Page 15 of The Love Match

“Huh.” Nayim picks up a plate to frown at his own reflection. “First I reminded you of Mr. Tahir and now your mother? I didn’t realize I passed for middle-aged.”

I drag a hand over my face. “Ugh, sorry. I’m totally stepping in it, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine,” he replies, cupping his cheeks in both palms so his amused expression fills the entire window. “I rather like it.”

Fighting another infuriating blush, I say, “What I meant was, your English is perfect, but it sounds more British than American.”

“The colonization will do that to you,” he answers with a chuckle. “But your instincts are spot-on. I immigrated here from Bangladesh.”

“Oh, hey, I’m Bangladeshi too!”

“If you two could reserve the formal introductions until after your shift,” Mr. Tahir intones in his matter-of-fact rumble from the kitchen, where Dalia is doing her best not to give in to a fit of giggles, “I would greatly appreciate it. I already have to replace those dishes you destroyed earlier without you lollygagging on top of everything.”

We split apart from each other immediately, but not before I catch Dani wiggling her eyebrows at me from the latte machine. I scuttle away from the counter to welcome a new arrival.

Like this, the rest of the day passes by.

Whenever Nayim and I catch glimpses of each other, he flashes me another of his—friendly? flirty?—smiles, honeyed eyes twinkling with an emotion I can’t translate. Between him and a rowdy group of customers, time flies. Before I know it, we’ve closed for the night.

It’s time for my date.

After carefully tucking my paycheck and the day’s tips into a unicorn fanny pack I borrowed from Resna, I trudge tiredly into the kitchen, making a mental note to add half the moneyto the ever-so-slowly-growing college savings under my bed.

Nayim is humming while he sweeps inside.

He’s tall—more so, even, than a certain someone my mother has all but swooned over—and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn once more to his lanky frame, remembering how it felt when he held me. He smiles brightly and straightens the second he spots me, so I have to look up at him, like a sunflower leaning toward the sun.

Before he can say anything, Dani retrieves my bag from the broom closet, Dalia traipsing behind her with my dress. Both of them push me into the employee bathroom, while Nayim and Mr. Tahir stare in bemusement.

I shrug as the door shuts.What can you do?

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Dalia asks as soon as it’s closed. She pulls out her primer and begins dabbing it onto my face, then applies concealer to the bruise on my forehead I’d forgotten about.

“Eh,” replies Dani, busy braiding my hair into a crown. “If you’re into guys, I guess.Somebodysure seemed to be.”

They both smirk at me.

“Oh, cut it out,” I sputter. “I was just being polite to a fellow Bangladeshi.”

“Polite?” Dani quips. “Isthatwhat the kids are calling it these days?”

I’d shove her if it didn’t mean looking like Miss Havisham tonight, but if I’m being honest, I can’t help the hint of intrigue that bubbles in my belly. “What’s his deal, anyway? I didn’tthink your dad was in the business of taking in any more Bangladeshi strays.”

“You’re so adorable, I guess he couldn’t help it,” Dalia says with a boop on my nose.

Having finished with my hair, Dani leans against the tiled wall, rubbing her chin. “He’s actually more stray than you, Zar. Apparently, he’s an orphan or something. He got here from Bangladesh all alone a week ago. When Ammu heard about it, she convinced Abbu to give Nayim a gig here, and the imam’s wife let him stay with them. The Auntie Network works fast.”

Never would I have guessed from Nayim’s sunny disposition that he could be an orphan. Losing my father is a blow I might never fully recover from. I don’t know if I could abandon my whole world on top of that. Loseeveryoneandeverything.

My heart breaks for him.

I also feel a rare rush of gratitude for Mr. Tahir and the other aunties and uncles of our community, who swooped in to help Nayim without expecting anything in return… aside from hot gossip and manual labor. Every once in a blue moon, their prying comes in handy.

“Annnnnd all done,” Dalia declares, taking in her handiwork. “You’re a knockout, babe.”

Although the reason I needed her help is bothersome, I grin at the Zahra in the mirror. Dalia curates body-positive content for hijabis online and has a delicate touch with makeup that doesn’t make me look like a vampire-pale Fair & Lovely spokesmodel.

Just… me.

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