won't know which yogurt he specifically wants."

I laugh, glancing at Rameez in the rear view mirror. He flashes me another smile before mussing Abeer's hair. "Habibti," he says to her in a tone of mock endearment.

She shoves him, and I reign a bout of momentary panic at their antics while he's driving. "Badtameez," she hollers.

Rameez rolls his eyes. "How are you, Hayat?"

Don't panic don't freak out. Heart please stop doing that.

"I'm okay. How are you?"

He nods. "I'm good."

Abeer's eyes dart between the two of us before she scrunches her face. "You guys are so awkward and weirdly formal."

I giggle nervously, heat rising to my cheeks, before looking outside the window.

"So what's up? What are you doing at the hospital?" Abeer chirps.

I had planned on telling her exactly what my purpose in going to the hospital was, but with Rameez in the car I stutter out a half-formed lie, "Just—I needed to get some of Arafat's things. His coworkers reached out. And he had some paperwork and stuff that they needed." I gesture to the tote bag.

This lie thing is getting uncomfortable and annoying. But luckily, mentioning someone dead always has amazing powers of shutting everyone up. Abeer and Rameez don't ask any more questions.

We drive in silence for a few minutes until Abeer says, "What are you doing? The hospital's that way."

Rameez quickly darts a glance at her before his gaze flits to me in the rearview mirror. "This is the quicker route."

"No, it's not — "

He attempts to silence her by throwing her a sharp, wide-eyed glance that's supposed to communicate something obvious.

Abeer still looks confused, but she seems to realize the same moment I do that Rameez is taking the longer route to avoid that highway.

The site of The Car Crash.

A deep warmth pools in my heart, and sharp tears prick my eyes. A sensation equal to falling grips me at someone being so thoughtful, so considerate.

I glance at Rameez, eyeing his curls, his eyes, his beautiful face. My heart seems to surge forward, desperately wanting to grab a hold of him.

I wrestle with the warmth in my chest, trying to tamp it down because having such a major crush on my best friend's brother is going to be incredibly awkward. But when I watch him drive, when I study his fingers tapping against the steering wheel, when my eyes trace the curls falling onto his forehand, I can't help it.

Beautiful, smart, and thoughtful.

He must sense my stare because he glances up and meets my eyes through the rearview mirror. I startle, wondering whether I should look away. But my body makes the choice for me as I smile softly, attempting to communicate my immense gratitude at his thoughtfulness.

He smiles in return.

. . .

"You guys can come get me in like two hours," I say as I shut the car door. "I'll talk to Arafat's coworkers and then I wanna head to the bookstore down the block."

Abeer nods. "Sounds good." She regards me with soft eyes. "Will you be okay in there? Alone?"

I swallow the emotion rising up my throat. "Don't worry about me. I can't avoid it forever, right?"

"Yeah, but you don't have to do it alone."

I smile at her. "I'll be fine. Really."

"Okay." She reaches forward and squeezes my hand. "We're gonna do some groceries, and then I'm swinging by Rumana's to help her do this dumb hairstyle she saw online and insists on trying out." She rolls her eyes.

I'm surprised by the flash of hurt in my chest. Of course Abeer still has other friends and things to do. And she's close enough to others to regularly visit and be comfortable with their families. It's been a while since Abeer and I have spoken, and just because I've been stagnant for three months doesn't mean she has. Just because I suddenly want her back in my life doesn't mean she had put a hold on hers for me.

Rameez ducks his head so he can see me from the driver's side. "Are you sure you'll be okay walking to the bookstore?"

"What?" I laugh, flustered by his concern and still trying to recover from Abeer's comment. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine."

"Okay," he says. "Text Abeer when you're ready."

Abeer blows me an air kiss.

I nod and back away, waving to the two of them. Rameez doesn't drive off until I'm inside the hospital, though, and the sight makes me want to melt into a puddle of goo.

As I'm walking to the reception desk, smiling like a fool, abruptly a thought occurs to me.

I need to stop thinking like this.

I've known the twins for like four years now. Abeer was my closest friend before everything happened. When I first met her, we connected instantly despite having personalities and habits that were often poles apart. And when I first met Rameez, I recognized the feeling in my heart all too well. The warmth, the stutters, the butterflies. I vowed to tamp it all down because I didn't want to make things awkward between me and Abeer. And Rameez made that easy to do because he was always off being The Coolest Person On The Planet, which meant I didn't see him as much.

But after Abeer's birthday party and Rameez's sudden attention and care towards me, the feeling I've attempted to wrestle deep within myself is starting to break free. And I can't risk having a crush on him again. It would make my friendship with Abeer complicated; plus, there would be no point. Everyone likes Rameez. I would have too much competition.

And there's nothing special about me.

"Hello, how can I help you?" A nasally, clinical voice interrupts my thoughts. I blink at the man sitting behind the counter and smile tentatively.

"Yes, hi, I just wanted to see Mikaal Zaman." I pause, realizing I'm not sure which unit he's currently doing rotations in. Last I knew, it was the pediatrics unit. But that was over three months ago. "Um, I just needed to give him something." I gesture to the tote bag.

The man behind the counter watches me for a moment too long before he says, "ID, please."

I extract my license and hand it to him, waiting as he prints out a visitor badge.

The man hands the badge sticker to me. "And you are?"

"I'm his . . . " I pause for longer than a second as I stick the badge to my shirt, and his eyebrows rise. "Cousin," I settle for.

He nods, and I blow out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I'm about to walk away before I turn back around and gaze sheepishly at the man. "Um . . . I'm sorry — I haven't seen him in a while — which unit can I find him in?"

He seems to be holding back a smile as he types a few things on his computer. "He's in cardiology."

I tap the counter. "Thank you." As I'm walking away, I swear I feel him smiling at my back. But I don't turn around because I'm embarrassed enough already.

I trudge through hallways, take the elevator, press buttons to open doors. By the time I've reached the cardiology unit, my heart is pounding with the clinical smell of the halls, the all-too-familiar beeps and whirs of machinery, the chatter of patients and doctors and technicians.

I stumble against the wall, gripping the pole for support. The tote bag drops from my hands.

"Ma'am?" someone calls, and her voice sounds oddly far away. "Are you alright?"

And then another, familiar voice. "Hayat?" I try to recall why that voice sounds familiar, but I'm too preoccupied with trying to remember how to breathe.

One, two, three.

My eyes glaze over the polished floor beneath me. So shiny, so clean.

Arafat used to walk on this floor.

"Hayat, are you okay?"

One, two, three.

I reach up to clutch my throat. Something seems to be trying to claw its way out, and I need to stop that from happening. Something tells me that if this feeling in me ever escapes, it will be difficult to restrain ever again.

A hand touches my shoulder softly and I flinch, looking up into two pairs of concerned eyes.

A resident is staring at me and saying something, but her voice seems to reach me through warped glass. I look to the person next to her and it's Mikaal. Hands shoved in the pockets of his lab coat with a crease between his brows.

That look shocks me back into reality.

Why does he always see me like this? When I'm unstable and teetering off the edge of a cliff?

He probably thinks I have some kind of malfunction.

I blink at the two of them and shake my head. "I'm sorry," I say, and my voice sounds really far away. "I got dizzy."

They look like they know I'm spewing a load of bull. "Are you sure?" The resident asks. I read her nametag: Cheryl Hamada.

I nod. "Yes, I'm fine. Sorry to worry you."

She steps back and smiles. "No need to apologize. We just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you visiting someone?"

My eyes dart from her to Mikaal, who's been oddly quiet throughout his encounter.

"Um, yes," I say. I gesture to Mikaal. "I came to see him, actually."

Cheryl lets out a surprised laugh. "Oh, okay. Well, I'll leave you to it, then." She touches my shoulder briefly. "Let us know if you need anything, okay?"

I smile warmly at her as she walks away. "Thank you." I recollect myself and retrieve the tote bag before turning to face Mikaal. I raise my hand in an awkward wave. "Hi. Salaam."

His eyes are guarded as he reaches up to run a hand through his hair. "Wa 'Alaikum Salaam." He pauses, and I physically feel tension coiling in my shoulders.

There's something strange about meeting someone a couple days after they witnessed you sleepwalking the streets of your neighborhood at 1 AM.

"Hayat, are you sure you're okay?" His hands are back in his pockets as he gives me a once-over.

I huff, annoyed by the amount of times I've been asked this question recently. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just—" I lift the tote bag and am about to explain the reason for my visit when my lips clamp shut.

This is so awkward, God. I've never had to personally interact this much with Mikaal. He's like a third brother, for God's sake. Why is this so weird?

"Hayat?" He breaks me out of my trance by waving a hand in front of my face. "You don't look so good to me. Why don't we sit down and talk?" I nod as he leads me down the hall and into the pantry. I settle down and he pulls open the fridge before finding what he's looking for. He pours orange juice into a cup, slides it towards me, and leans against the wall with folded arms.

"Drink," he orders.

"I hate orange juice."

"Drink," he says again.

I sigh before reaching for the cup and sipping an insignificant amount. His eyes bore into mine, and the intensity is so rattling that I take another few sips.

There is something very weird going on here. The dynamic between us has shifted since that night, and I don't like it. I don't like it at all. So I need to fulfill my purpose and get the hell out of here as soon as possible.

"How are you?" I ask.

He nods. "I'm good, Alhamdulillah. How are you? How are your feet? Are you feeling better?"

My cheeks redden. Ugh, so embarrassing. "I'm okay, yeah."

"Really? You're still partially limping."

I look up, surprised that he noticed. I've been trying to cover it as best as I can. I thought I was doing a good job.

"Yes, I'm fine."

He looks like he wants to say something else before he changes his mind. "So what brings you here today?"

I set the abomination called juice on the table and lift the tote bag. "I wanted to give these back to you." He takes the bag from my outstretched hand and glances quizzically inside.

"The Vaseline and bandages are in the plastic bag. I laundered the blanket and shoes." He raises his eyebrows, and I rush to explain. "Don't worry, I did some research. Your shoes are washer and dryer safe, and I didn't want to give them back to you just like that . . . "  I trail off as he lifts the container of food from the bag and squints at the contents. "And that's just . . . I wanted to thank you. For the other night. Really. If you hadn't been there . . . "

Unexpectedly, he breaks out into a fit of chuckles. He sets the container on the counter and touches his forehead, shoulders shaking.

"What?" I say, panicked. "What is it?"

He simply shakes his head and continues laughing. Abruptly I'm reminded of Rameez, and the way his eyes light up and his curls bounce against his forehead when he laughs.

I fold my arms, unimpressed with Mikaal's reaction. "Is something wrong?"

He forces his laughter to subside at the look on my face and shakes his head. "No, no. Of course not. I just — Hayat, I really appreciate it, but you didn't need to laundry my shoes."

I furrow my brows, miffed. "I looked it up, they're washer and dryer safe — "

He shakes his head again, a smile still on his face. "No, no. I mean — it doesn't sit well with me that you picked up my shoes and laundered them. You didn't need to do that, really."

"Oh." My shoulders relax. "Oh, no, it's not a big deal. I just . . . I didn't want to give them back to you just like that after I'd worn them."

"It's a big deal to me. I would rather you have done that than get your hands unnecessarily dirty." His smile fades. "But thank you, you went through the trouble. I appreciate it . . . " He trails off, staring at the container of food.

I'm surprised by his reaction. But I guess it makes sense. I mean, I would feel bad if someone washed my shoes, too.

"Did you make this?" He taps the container. I hesitate before nodding. He lifts the lid and peers inside, then holds it up to take a whiff. His eyes brighten. "This smells amazing."

I fluster. "Oh — I — yeah, I just — well, I've been experimenting with different dishes and . . . " I stop, holding my breath as he extracts a fork from the drawer and digs in. He chews slowly, eyes contemplative, before he looks at me and grins.

I exhale.

"Amazing. Who knew Arafat's little sister cooked so well?"

A laugh escapes me. I love it when people tell me I cook well. I used to be horrible at it, so I value every compliment I get in regards to cooking now.

He closes the container and places it back in the tote bag. "I'll eat this during my break. Thank you again."

"Oh." I realize belatedly that he wasn't on his break when he stumbled upon me. "I'm sorry. You have things to do, and I'm keeping you." I pocket my phone and discreetly try to hide the orange juice from his sight as I stand.

"No, it's okay. Thanks for stopping by, although next time don't go through the trouble of coming all the way out here. You can give whatever it is through Ihsaan." He looks up, briefly contemplating his next words. "I know it must be difficult for you to come here."

I look away, not wanting to broach that topic right now. "Well, I better let you get back to work. See you. Salaam." I'm rushing out the door when Mikaal says, "Wait a second."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Great. When I open them, he's standing in front of me with the orange juice in his hand.

I look up am abruptly astonished by our height difference. How did I never realize that I have to crane my neck to look at him? His head is, like, all the way up there.

I groan. "Please. I don't want it." I'm aware of how I sound like a whiny little girl, but I can't seem to care.

He shoves it forward and says sternly, "Finish it."

His behavior reminds me of Arafat. Of the older brother gentleness and toughness all packed into one.

I take it from him just as someone arrives in the pantry's doorway.

"Mikaal," she says, somewhat breathlessly. I look up and freeze when I recognize her. "Heather wants to see you in 204."

"Alright, I'm on my way." Mikaal turns back to me. "Thank you, Hayat, really. I appreciate it. And . . . there's no need to feel indebted to me. I did what any decent human being would do." Pause. "I'll see you around, okay?" He backs out the door with the tote bag in hand. "Take care."

The girl steps back to make room for him to pass, and he disappears around the corner. She turns back to me, and her eyes widen. "Hayat?"

For a moment, I realize that this is the second time Mikaal bid me goodbye and I gave him no response. But I don't have time to mull over that because the girl is standing in front of me as if she's met a friend after a very long time and is bursting with words.

It's the same girl from outside the gift shop. The one who, after Ihsaan saw her, he backed out of the driveway quickly and provided no explanation for his weird behavior.

"Oh my God, hi. Salaam." She steps forward and grasps the end of her hijab with trembling fingers. She's also wearing a short lab coat like Mikaal, and since she knew him, I deduce that she must be a med student, too.

"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam," I pause, unsure of how to proceed since I don't actually know who she is.

"Oh, gosh." She brings a hand up to cover her mouth and chuckles. "I'm so sorry. You have no idea who I am. Of course you don't."

I watch her as she laughs, trying to find clues that would help me recognize her.  She looks vaguely familiar. I've probably seen her around the hospital and the community, maybe even said Salaam in passing. Other than that, I conclude with nothing but the fact that she's gorgeous. Like, drop-dead, heart-stoppingly gorgeous. She has these perfect pink lips and this smooth cream skin. Bright brown eyes and an adorable little nose. A smile that lights up her entire face.

"I — no, I'm so sorry. Should I know you?" I ask sheepishly.

"No, no, I wouldn't expect you to." She steps forward and lifts her hands tentatively. "Can I hug you?"

"I — yeah, of course." I meet her halfway and she embraces me tightly, as if we've known each other forever.

When we pull back, she gazes at me for a moment before shaking her head. "I'm sorry, you probably think I'm so crazy." She takes a deep breath. "I'm Aneela. Arafat and I studied and worked together."

The smile vanishes from my face. Another person who knew my brother. "Oh," I say, eyes suddenly very interested in the floor.

"Yeah, we were doing the same rotations a couple months ago." I look up at the subdued tone of her voice. She quiets, then a bright grin adorns her face. "He used to talk about you in classes and work all the time. My baby sister this, my baby sister that. It was sweet. And impressive, considering you don't really see siblings like that nowadays." Aneela chuckles. "Trust me, I would know. I have a sister and three brothers."

"Oh, wow," I laugh. "That's amazing, Masha Allah." I swallow the emotion in my throat at the mention of Arafat adoringly talking about me to others.

So now I know where Arafat knew this girl from. But what about Ihsaan? Did he know her? And why was he so panicked when he saw her? She doesn't seem like she would harm an ant, let alone elicit a reaction like that from a grown man.

So what does my brother have to do with her?

It's an uncomfortable truth to grasp, knowing you don't know as much about your siblings as you thought you did. Discovering that they have an entire life that doesn't involve you.

"How are you holding up?" Aneela says softly, touching my shoulder. "How's your family?"

I'm so exhausted with having to answer the same questions over and over. I know people ask out of genuine concern and courtesy, and that since I'm slowly coming back into civilization after basically vanishing into thin air, these questions are expected. But I am so tired of being the poor, pitiful girl who's lost her brother. It's hard enough as it is already. Everyone's well-intentioned concern makes it even more difficult.

I force a smile for Aneela because I realize I like her. "We're . . . better." Except for the fact that my mom doesn't really leave her room, my remaining brother barely talks to me except when he needs to, and my dad tries to keep us all together while simultaneously upholding tough fatherly responsibilities.

"I know." She squeezes my shoulder. "I understand. But if there's anything I've gauged about you, it's that you're incredibly strong. You'll pull through. And of course, if you ever need anything, I'm always here."

I remain silent, touched by her sincerity and her conviction in my strength.

"Well, I apologize for bursting on you like this. I wish we could have met under different circumstances." She laughs — I decide I really like the sound— and gestures to herself. "I was just viewing lab data on a patient with a stroke. Not exactly ideal circumstances, but" — she shrugs and smiles — "I'll take what I can get."

I smile in return. "Don't worry about it. I'm glad I met you." I pause, flustered by the way she's looking at me, her eyes shining with an emotion I can't decipher.

"Can we meet some other time? If you're free, that is." She extracts her phone from her lab coat. "Or can I have your number, at least? I would love to get to know you better."

"Oh," I'm shocked by the unexpected request. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." I type my number into her phone and she saves my contact.

Aneela smiles softly at me. "Well, I wish I could stay and chat, but I have to go." She touches my shoulder briefly. "I'll message you, okay? Loved meeting you. Salaam 'Alaikum." And with one last emotionally ridden glance, she turns and exits the pantry.

I am incredibly confused.

How does Aneela seem to know so much about me already? I mean, even if Arafat talked about me often, there's only so much you can gauge from conversations with a fellow student and coworker, right? And again, why did Ihsaan look like he was going to break out into hives when he saw her?

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. This is all too mind-boggling. I need to think about it later, when I'm in bed and away from prying eyes.

I leave the hospital and head to the bookstore, thoughts still consumed by the two interactions that just took place. I'm so in over my head that I don't realize the bookstore attendant's shouting my name until she's rushed up to me and grasped me in a tight hug.

"Hayat!" She squeals like a teenager, although she's almost twice my age. I bark out a surprised laugh and hug her back.

She pulls away and inspects my face. "How are you, doll? I haven't seen you in so long. I'd begun to think you'd forgotten me."

I giggle. "No one could forget you, Steph. How's Mark?"

She bats her lashes. "Sweet as ever. And always so caring." Steph sighs happily. "Marrying him was the best decision I ever made."

My previously tense heart unclenches at her happiness. Mark had met Steph in this very bookstore a year ago. He was twenty-six and never married, she was thirty-four and widowed five years prior (a car crash, ironically). She used to talk to me about her late husband all the time, reminiscing and tearing up, vowing never to remarry because she couldn't handle the risk of that pain again.

But Mark had come, and he had fallen so hard so fast. He was always vying for Steph's attention, always pretending to be interested in certain books as an excuse to talk to her, always sitting in the loveseat in the corner of the large bookstore.

Sometimes, the most entertaining part of my week was coming in and witnessing Mark go all googly-eyed after her, and Steph pretending not to be flattered by the attention.

Six months later Steph broke down in front of me, telling me she thought she loved Mark but didn't want to experience the pain of potential heartbreak again. She said she also felt like she was betraying her late husband by falling for someone else.

We had a long conversation, Steph and I, which ended with me constantly telling her that her husband would've wanted her to be happy and that marrying Mark didn't mean her love for her husband had to die. She would remember him fondly and passionately, while also giving herself and someone else a chance.

A month later, Steph and Mark tied the knot. It was one of the most emotional weddings I had ever been to. Arafat was constantly handing me tissues when I got home.

Ihsaan was, of course, laughing maniacally at my tears.

Hearing that Mark is just as sweet and in love with Steph as he was on day one warms my heart. "Tell him I say hi."

She nods. "Of course. He was just remembering you the other day." She quiets suddenly. "Doll, I'm so sorry about your brother. How are you doing now?"

I shrug lightly, wanting to steer clear of the topic for now. "Better," I answer. Steph had been at the funeral and seen what an absolute mess I was.

"And it will continue to get better. You're one of the strongest, bravest people I know, doll."

There it is again. Someone claiming I possess a strength that I never feel.

Steph brightens immediately as she says, "Come with me. I have something for you."

She leads me to the counter and bends down to retrieve a small box. "I've been saving these for you for a couple weeks."

Steph lifts the flap of the box and extracts a couple books. My smile fades when I see the covers.

Gardening books. College readiness books. Study tips. Fictional novels.

All of them are smeared thick with old Hayat Amanullah. Passionate, carefree Hayat Amanullah.

They're not for half-dead, drained Hayat Amanullah.

But I can't risk hurting Steph by refusing the books. So I muster up the courage to give her a bright smile. "Aw, Steph. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome, doll. I was especially excited for you to read that gardening one. It talks about some rare species in there that I think you'll find interesting."

I reach forward and give her a hug. "Thank you."

For the next hour, I sit in the bookstore and try to read one of the fantasy novels Steph gave me as I wait for Abeer. When Abeer texts me, I gather my things and give Steph a quick hug before heading outside.

"Hel-lo, human," Abeer hollers, extending an ice cream sundae to me.

I shake my head, holding back a smile as I grab the sundae and settle in the backseat. Rameez salutes at me through the rearview mirror, and I grin.

"Sorry, we tried putting most of the stuff in the trunk so there'd be room for your legs but it might still be a tight squeeze. Anyways, how was your little trip?" Abeer asks, chewing her ice cream loudly.

I pause for a moment before realizing I won't have to lie. "Good, actually."

"Did you meet fellow hoomans?"

"Yes," I giggle. "I met fellow hoomans."

"Stop chewing like that, Abeer," Rameez says with a wrinkled nose as he lightly shoves her. "Bidun akhlaq."

Abeer leans over and smacks loudly in his ear. I giggle silently at her antics, and when Rameez looks at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes spark.

I forget how to chew.

When we reach my house, I invite them inside, but they decline. Saying they need to store the groceries before some of them get spoiled in the heat. I bid them goodbye, heart stuttering when Rameez throws me another one of his smiles, and head inside.

"Mama," I shout. "I'm home."

She appears from the kitchen and gives me a rare smile. "You took a while."

I still briefly, instantly feeling guilty. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I just ran into some people and — "

She laughs, and I freeze at the sound. I scrutinize her appearance. Clean clothes, wet shower hair, a strong scent of perfume.

She looks good. Normal. Healthy.

"Beta, I wasn't complaining. I'm glad you spent some time with friends."

"Oh," I exhale, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "What did you do at home?"

She gestures to the kitchen. "I cooked."

"Ooooh," I stretch out the syllable, heading towards the smell. "What did you cook?"

"Chinese rice and teriyaki chicken."

"Ooh la la, Mama!" I can't describe the feeling coursing through my veins right now, arresting my senses. Seeing my mom up and about gives me such inexplicable happiness.

She smiles softly. "It's almost done. We'll eat together when your dad comes." She gestures behind her. "I going to use the bathroom."

"Okay." I'm breathless, stunned by the homey image of my mother in the kitchen. Cooking. Smiling.

Just then, footsteps bound down the stairs. Ihsaan appears, freshly showered, and waves at me.

I knit my brows. "You're home early."

He nods. I wait for him to provide an explanation, but he doesn't. He's busy tying a watch around his wrist when he says, "Who dropped you off?"

"Rameez and Abeer."

He pauses. "You came with Rameez?"

"And Abeer."

Ihsaan abandons the watch and sets it on the kitchen island. He taps the counter with his fingers, a fissure appearing between his brows. "Just . . . um, try coming with just Abeer next time."

I let out a surprised laugh. "What? Ihsaan, I've known them for like four years."

"I know, I know," he rushes to continue, still not meeting my eyes. "I just . . . want you to be careful."

I laugh again, but this time it's laced with a hint of anger. "Ihsaan, are you serious? You've never said anything about my friends before, what's the problem now?"

"I'm not saying anything about Abeer." He blows out an exasperated breath. "You just . . . you can't trust everyone."

"Okay," I snap mockingly.

I'm mad. I don't know why I'm so mad.

Ihsaan runs a hand through his hair. "Look, Hayat, I'm not trying to offend you. I would say this about any guy. Be careful around all of them."

I start to imagine how strongly he would react if he knew I was recently in Mikaal's car at 1 AM.

I scoff in disbelief. "Okay, Ihsaan, okay."

"What?" he says.

"You just — you don't wanna give a damn about me any other time. You barely even talk to me unless you need to. Or if it's small talk. Otherwise you just push me away. But when it comes to some guy — who, by the way, I've known for all of high school — your overprotective brother vibe switches on?" I shake my head. "Save it, Ihsaan. Save it."

He's quiet for a moment, and it only makes me angrier. Why am I so mad?

I'm about to dash up the stairs when I remember something else. I turn around. "Oh, and another thing. I met someone at the hospital today."

He furrows his brows. "What were you doing at the hospital?"

"Not relevant. But I met someone." I pause, scrutinizing him very carefully for his reaction. I can tell he's trying his best not to betray any emotion. "She told me she knew Arafat. Her name was Aneela."

Suddenly, whatever defenses he's carefully constructed crumble. Panic mars his features, his eyes widen.

I soften my tone. "You know her. Don't you, Ihsaan?"

There's a brief, weighty pause before he slowly shakes his head and clears his throat. "No. I mean, I know of her. From Arafat. Just that they studied together and were doing the same rotations."

I step forward and fold my arms. "You know you have a tell, right?" I gesture to his hands. "You always spin that around when you're nervous. Or lying."

Ihsaan glances down at his silver ring before pocketing his trembling hands.

"Really," he insists. "That's all I know about her."

I shake my head. "I don't know why you're lying to me, Ihsaan. But I do know that if you're not willing to talk to me about anything else or answer any of my questions, then you have no right to pretend to be the protective older brother." I drop my folded arms and head upstairs, heart hammering with anger.

Deep breaths. One, two, three.

I love my brother, I really do. But he has no right to ignore me in every other matter and suddenly give me attention when it comes to some guy.

When I'm in my room, my phone pings with a text.

It's Aneela. Save my contact :)

Oh, I will. I sure will.

. . .

Assalaamu 'Alaikum (peace be upon you),

soooo much going on in this chapter. what do we think?

translations:

salaam: shortened version of muslim greeting meaning "peace be upon you"

wa 'alaikum salaam: response to muslim greeting meaning "and peace be upon you"

habibti (arabic): sweetheart / my love

badtameez (urdu): ill-mannered / no manners

alhamdulillah: thank God / praise be to God

Masha Allah: praise be to God / used to express awe or gratitude towards God for a blessing

bidun akhlaq (arabic): ill-mannered / no manners

thanks for reading!