Page 35 of The Love Match

Nayim strolls over to the door, where he switches the sign toCLOSEDand clicks the lock to match, then turns to me expectantly.

I put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing? We still have an hour.”

He glances down at me with a gleam in his eye. “I thought we could close a little early. Mr. Tahir won’t mind.”

“Ummm, I’m pretty sure he will. You don’t know him like I do. He’ll put you on bathroom duty for a week, and I strongly suspect that toilet is a portal to Jahannam.”

Nayim chuckles. “You’re such a writer, with those clevermetaphors. Wouldn’t you like to sit outside on this lovely summer evening and just… do that?”

His eyes are intent on me. I gulp. “Dowhat, exactly?”

“Write, Zar.”

He arches both brows, as if the answer should be obvious. Perhaps it should have been, but the slight flux of excitement that spiked through my veins fizzles at the clarification, replaced by a persistent anxiety.

It’s not a matter of sitting down and doing it. I’vetriedfor the last two years, to no avail. It’s like when Baba died, my ability to tell a story died with him. It’s hard to write happily-ever-afters when my own “after” has been up in the air for so long. When, rather than the words I’m seeking, visions of every possible disastrous outcome that leads to my family begging on the street plague me.

Sometimes, a good imagination is a very dangerous thing.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to do anything Mr. Tahir would get mad about when he trusted us tonight. I didn’t think you were that sort of person either.”

To his credit, Nayim appears chastised at the thought of breaking my—and, by extension, Mr. Tahir’s—trust. He murmurs an apologetic, “Sorry. I only meant… You’ve been running around handling all the orders and cleaning up after customers while I ran the register, so I figured you could use a break.”

“That’s—”

…Actually very sweet.

“I’m fine,” I say instead, but his gaze is somber.

“Earlier, I think it bothered you that you have so many people relying on you and no one you can do the same with,” he says gently. “I want you to know, youcantrust me, Zahra. With your writing hopes and anything else you want to share with me.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” I whisper, frowning down at my stained sneakers.

It’s not in me to break the rules like this. To slack off. It was one thing being alone with him when we were working, but this… this is something else entirely. And yet, when he extends his hand, my own twitches at my side.

He takes it and steers me over to one of the tables, pulling out a chair for me. “You don’t have to know yet. At least for tonight, can’t we look out at the stars together, rather than with an alleyway between us?”

“It’s too early for stars,” I want to grouse, but can’t bring myself to do it when his eyes are glittering imploringly at me like stars themselves. I turn to the windows to see if anyone might be snooping or eavesdropping, but he’s already drawn the curtains together to give us some semblance of privacy. The last weight of indecisiveness on my shoulders lifts as I give my consent.

“Okay…”

Sucking in a trembling breath, I observe Nayim through wide eyes as he dims the lights of the shop and brings me a bowl of creamy rossomalai and a cup of masala chai—extrasweet and milky, exactly as I like it. After I murmur a thank-you, he vanishes into the back room and returns with a wooden guitar. If possible, my eyes get rounder.

“Is that—”

“The guitar I told you about,” he says, running reverential fingertips over the polished arches of the instrument. His attention turns to me, his honey eyes hooded. “If you want, we can write together? You, your book, while I try to finish a new song?”

“But what if I can’t do it?” I mumble. “What if I try and nothing happens?”

“It’s okay.” His casual words make me scowl, until he continues, “I’ve learned that you sometimes find inspiration in unexpected places. Like in the Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey, for example.”

Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I nod. “Okay. But you have to play me a song.”

“I can do that,” Nayim agrees.

I notice the tension in his shoulders, however, as I sling my backpack over my own, an untouched notebook inside it, and carry the treats he prepared for me into the enclosed yard behind Chai Ho. Potted herbs and plants like mint, lemongrass, and lavender, which Mr. Tahir grows for his recipes, soon encircle us.

Nayim sits across from me on an upturned milk crate, the guitar in his lap. Although there are no stars, when he bows his head and his thick, shoulder-length hair curtains his face,the sun halos his figure like a crown, casting the shadows of his inky eyelashes across his high cheekbones.

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