Page 62 of The Love Match

Although Nanu doesn’t intervene, her silence is revealing enough.

Tears sting in my eyes and nostrils, but I refuse to let them fall, wrapping my arms around myself to quell my trembling. What hurts the most is that Amma’s right. But that she can have so much sympathy for Harun and never me breaks my heart.

“No matter what, I was always going to be the disappointment if I didn’t go along with your plans, wasn’t I?” I ask in a hoarse whisper. “I tryso hardto be what you want, but I can’t do anything right in your eyes.”

Her fists ball in her lap, but before she can retort, the driver tells us, “We’re, ah, here.”

Amma immediately storms out of the car. The rest hesitate, but follow her to the apartment. The driver watches me pityingly but says nothing. To reward him for not being a busybody, I give him five stars and a tip higher than I can afford.

That weekend is the Bangladeshi community picnic.

Folks from every part of Bangladesh gather to eat, socialize, and play games, competing for the honor of their districts—and prizes—Hunger Games–style.

When Mr. Tahir orders Nayim to come along and help carry boxes, I volunteer to accompany them, while Dalia and Dani supervise the shop.

Their father grunts but doesn’t protest.

Nayim smiles and I make myself smile back, praying I’m doing a decent job of masking the residual sadness that roils in my gut. Between the financial blow I took and Harun’s one-word responses every time I send him a text, I need to escape my life.

Even if only for a day.

The extra pay and fresh air won’t hurt either.

In the nearly six hundred acres of land that encompass the reserves, surely I might get a minute to sneak away with my boyfriend? I’m not naive enough to believe true love’s—or true “I really, really like you’s”—kiss can solve my problems the way it does in fairy tales, but I worked so hard to get to be with Nayim that I may as well enjoy it, right?

A couple of rented yellow buses pick us up at the Great Falls. Some girls I know from school call me over to sit by them, while Mr. Tahir instructs Nayim to join him and a chatty group of uncles in the back, who hold covered trays, boxes of Dunkin’ Donuts, and other assorted snacks on theirlaps. He nods at me as he passes, and I notice his guitar case strapped to his back. Maybe he has similar plans to be alone?

We reach the park in record time.

Garret Mountain overlooks Paterson, Woodland Park, and Clifton. Although I visited the park many times before Baba’s death, we haven’t had a chance to return since he passed, and not just because tickets to the picnic are a hundred dollars a family.

I can’t help following Nayim to the railing above the city. The buildings below look like points of a broken crown, studded with jewels of glass and feathery smoke, framed against a bright blue tapestry of sky embroidered with clouds and sunshine.

“It’s beautiful,” Nayim says, watching me.

Before I can agree, a familiar voice bellows, “Api!” and then Resna’s pudgy arms wind around my legs, her cherubic face squished against my knees.

“Resu, what are you doing here?”

The answer to my question appears from the direction of the parking lot: Amma and Arif, surrounded by a gaggle of aunties and their children. My mother’s eyes widen when she notices where Resna has gotten off to, then narrow at the realization of our present company.

No doubt sensing the daggers she flings his way, Nayim says, “I’d better go help set up or Boss Man will throw me off a cliff.”

Amma watches him go, then returns her attention to me.I almost expect her to walk away without a word, since we’ve been giving each other the cold shoulder since the Eid party yesterday, but she says, “I didn’t know you were coming to the picnic with Mr. Tahir.”

“I didn’t knowyou’dbe here.”

Amma’s best friend, the Lady Whistledown of Paterson’s gossip mill herself, Meera Hussain, answers in her stead with a teasing, “Your mother has been so busy with that new job of hers, I had to force her to take a break today, Zahra.”

“You shouldn’t have paid for us,” Amma chides.

“Nonsense,” says Meera Khala. “My own children are too old to be seen with me anymore. Rumon is out with his friends, and Raisa had a work function she couldn’t skip. As you can see, your bhai is too busy for me too.” She juts her chin at her husband, a short, portly bald man holding a clipboard who oversees many of our local events. “So let me live through you and your precious kids, Zaynab.” Before Amma can raise another objection, she adds, “We can talk about the upcoming Bangla Mela, too. It would be wonderful for business, wouldn’t it?”

My mother relents. “Ji oi, Afa. You’re right, of course.”

She shoos Arif and Resna off to sign up for the games. I try to beat a subtle retreat as well, since Mr. Tahir is scowling at me from the picnic area where he’s setting up, but get swept into a tidal wave of eager aunties. They grip my arms and begin to carry me over to a secluded copse of dogwood trees, under which they spread out blankets away from thebusier picnic area where the food is being prepared.

Sensing a lost cause when he sees one, Mr. Tahir marches over, carrying boxes of the tea shop’s sweets. To Amma and the other women, he says, “Assalamualaikum, ladies. Please enjoy these desserts from Chai Ho and find me right over there if you’d like a cup of tea.” He then lowers his head to whisper in my ear, “You can stay with your mother for the time being, so long as you’re selling her friends on how delicious our treats are, Miss Khan.” Gritting a smile at us all, he finishes his spiel with one last ingratiating advertisement, “If you like what you taste, find our booth at the Bangla Mela next weekend or visit the shop any day on Union Avenue.”

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