Page 8 of The Love Match

Pushpita Khala pinches Harun’s cheek, ignoring the way his bronze complexion tints faintly crimson. “All for our darling son. Did I tell you he’s going to Columbia in the fall?”

What, like it’s hard?snarks my inner Elle Woods.

After all, I got in too. I may not be going, but it’s not because I don’t belong. I wonder what the Emons would think if they knew. Would it make them excited that Harun and I have Columbia in common, or would they prefer a pretty girl with no other aspirations in life than being a perfect wife and daughter-in-law?

“He graduated at the top of his class from the Hillam Academy in the city and received a perfect score for math on the SATandACT,” Mansif Khalu adds, puffed up with pride. “Most of the Ivies accepted him, but he wanted to stay close to home. Isn’t that right, betta?”

Harun’s face darkens further as he mutters, “I guess.”

Amma sneaks a glimpse at me, and I know she’s debating whether she should mention that I also got into Columbia. I can hear the cogs turning in her head. She looks sorely tempted.But if she does, she’ll have to confess that we couldn’t afford for me to attend, and that would be a crack in my princess armor.

“Ah, Zahra loves math too!” she ultimately blurts.

This time, I actually choke. There are a dozen different things my mother could have bragged about. Although I wasn’t valedictorian, I graduated in the top three of my year and won several essay competitions while in high school. The local paper even did a piece on my acceptance to Columbia.

Math, though? It might defy every Asian stereotype, but Iloathemath. Of course, that’s all she can come up with. A lie, because the truth isn’t enough for her.

I’mnot enough for her.

Harun’s eyes flick toward me for the first time, pinning me in place until I stop hacking my lungs into my fist. They’re a brown so deep and dark, fringed by such an enviably thick fan of lashes, they look almost black. Even with smudges of dark circles beneath them, they’re the kind of eyes a weak-willed girl could get lost in—if he weren’tglaringwith them.

Before I can snap,I don’t want to be here either, asshole, Pushpita Khala chimes in with an exuberant, “Harun wants to be a biomedical engineer someday and make prosthetics for amputees! It’s like being a doctor and an engineer all at once, isn’t it, betta?”

The doctor-engineer in question grunts.

I blink, begrudgingly impressed. “That’s cool. You must be supersmart.”

His inscrutable gaze returns to me, but he only says, “Thanks,” once his mother elbows him. I almost give up right then and there, until Amma kicks me under the table, forcing me to disguise my grimace with a smile.

“Are you excited to start studying engineering?”

Becauseof course, this paragon of a brown boy would choose one of the Holy Trinity of Bengali careers, as if to personally spite me with his perfection. Wait, scratch that,two of the three, if his mother’s bragging is anything to go by.

“I guess,” he replies again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

What the hell? Am I giving him aheadache?

Gnashing my teeth at his audacity, I wring the napkin on my lap into twists, pretending it’s his neck. Neither of us wants to be here, but at least I’m not acting like a brat about it.

This is what parents like oursdo. Although it’s nosy and intrusive and often exhausting, it comes from a place of love. I remind myself of that all the time.

But Harun Emon thinks he’s too good for all this? Too good for me?

Even Amma must realize by now that this is a match made in hell.

Chapter4

When our table gets clearedat the end of dinner, I attempt to flee from the circle of hell that awful blind dates belong in, but Amma’s sturdy grip on my knee keeps me in my chair. A wily smile spreads across her lips as she surveys Harun, whose Adam’s apple bobs at the sheer intensity of her scrutiny.

“I wouldloveto take a photo,” she says. “You know, to commemorate the occasion.”

“What occasion?” I grumble, then yelp when she pinches me.

Harun’s eyes grow huge. Before he can answer, Pushpita Khala claps her hands. “Oh, what a marvelous idea! Zoey”—she snaps her ring-laden fingers until the hostess emerges and accepts her iPhone—“take a picture of us with the Khans, won’t you?”

Between our two mothers, the rest of us are soon herded in front of an intricate tapestry that hangs from an entire wall of the restaurant, portraying colorful deities out of Hindu epicsthat make zero sense in an establishment owned by Muslims—likely window dressing for any customers who ordered a side of orientalism with their dinners. Harun attempts to slink behind the drapery, but Pushpita Khala stays him with a hand.

“Why don’t you stand next to Zahra?” she asks innocently.

---