Page 56 of The Love Match

Amma scoffs, “How can that be so? You’re a beautiful, resourceful, and kind girl from a respectable family. Ar bala khoi faitho?”

I suppress a groan. A more naive Zahra might be flattered that Amma doubts Harun could find anyone better, but I see through the ploy. Thankfully, I’ve already rehearsed these lines, so they tumble out without preamble: “American kids don’tcare about stuff like that, Harun least of all. You remember that he grew up around white people, right?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she asks. “He seems mindful of tradition. Wasn’t he the one who requested a chaperone in the first place?”

I throw my hands into the air. “Because he wanted to get away from you. All of you. His cousin Sammi was too busy powdering her nose to watch us properly and ended up ditching us to hang out with her own friends.”

For a second, the idea of insulting Sammi’s good name gives me pause. Bad-mouthing Harun is awful enough, though both of us have agreed to do whatever’s necessary to end this matchmaking masquerade, but Sammi genuinely believed she was doing a favor for her cousin, helping him heal his broken heart.

Then the bangles on my mother’s wrist clink when she covers her mouth, and I know I’m too close to stop now. I drop my voice a decibel, peering up at her through my kajol-caked lashes pleadingly. “I’ve tried so hard to make this work for you, Amma. Like I always do.” She flinches at my words. They’re a low blow—a reminder of the money I lent her—but a short guilt trip won’t hurt her after the many she’s taken me on. “Can’t I please stop?”

I watch her struggle to process everything I’ve confessed. Her rouged lips pinch into a thin line as she peers blankly at a small grape juice stain on the carpet.

She looks more exhausted than usual, despite her makeupand the shari she’s chosen for the occasion. Another blade of guilt lodges in my chest at the awareness that I’m the reason when I’ve always worked so hard to ease her burden.

Before she can respond, Arif and a skipping Resna pop up beside Nanu, attired in their own Eid outfits. They each clutch Tupperware containers of the dishes Amma prepared for the Emons—because we can’t possibly go empty-handed no matter what else is on our plate.

Amma’s bleary eyes lift to us and she sighs. “We can’t cancel at the last minute when the Emons have been preparing for this. Let’s get through the day and we’ll figure out how to move forward later. Accha?”

I nod, having expected that.

Soon we’re in the Uber to the Emons’, but though I should be buoyed by this first victory in the coming war, I can’t help stealing glances at Amma, noting the lines around her eyes and mouth, the sad stories that they tell.

The urge to confess right then and there rushes up my throat, but I bite the inside of my cheek until a familiar house materializes at the top of the hill.

Harun opens the door.

I trudge up the stone path to his porch last, and for an ephemeral eternity, the two of us simply stare at each other, his frame in the doorway shielding both of our faces from the audience of our curious families.

He sucks in a sharp breath as he takes me in but doesn’tspeak while beckoning me inside. I flash a secret smile, then let it fall away.

He looks good, as always, but it’s the first time I’ve seen him in traditional attire. His black fanjabi is simple, silver jacquard floral patterns threading the collar without any other adornment, tailored to be taut across his shoulders while loose and flowy over his legs.

Elegant and efficient, just like him.

Brown girl TikTok would have a field day at the sight. Hell, one day he’s going to make some other girlvery lucky, but today’s not that day and I’m not that girl.

If only we can prove that to our parents.

Like clockwork, Pushpita Khala gives me the customary three consecutive Eid hugs, then spins toward her son. “Betta, isn’t Zahra such a shundori? This dress—”

“—is way too colorful,” he deadpans. “Did a rainbow throw up on you? It might give me a migraine if I stare at it for too long.”

Her jaw drops. My family gapes too. Harun, for his part, pinches the bridge of his nose for full effect. I hide a grin behind the hands I bring to my mouth in an effort to play at affront, lowering them only to sputter, “W-well, yours is so dull! You couldn’t add a colorful scarf or something so you didn’t look like Edgar Allan Poe?”

The furrow of his brows clearly asks,Edgar Allan Poe, Khan? Seriously?

Aloud, he sneers, “I think you’re wearing enough color for all of us.”

We glare at each other.

Internally, I commend Harun for being such a great actor, musing whether he can give me any tips, until Mansif Khalu takes him by the elbow. “Now, now, you both look like you could use a nice meal. That always makes your mother feel better when she’s in a mood, na keetha?”

“Dhuro go, you’re embarrassing me!” chides his wife, but there’s no heat in it.

Everyone is watching Harun and me, expressing varying levels of alarm, so the two of us cross our arms in synchronized outrage and declare, “Fine!”

“You willlovehow the Paterson restaurant is coming along, Zaynab,” Pushpita Khala continues, trying valiantly to steer the subject to something less cantankerous. “You should come with us to the grand opening at the end of the summer. Inshallah, we may even haveotherreasons to celebrate by then.”

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