Page 92 of The Love Match

“Wh-what?” I manage to whisper, eyes darting between his radiant face and the congregation watching our every move. The lights are too bright for me to find my family or Harun. I sweat beneath them, my throat parched, hyperaware of the cameras broadcasting every second far beyond the city. “What are you doing back? You left! You—”

Lied to me.

Asked me to run away.

Left the scattered pieces of your life for me to clean up.

“Made a terrible mistake,” he replies plaintively. “I needed that time away because I didn’t know if I could be the manyou needed me to be. I returned to Bangladesh to confront my parents. Told them about you and how you make me a better person. Told them everything.”

“Of course,” chimes Nasrin, sweeping over to stand beside us with a magnanimous smile, “I told my son, tumar dil eh dakher. Follow your heart. How could I deny my child a fairy-tale romance when I had one of my own?”

The audience crows in approval, but Nayim’s hopeful smile is only for me. “When I kept getting signs that we should be together, I knew I had to return to Paterson, so I could ask you…”

“Ask me?” I repeat numbly.

The crowd clamors again, as if they know exactly what’s coming.

“Zahra, I can’t lose you again,” he confesses. “Will you marry me?”

I stare down at his gorgeous face. Even with perspiration beading his brow and his hair mussed up from the pagri, Nayim looks every bit a prince straight out of a natok or a novel or one of Nanu’s bedtime stories. Out of all the things I’ve always loved.

Because he is.

He’s an honest-to-God, literal prince—the son of one of the wealthiest men in Bangladesh—and he’s here to win me back.

In front of everyone.

My heart clenches. My lips part, but I can’t speak.

The crowd is chanting, “Say yes!” “Hurry!” “Oi kho!” “Zolji!” in English and Bengali.

I want my mom. I want Harun. My friends. I want someone to talk this through with me, because I have no idea how to process what’s going on, and I somehow feel more alone than ever, despite the dozens of musicians and dancers around me.

Does my head bob of its own volition? Because the next thing I know, he flings his arms around me and the audience is chanting our names, clapping, cheering.

I reach up, but suddenly I have no clue what to do with my own arms—whether to pull Nayim closer or push him away—so I just stand there, too stupefied to move, closing my eyes in an effort to escape the dizzying lights. The music swells in a jubilant chorus, and I can hear movement all around me.

When I open my eyes again, I see that dancers are twirling all around us once more and someone has spirited my family onto the stage. Arif is gaping at us. Resna, in his arms, glances around every which way, the apples of her cheeks flushed feverishly as the actors swarm around them both to invite them to dance.

Nanu is hugging her notepad to her chest, peering through dewy eyes at Nasrin, who puts an arm around her shoulder.

And Amma…

No surprise graces her face at this unpredictable turn of events. She stands with her hands linked together in front of her chest, beaming at me and Nayim, seemingly unawareof the growing crowd of well-wishers who flock to the stage to congratulate her on a job well done.

“Khubi bhalo kham khorso!”

A job.

As if an engagement is some sort of promotion or a business arrangement. The fact that the performance was only a ruse for Nayim’s proposal doesn’t bother her or anyone else.

Sometime during the flurry, Nayim slips a ring from his finger onto mine. Cameras flash as news crews and random people snap pictures and record. The whole time, I stand there unable to speak, unable to move, like some sort of doe-eyed doll. Not even the clamor of our entire city’s congratulations can quell the deafening roar growing in my ears.

There’s only one face in the crowd I seek, and yet it’s nowhere in sight.

I feel numb. Shell-shocked.

Everyone in the town is here. Everyone approaches the stage and offers their congratulations.

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