Page 78 of The Love Match

I shake my head, but thankfully, he doesn’t push.

Amma puts on a brave face for her own audience, who tut at the rumors of the bride-zolad’s treatment of her other employees.

“I heard that she just switched caterers,” says one auntie.

“She fired the florist, too,” adds another.

A third auntie peers off in the direction of the food stalls. “She’s such a nightmare, even Mr. Tahir turned her down when she asked him to take over dessert catering, and you know he never says no to money. Made an excuse about being short-staffed now that the Aktar boy is gone.”

Amma, who’s been listening intently, jerks another glance at me upon hearing that, but I avoid her and Harun’s gaze, not wanting to see theI told you soin the former or pity in the latter. Especially when aunties can smell secrets like sharks smell blood in the water.

“Ekh bar-eh zolad-nee,” they all agree, denouncing her as a total mean girl.

Pushpita Khala shakes her head, wrapping an arm around Amma. “I can’t help feeling responsible for this, Zaynab. She’s demanding, but between her own family’s money and that bush-managing fiancé of hers she’s always going on about, I assumed she could at least be trusted to pay you properly.”

“No, don’t blame yourself,” my mother replies. “I… she will pay. We’ll be fine until then. Perhaps her fiancé will be more reasonable.”

She forces a smile. Everyone is paying attention to her, so I let my own smiling mask crumble, fists shaking where they’re balled up in my skirt.

That answer was her pride talking.

We’re far from fine. My dreams for college might once again become as flimsy as the tulle that is currently ruining my life.It’s hard to have my future ride on the gauzy whims of a person like the bride-zolad. There’s only so much more I can take.

“Amma, can I go check on Chai Ho?” I ask, loud enough to cut through the chatter.

She hesitates, but then Harun jumps in. “I can stay and help khala clean up.”

Amma looks surprised but smiles graciously at him and gives me a nod. “Go on then, Zahra, we’ve done as much as we can here.”

Casting a grateful glance at Harun, I escape without another moment’s notice.

It’s not a lie that I want to go to Chai Ho, but when I get there, rather than the sympathetic ear I hoped for, I notice Dalia and Mr. Tahir working frantically to serve the customers lined up in front of their booth, no Dani in sight. Mrs. Tahir is there in her stead, an unusual sight.

Something’s not right.

Dalia’s round face is drawn, her brown eyes big and sad.

But I can hardly cut in front of all the customers like the bride-zolad did, so I reluctantly wade deeper into the mela, letting my feet take me anywhere they please.

Hours later, I make my way home.

I don’t realize I must look like a tragic Bollywood heroine in my princess dress and runny makeup until I enter the apartment and startle a gasp out of Amma, who is stooped over the brocade of the wedding shari, carefully undoing the intricate golden pattern so she can replace it with the tulle thebride-zolad demanded.

“Ah, Zahra!” She does a double take at my appearance but doesn’t comment on my tears, though her throat bobs. “Your brother and I looked for you earlier so I could show you some of the trinkets I picked up for you, but we couldn’t find you or the Tahirs. You should have answered your phone.” I bow my head at her reprimanding tone until her expression softens. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you found some time to enjoy yourself with your friends.”

I stand in the doorway, simply watching her. She keeps blinking her own bloodshot eyes and her hands are quivering. She shouldn’t be working on the bride-zolad’s commission after spending all day tailoring dresses for customers at the festival, but somehow, she even found the time to buy me a present.

I wonder where she got the money for it.

Where she’ll get the money for the new fabric.

Nayim wasn’t wrong. Sometimes Idofeel suffocated by Amma’s expectations for me. Sometimes I fear that her desires will suck all the life out of my own dreams. But as I observe her in the faint light of the lamp, I can’t resist getting drawn in by something with no name other than love, and can’t imagine going so far away that she wouldn’t know where I am.

“Can I help, Amma?”

She taps her chin. “I suppose it may be time to try it on someone.”

This time, I don’t mind posing as her mannequin. Herbrown eyes glaze over at the sight of me dressed like a bride. I can tell she’s imagining my wedding day, see the influx of emotions in the firm press of her quivering lips, the way a smile twitches at the corners, the way she uses an excuse to kneel so she can dab at her cheeks with the shari’s hem. But she won’t say so because she thinks I’ll get mad, shattering the fragile cease-fire between us.

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