Page 25 of The Love Match

“Nuh-uh,” I tell him. “I only said you could walk me home so Dalia would get off my case. The last thing I need is more Auntie Network gossip”—especially when he’s as eye-catching as a neon sign—“so thanks for your chivalry, newbie, but you can go off on your merry way now.”

Nayim’s eyebrows squish together. “The what now?”

“The Auntie Network,” I explain. “My mom’s group chat. They know everything. About everyone. Always.”

When I start walking again, however, I hear his footsteps continuing to pad along, and I whip around, reaching for my bag and the aforementioned pepper spray. “Are you stalking me?”

“Um, no,” he responds, pointing in the direction of my house. “It’s just… I live that way too. Or should I wait to go home?”

Mortification courses through me. “O-oh yeah, with the imam, right?”

Dam—er, darn it. I’d forgotten that Nayim would be livingright next door.

He nods. “But I can wait. I’m aware I’ve become the subject of some imaginative rumors around here, and I wouldn’t want to make things tougher for you. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it sounds like you’re dealing with quite a lot right now.”

I grimace. So he heard about Harun, huh?

“No, I’m fine. That’s no big deal, just my mother meddling in my love life.” We fidget on the sidewalk, looking all the more conspicuous for it, before I continue, “I guess you can keep doing what you’re doing.” Even though it’s late June, the suggestion of rain clings to the air. I pull my sweater tighter around my torso. “Just… walk behind me. Like, six feet behind, so no one assumes we’re together.”

“I’ll be a perfect stranger,” he promises.

We commence trekking home for the third time, but though he does his best to keep up his end of the bargain, I can sense his eyes on my back. A flush creeps up the nape of my neck. Am I imagining his interest in me? But why would my masochistic brain dream that up, when I already have enough boy problems?

I break the silence first. “About earlier… Have you really been to Paris?”

A beat follows, before he answers, “I’ve been to many places.”

“But… how?” I wonder, peeking over my shoulder. “Isn’t it hard, when you’re all alone? How do you pay for everything?”

He tilts his face toward the night sky. The full moonchooses that exact moment to duck out from behind some clouds and cast its silver halo over him. It glimmers across his raven-wing hair and gold-coin eyes in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

“I suppose it isn’t easy,” he murmurs at last, “but to me, it’s worth it, because it brought me one step closer to my dream.”

“Your dream?” I whisper.

He eyes me, as if he’s unsure whether he can trust me. I don’t know why, but I want him to, enough that I slow down, the six feet between us becoming five, four, three, until we’re side by side, my gaze affixed to his moonlit face. The intensity of it makes him stop in his tracks.

“When I was a kid, someone gave me a guitar,” he says. “I hung on her every word when she told me how she’d found it in New York. She went away again, like she always did, but I kept the guitar, and I’ve taken care of it ever since.”

“Do you still have it?” I ask. “Can you play it?”

His smile becomes a lovelorn thing, his eyes at once distant and dreamy. It makes my stomach do an unexpected flip. “I do. And I can. Never that well. I always had other obligations that prevented me from dedicating the time to playing it the way I wanted.”

“I know what that’s like,” I whisper, almost to myself.

Nayim’s pupils flick to my face. “But there’s nothing in the world that makes me happier than holding that guitar, teaching others how to play, watching them fall in love with it too. So it became my dream to go to New York City somedayand open my own guitar shop there.” Without meaning to, I breathe a small gasp, and his mouth twitches self-consciously. “It sounds silly, huh?”

I shake my head. “No. Why would it if you’re serious about it?”

He catches his lip between his teeth, as if to stop himself from explaining, and I wonder if whoever he left behind at home made him believe his dreams were unattainable, like Amma often does with me.

At my encouraging nod, he continues, “I was able to get enough money to go to Europe. It’s closer to Bangladesh and the ticket was cheaper. But then I had to save up to get to the States. Take odd jobs, sleep on benches, busk for change. People weren’t always kind, like they are here, but since it meant I could make my own way to my dream, I did my best. I may not be able to afford it yet, but I’m going to prove that it’s not impossible. That I can do it all on my own.”

I stare at Nayim, heart pounding wild fists against my chest as if it wants me to unlock the cage of my ribs so it can fly to him. Because he… he gets it. Nayim gets me in an intrinsic way that someone like Harun, who’s always had everything handed to him on a gold platter, never could.

It isn’t easy to come to America from Bangladesh. My father’s older brother applied for our family to come before I was even born, and it took almost a decade for the US government to approve us getting green cards. I have no idea how Nayim did that on his own, but I’m positive it was harderthan it ever was for me, and I admire his perseverance.

“Youwill,” I insist, though the words are thick with emotion. “That’s… That’s how I feel about writing.”

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