Page 13 of The Love Match

“Me too,” Dani adds.

I brandish my most grateful smile as they smuggle the contents of my backpack,Ocean’s 8style, into the supply closet the three of us pray in, hanging my flamingo-pink shalwar kameez on the dustpan hook next to the spare janamaz.

Jumu’ah services make Friday one of the most profitable days for Chai Ho. Some customers stop in for breakfast before them. More show up for the lunch rush. Today, we’re evenbusier than the typical Friday. A choir of whispers and pointed glances toward the kitchen door accompany every visit to a table, signaling that the Auntie Network must have already heard about the new hire through the grapevine and are dying to find out their life story. It’s so hectic that I don’t have a second to breathe, let alone dwell on Harun.

“Have you met the new employee yet, Zahra?” my visiting landlady asks eagerly as I refill her cup. When I shake my head, she clucks her tongue. “I heard the poor thing is all alone here.”

“I heard he’s an orphan,” adds her friend, sipping her own tea.

A bearded man in a fanjabi with a matching white tufi on his head chimes in from another table with, “Well,Iheard the imam—”

I’m so distracted trying to parse their gossip while bringing desserts and tea to and from the hungry mosque-goers that when I carry a wobbling stack of plates to the kitchen door, I fail to notice someone opening it from within.

“Zar—” Dani warns from behind the counter.

It’s too late. The door slams into my face and stars burst in my vision. The mountain of dishes topples right out of my arms, shattering as it makes impact. The momentum tips me too far in the other direction to do much more than grope for the plates and the lean, tall silhouette that appeared in the doorway, a cry escaping me.

Something wraps around my wrist and jerks me forward.Air whooshes as the cacophony of breaking ceramic continues. I flinch, eyes screwed shut, bracing myself to tumble onto the floor like the dropped china. Very little pain follows my landing, though my “cushion” feels more like bone than padding. Only a blur of noise, heat, heavy breathing—my own and someone else’s—and a heartbeat pounding in time with mine.

“Are you hurt?” the someone else asks from under me.

Under me!

My eyelids fly apart.

I find myself staring into a pair of unfamiliar, honey-brown irises, shimmering with worry. “Y-you’re not Mr. Tahir.”

Not-Mr.-Tahir smiles. “As far as I know, that’s true.”

The man himself manifests soon after, holding his balding head in shock. “Astaghfirullah, what’s the meaning of this? So many ruined dishes!”

Only when his flinty gaze roves to me do I realize the compromising position I’m in, clutched in the arms of an unknown teenage boy on the floor of the tea shop, my forearms pressed to his chest, my hands gripping his shoulders for dear life. Jagged pieces of broken porcelain glitter at our feet, a reminder of how close I came to hurting myself.

“Oh God,” I rasp, scrambling up off the boy, who must be the new employee. “Mr. Tahir, I am so sorry—”

“It’s not her fault,” says the boy, dusting himself off and rising to his feet. When he does, he towers over everyone else inside the shop, but Mr. Tahir still looks tempted to take offhis loafer and lob it at him. “I thought I’d come out to get more dishes since I finished cleaning the last stack, and… well…”

Our boss evaluates us over crossed arms, then sighs when Dani and Dalia arrive. “It’s fine. We can take it out of your paycheck later. Can you keep working, Miss Khan?” I poke my forehead, remembering my injury all at once. So much for what Nanu said about being lucky. It throbs, but at least there’s no blood. I don’t want to end my shift early, so I nod, even though the new boy and my friends seem skeptical. “Good. Nayim, clean this up, then go back to the kitchen, where I can keep an eye on you.”

The kitchen door slams shut.

I grimace but assure Dalia and Dani that I’m not in imminent danger of collapse. “Go back to work before your dad blows another gasket, okay?”

Reluctantly, they do as asked, leaving me alone with our new coworker.

Nayim, Mr. Tahir called him.

I can’t meet his gaze after my mortifying fall, especially after feeling him up in front of half the city, so I stoop beside the shattered dishes, carefully picking out larger shards until gentle hands land on top of mine, forcing them to still.

“Let me get a broom, Zahra,” Nayim says, in a musical accent that’s comfortingly familiar now that I’m paying attention. “You’ll cut yourself if you aren’t careful.”

My eyes widen, then narrow. “How do you know my name?”

He taps the plastic name tag pinned to a ruffled blue apron that matches my own. It readsNayim A. Blood rushes to my cheeks once more, but before I can muster up a clever quip, he disappears into the kitchen, carrying with him the handful of plates that survived my gracelessness. I can only gape.

He looks to be about my age, with thick, shoulder-length black locks that sweep into his catlike eyes, dressed in a T-shirt under an open flannel button-up that must be a hand-me-down from a much broader man, his jeans-clad legs taking confident strides till the door shuts between us. Once he’s out of sight, I become aware of the renewed chatter within the shop. Eagle-eyed aunties and uncles stare after Nayim.

Like that, the conversation drifts away from my blunder. I should be happy, but my mood darkens as I try to make sense of the rumor mill. From the chatter, I can pick out words like “orphan” and “charity case.” Did they talk about me like that when Mr. Tahir hired me after Baba’s death?

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