Page 17 of The Love Match

Sharmila:

Hassa ni? Khans and Emons? Some people will do anything for money….

Chapter6

“Are we theeeere yet?” Resnawhines.

“Almost…”

I keep my hand on her knee to stop her from kicking Arif’s seat as we peer out the window of the Uber our mother splurged on to bring us to Harun’s. The houses grow more and more grand the farther we wind up the hill, nothing like our derelict multifamily home. Only a twelve-minute drive but entire worlds apart.

Amma goggles between the scenery and the glowing screen of her phone. “This article says the mayor lives in this neighborhood!”

The reverence in her voice prompts me to wipe my sweaty palms on the skirt of my shalwar kameez. The fancy embroidery leaves my skin itchy, and my scalp prickles under the heavy urna draped over my hair. I keep waiting for the car to stop somewhere—I keep praying for our destination to besome semblance of normal—but it continues to inch up the hill, until finally, it passes a sign that readsHILLCRESTin gold.

The houses beyond it are like something out ofThe Great Gatsby. The Uber driver slows in front of one that could pass for a miniature castle, stone tiles plastered over pale pink and white stucco under a trio of pointed dome roofs. It sits on an emerald-green expanse of lawn, attached to a three-car garage and a long driveway with a basketball hoop at the end.

“This it?” asks the driver.

Even he seems skeptical that we would be invited to a place like this.

Amma practically hauls me out of the car but gives me a blessed few minutes to compose myself before she rings the doorbell outside the iron gate. Although an obstinate voice in my head insists I don’t care what Harun or his family think of me, my heart feels too big for my rib cage—or maybe my push-up bra—as it does its damnedest to hurtle out of it.

I know I’m good enough, and also thathemight not be, but the thought of being a disappointment to my family is a specter I can’t ever exorcise.

Pushpita Khala’s familiar accent cuts through the static and my nerves. “Ji?”

“Assalamualaikum, Afa,” Amma greets her.

“Oh, Zaynab, waalaikumsalam! Come in, come in!”

She buzzes us through. Amma leads Arif and Resna by hand in front of me, letting me tread up the cobblestone pathto the front porch alone. The door swings open before we reach it, revealing a dimpling Pushpita Emon, who launches herself at Amma as if she hasn’t seen her in years rather than for a mere few days.

Amma is equally enthusiastic, kissing both of her cheeks. “Ah, your home is so elegant!”

Pushpita Khala smiles. Her dark eyes, the same spilled-ink black as Harun’s, settle on me as I trek into the house after the rest of my family. She utters a dreamy sigh. “Oh, mashallah, you look so beautiful, my dear! Is this another of your mother’s dazzling creations?”

“Thank you, Khala. It is.” I blush, eyes on the Persian rug below my feet.

I doubt she hears me over her own shout. “Mansif, Harun, our guests have arrived!”

Harun’s father steps into the long foyer from an adjoining room, and more niceties are exchanged. They’re so animated, I don’t realize that my date has slipped in to join us until he murmurs, “Hey,” right next to me.

His sudden, loomingtherenessstartles me in the middle of removing my strappy sandals. My arms pinwheel as I struggle to regain my balance, still wearing one wobbling heel, the other dangling from my fingertips.

Before I can crash backward into the doorway, Harun catches me by the wrist and yanks me upright. I trip head over heels—damsel-like—into his chest. It feels so firm under my palms that my face blazes feverishly hot. Astaghfirullah,between this and what happened at the tea shop with Nayim, I’ve become a ditzy rom-com heroine, haven’t I?

Harun all but picks me up by the biceps and places me a foot away from his person as if I’m a boogery child, refusing to look at me any longer. “You good?”

I squeak something that passes for ayeswhile silently begging the earth to open wide and swallow me whole. Surely rich-people houses come with that feature equipped?

Our parents chortle at the scene. With a crafty gleam in her eyes, Pushpita Khala says, “Doesn’t Zahra look like a princess tonight, betta?”

Harun’s voice grows garbled with frustration. “Ma, c’mon.”

I take the opportunity to scan him from head to toe while we’re conducted into the mammoth living room, replete with a mounted TV, enough couches to seat five times as many guests, and an actual tea cart out ofDownton Abbey. All that’s missing is a butler.

Unlike his father, Harun has ditched his jacket for a pinstripe button-up that clings to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms, covered in dark hair. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his black chinos, feet clad in navy-blue socks that match the shirt. Thick black frames complete the outfit, but they only make him look like the male models they always cast to play haughty—andhot—geniuses on CW shows.

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