Page 76 of The Love Match

Before she busies herself with her sewing equipment, however, she raps me on the back with the length of her measuring tape, a wordless,Stop hunching and model my dress properly.Grumbling in the stuffy anarkali suit, I troubleshoot for customers as she haggles over prices and takes aunties’ measurements.

A woman who must be all of four feet holds her bangled arms out for that purpose. When Amma kneels to wrap the tape around her waist, she says, “Ever since you got that wedding party job, you’ve been impossible to get ahold of, Zaynab Afa. How is that coming along?”

Pink-cheeked, my mother murmurs, “It hasn’t been without its ups and downs.”

Mostly downs,I grumble internally.

“I hope the bride likes the final pieces,” Amma finishes, oblivious to my thoughts.

“Nonsense,” drawls a new voice. “Don’t be humble, Zaynab. Your work is impeccable.”

To my absolute surprise, we turn to find Pushpita Emon. Harun skulks behind her, bags of his mother’s purchases hanging off his arms. In spite of their weight, his fingers twitch in a covert greeting, before he clenches them into a fist and frowns.

My ears burn from the knowing stares of the crowd bustling around us, no doubt vibrating with curiosity over how we’ll deal with seeing each other again. Ever since we fought, every reminder that he doesn’t hate me has filled mewith visceral relief, but since admitting my feelings for him to myself, just being together steals my breath.

I raise my hand, then pretend to tuck a loose strand behind my ear. Harun’s eyes crinkle at the corners, like he sees right through my act but doesn’t mind.

It’s already gotten through town that Harun Emon and Zahra Khan famously do not get along. Somehow, the story of Resna throwing her mishti doi at him evolved into my siblings and I trashing the Emons’ entire house. Some said uppity Pushpita Emon had it coming. Others tut as they observe us now. There really are no secrets in Paterson.

“You’re too kind, Pushpita Afa,” Amma says. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten the commission in the first place. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Pushpita Khala shakes her head. “I’m not the sort of woman who suffers fools, dear. I never would have recommended you if your work didn’t merit it. Just because our, ah, little arrangement didn’t work out doesn’t mean I won’t still support your business. So let your afa see what else you’ve been cooking up!”

Amma’s incandescent smile makes my heart sing.

Harun must have smoothed things over with his parents. I think I see now why my own mother likes his so much, and why he’s such a devoted son. There’s compassion beneath her bluster. The same compassion in him.

Even knowing this doesn’t stop my jaw from dropping when he strides past me toward Amma and clears his throat. “Khala… afnare help khortham farmu nee?”

Amma’s jaw joins mine at his valiant effort at Bengali and the timid Good Bangladeshi Boy smile that accompanies it, but she manages a sputtered, “Oh, thank you, thank you! What a bhodro sele you are. Of course you can help. Will you be fine with Zahra?”

Pushpita Khala beams in approval.

Harun nods and slinks over to my side. “Need a hand?”

I squint. “You sure those delicate rich-boy hands can handle the manual labor?”

He rolls his eyes, but his cheek dimples. “My boss is pretty demanding, so I guess I’ll have to learn on the job.”

“You’ve got that right, Emon.”

Despite my brazen assertion, a tingle courses up my fingertips as he accepts from me the money I’d been about to count, lingering for a second too long. His eyes widen and dart away from mine to the bills, but I can’t help stealing peeks at his studious profile, admiring the sooty shadows cast by his lashes over his cheeks, the way he chews on his bottom lip when concentrating, and his frankly criminal cheekbone-to-jaw ratio.

Harun’s mother glances up from our wares to consider us, and I sense another familiar stare boring into my back. Immediately, I snap my gaze away from Harun and fish out the customer-service smile I’ve perfected at Chai Ho, willing the heat to desert my face.

The other aunties exchange eager looks, then trail Pushpita Khala to our table, rifling through the sharis, shalwarkameezes, anarkali suits, and accompanying accessories Amma created. There are even a few hand-stitched khethas made by Nanu that will be perfect to decorate their beds with on cooler summer nights.

Soon I have fistfuls of twenties aimed at my head, and Amma is fielding query after query about whether she’ll be taking future commissions.

In that way, althoughthey’renot the ones wearing animal costumes today, aunties are a lot like wolves: they take cues from the alpha, crowding around whatever carcass she’s chosen. Whatever else they might say about her, Pushpita Emon is that alpha.

Like this, an hour trickles by.

Harun continues to collect the cash while I show off different materials to our customers. As we get more and more patrons, a sudden shrill squeal pierces through the crowd, louder than the bickering of the aunties fighting over the last beaded blouse.

The groping hands and griping voices around us fade when a colorful figure parts the bodies around her with a wave of her bell-sleeved arms. She’s a young woman, probably around Sammi Afa’s age or a little younger, and makes a statement in the heavily embroidered tunic she wears over jeans. An entourage of women varying in age follow her.

“Zaynab Khala, you didn’t tell me you had a stand here today!” she squeals again. “And Pushpita Khala’s here too?”

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