Page 72 of The Love Match

I bite my nails to nubs until Amma thwaps them with a spoon and frets, “Boys won’t like you if you don’t have pretty hands. Meera’s daughter gets manicures to make hers stylish andFrench.”

Normally, I would: (A) tell her I don’t care what boys think of me, (B) remind her we can’t afford manicures, (C) attempt to explain how French tips work, and (D) ask why she’s already plotting how to catch the eye of a new guy.

But I’m thrown by how much I’m looking forward to seeing Harun.

Leaving Amma, Nanu, and a coloring Resna in the kitchen, I drag myself over to the couch, where Arif is playing a Nintendo Switch his friend lent him, and plop next to him. Grunting, he budges over to give me more space. I grab a pillow and bury my face in it.

For the next minute, the only sounds in the room are thepings from his game and my sighs, until Arif mutters, “Why don’t you text him?”

I peek up at him over the pillow. “Who?”

“I can’t keep track anymore,” he counters dryly.

Glaring, I give him a good whack with the pillow but leave him to his game. He’s not entirely wrong. Harun and I left off in a good place last night, and he even texted me a good morning selfie with a grumpy Rabeardranath, so it wouldn’t be wrong if I checked in, would it?

After much internal debate, I settle on asking,What should I wear tomorrow?in a surreptitious effort to excavate clues about the location of our not-date.

Of course, his answer is as cryptic as ever:Something comfy.

Then I’ll come in sweatpants and bunny slippers,I threaten.

I was imagining more along the line of sneakers,he replies,so you don’t face-plant.

My mind spins with the possibilities of a destination where I’ll need sturdy shoes to avoid falling. Before it can catch up to my fingertips, I type back,Psh, I’ll be fine. You’d catch me, wouldn’t you?

His ellipses disappear and my eyes grow huge.

Shit! Why’d I say that?

But then he responds,I would. Kinda comes with the territory of being with a princess.

My mouth goes dry. Is he flirting, poking fun, or being polite?

I can’t think of a retort beyond,Much appreciated, my knight in robot armor.

Our current truce feels too fragile to survive my knowing what he meant, so the topic turns to how I might sneak out to meet him.

After we scheme, I toss my phone aside.

Comfy, huh?

Thursday night, an hour before sunset, I hurry home to freshen up and get dressed.

Dalia texts to let me know she’s outside, since I told Amma I’d be hanging out with the twins after work.

Dalia drives me beyond Paterson’s city limits to a leafy copse in aptly named Woodland Park. There’s a playground next to the parking lot. Harun perches on the hood of his BMW at the far end of it, beneath the shade of a tall tree, frowning at his phone until the Mini Cooper stops beside him.

His cheeks half dimple as he grins. “You staged your escape.”

It’s hardly the first time he’s smiled at me, but I swallow the sudden flutter in my stomach before I return it. Although I can sense Dalia smirking, I ignore her to clamber out of the car.

It’snota big deal, and less about Harun being attractive than it is about his resting broody face. If the sun were eclipsed every day, you’d want to see it when it shone too, wouldn’t you?

“Perk of being a poor brown girl,” I quip. “Your mom can’t worry half as much as her friends when you spend most of the day out of the house working anyway.”

“I’m just glad to see you.” His eyes darken with some unreadable emotion as he appraises my outfit. “No sweatpants or slippers?”

“They’re in the laundry,” I deadpan.

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