Page 26 of The Love Match

His head whips up. “You write?”

I cringe.

Ugh, why did I saythatwhen I’ve barely written in the past two years? And why to him, an absolute stranger, of all people? One who traveled halfway around the world for his dream, while I let my own be deferred like Langston Hughes’s raisin in the sun….

“Not much, lately,” I say. “It’s romance and other silly stuff. Not literature.”

“You told me my dreams aren’t silly. I don’t think yours are either.” Nayim slants a glance at me. “Besides, isn’teverystory about love, one way or another? What makes that less important?”

Of course, he’s right.

But I guess I’m so used to fearing other people will find my interests shallow that I sometimes talk them down before anyone else can.

Why do I care what Nayim thinks, though?

“It’s nothing. Helping my family eats up most of my time and keeps me from writing. What about you?” I hedge, trying to steer the topic away from my deepest insecurities. “I got the impression you also shouldered your fair share of responsibilities in Bangladesh. Do you help take care of your family too? Send money back?”

Does anyone take care of you?I don’t add, though I’m dying to know.

Surely, someone misses him there. Are they worried? Do they still talk? What happened to the woman who gave him the guitar?

He sighs. “What family? There’s no one left in the world who needs me. But enough about me.” A hint of teasing steals into his voice. “Tell me more aboutyouand your romances.”

Although I squawk at the flirtatious deflection, deep down inside, I foresaw it coming. Haven’t I employed this sort of diversion tactic hundreds of times myself when the twins or Ximena or teachers touched on our financial situation?

It’s my own fault for asking him such a probing, personal question when we don’t know one another, but it serves to confirm what I already suspected: he’s an orphan from a poor, fragmented family. Possibly even worse off than my own, if he’s been homeless before.

Just then, a man shambles past: the owner of a bodega across the street called Bangla Villa. As his curious gaze traverses the two of us, I clam up, perspiration beginning to pool under my armpits. Nayim, for his part, drops to the sidewalk right away, where a stray black cat nibbles on a loaf of bread next to a tipped-over trash can.

He starts crooning nonsense at it, and I make my escape as the man stops to observe his antics, ignoring the nervous flutter of butterfly wings in my belly.

The feeling dissipates the instant I get home, whenAmma inquires, “Has Harun contacted you today?”

What would she think if she knew I’d walked home with another boy? Apoorboy from a family of no reputation?

“Uh, no, Amma, he hasn’t,” I mutter, then add, “I’m tired tonight. Gonna turn in if you don’t need anything,” before she can browbeat me about skipping dinner.

Her perturbed retort dwindles as I flee into the bathroom to take a shower.

Later, blessedly alone in my bedroom, I drag myself over to the window, trying to find stars amid the smoggy sky, and catch Nayim doing the same, sitting in the window seat of his basement apartment with a notepad in his lap, chewing on the cap of a pen.

He must sense me watching, because his eyes lift to my window and crinkle at the corners. Before I know it, he scribbles a message onto the notepad and holds it up against the glass for me to see.Sweet dreams, neighbor.

The butterflies return with a vengeance.

Pressing a hand to my stomach to quiet them, I whisper a “Sweet dreams” he can’t hear, then shut the blinds before Amma or Nanu can catch me in the act.

As I crawl into bed, I can no longer ignore what my galloping heartbeat betrays. I like Nayim. He is brave and funny and silver-tongued.

How messed up is it that he wouldn’t be considered as eligible as Harun just because of the coincidence of his birth?

Life’s not fair sometimes.

If it were, Nayim would have all the riches in the world.

Chapter9

A week blinks by.

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