Page 34 of The Love Match

“Are you certain you can handle this on your own, Miss Khan?” he asks me for what must be the third time in as many minutes.

“We’ll be fiiiiine,” I reply. “I’m not actually on my own.”

He shoots a narrow-eyed glare at Nayim, who lounges behind the counter, flipping through the tea shop’s menu while humming some old rock anthem. “And that’sexactlythe problem. Your mother has put her trust in me to guard your, well…”

Nauzubillah,pleasedon’t say something extra embarrassing likevirtue.

“…reputation,” he continues, which is only marginally lessBridgerton. “So I hesitate to leave you alone with a boy now after so many years of diligence.”

He looks at me way too earnestly.

I grimace, deliberating how to respond in a way that’s less rude than,Being virtuous and reputable won’t help me save up for college again, so I’d prefer the time and a half you’re promising for today, thank-you-very-much.

Mercifully, I’m saved from having to answer by Dani swanning into the shop from the curb, where her mother and sister wait inside the family’s minivan. All three are dressed in elaborate cerulean lehengas that match their father’s tie, purchased from Amma by Mrs. Tahir, in preparation for attending one of their cousins’ birthday parties in Woodbridge.

“Okay, number one,” Dani says, lifting a finger, “that’s pretty sexist, Abbu.” Mr. Tahir opens his mouth to defend himself, but a second finger cuts him off. “Number two, Nayim is bunking with the imam. I doubt he’d bring the wrath of God—or Zahra’s Hello Kitty pepper spray—raining down on himself by trying anything gross. Number three, Zahra’s looked after the shop before with me or Dalia. Lastly, what could she and Nayim possibly get up to? Making out right in the middle of the floor?”

Just then, Dalia beeps the minivan’s horn as her mom waves for Dani and Mr. Tahir to hurry. Dani takes her sputtering father by the arm and drags him toward the exit. Before they depart, however, he turns to me one last time and whispers, “Don’t forget the cricket bat I keep under the counter… forsafety.”

I puff out a relieved sigh when he’s out of earshot. It’s nine in the morning and I’m already exhausted thanks to him. Butin his defense, he’s made it as easy as possible for Nayim and me to look after Chai Ho today, having preprepared all the baked goods so we just have to wrap them up in fancy to-go boxes and brew tea. Takeout-only days are the best.

“He’s a funny guy, isn’t he?” Nayim says, gazing out the door after our boss with one cheek in his upraised palm.

My own cheeks grow pink as I wonder how much of the Tahirs’ conversation he overheard. Clearing my throat, I say, “I guess so, but we should be grateful he trusts us enough to take care of the shop while he’s gone.”

“You’re always so responsible,” Nayim remarks.

I begin to bristle, then notice his affectionate smile and force my hackles down, shrugging. “I’ve sort of had to be, as the oldest kid, the oldestdaughter. Especially now with my dad gone, my mom, grandma, and siblings rely on me. I can’t let them down.”

I ponder whether he thinks he’s better off than me. He’s lost people too, but he only has to take care of himself now. Or is that worse? Am I a monster for even comparing us? I can’t imagine myself in a world without my family in it.

His smile dims as he reads the conflict in my expression. I busy myself with hanging the chairs upside down on the tables and flipping theCLOSEDsign over toOPEN.

Only when I’m done does he say, “But who canyourely on?”

I stiffen in front of the glass door, the corner of the sign gripped in my white-knuckled fingers, then chime a breezy laugh in an attempt to turn it into a joke. “You, today, I hope.Mr. Tahir was going to keep Chai Ho closed but left it open because I begged him. I’m sure I’m not the only one who could use the paycheck, right?”

He meets my gaze with those keen eyes and quirks a grin at me. “Right.”

Our first customer arrives, followed by a steady stream of others, undeterred by the limited take-out menu for the day. As I watch Nayim man the register, I can almost see why Mr. Tahir was so scandalized on my behalf.

Gossip spreads like the flu in Paterson, so a gaggle of avid new faces have turned up to meet Nayim for the first time, not all of them Bengali. A freshman-aged girl bats her eyelashes as he writes her name on her plastic iced chai latte cup with a flourish, while a few middle schoolers peek out at him from behind each other, giggling every time one of them makes eye contact.

The older women are hardly better. They march up to the counter to inspect him as if the confections aren’t the only thing on sale, then have to be dragged away by their husbands or children when he gifts them one of his sweet, knee-melting smiles.

I’ve noticed people gawking at him whenever we walk home. He has the kind of charisma that summons every eye in a room, but I guess it’s a survival instinct as much as anything else. How else would he attract an audience as a street performer or convince random people to hire an immigrant boy for the jobs they need done?

I get it. Ido.

My hands squeeze the mop in my grasp hard, viciously sopping up a falooda someone spilled, as I watch a beautiful girl I recognize, who’ll be a high school senior come September, twirling a lock of dyed purple hair while chatting with him. As if he senses my death glare, his eyes catch mine and crinkle at the corners.

Harrumphing, I whip around and dunk the mop into the bucket more savagely than necessary, splashing murky water and soap suds across the tiled floor and my own Vans.

Ugh, I hate boys.

Insufferable, adorable, bigheaded boys.

Despite my displeasure and Mr. Tahir’s suspicions, the rest of our shift passes by without too much extra hassle. Before I know it, the clock has struck four and only an hour remains until we shut down for the night.

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