I feel like I could cry.
Two weeks after we met,
she asks me to visit Sacramento with her.
“To see Nick,” she says, watching the waves.
“I think you two should meet.”
You have escaped the cage. Your wings are stretched out. Now fly.
—Rumi
elise
I haven’t visited my brother since we moved.
Sacramento Valley National Cemetery is an hour-and-a-half drive from San Francisco; from Cypress Beach, it’s double that. I miss its pristine lawns and curved white headstones. I miss the half-mast flag, the symmetry, the absolute silence. I miss my brother, and six hours round-trip is no excuse for staying away.
My mom hasn’t been to the cemetery since Nick was buried—“It’s too hard,” she claims—but she agrees to let me use her car, a ten-year-old BMW that rarely leaves the garage because neither of us ever goes anywhere that’s not within walking distance.
I throw a baby-doll dress, gifted to me by Audrey, over a pair of leggings and pull my hair into a high ponytail. Then I pack my camera and lenses, plus a couple of apples, several bottles of water, and a box of crackers, wave goodbye to my mom and my dog, and lock myself inside the BMW. Sitting in the driveway, I text Mati to let him know I’m on my way.
Mom has no idea I’ll have company for this trip.
I cruise to the address he’s given me, a cottage that, while on the opposite side of town, is similar to the one we rent—sloped roof, whimsical stone facade, paned windows. The only notable difference is the garden; Mati’s front yard is bursting with flowers so bold and colorful, they rival Iris’s.
He’s waiting on the curb in jeans and a light jacket. There’s a slouchy knit hat on his head, charcoal and trendy and sort of ridiculous, but he’s rocking it. For someone so soft-spoken and humble, he exudes confidence like a high-wattage bulb radiates light.
When I pull to a stop in front of him, he hops up. “Good service,” he says when he gets into the car. “How are you, Elise?”
I watch as he moves the seat back to accommodate his endless legs. If we were different—different people with different histories in a different world—I’d lean over and kiss his cheek.
“Better now,” I say instead. “I like your hat.”
We leave the quaint streets of Cypress Beach and cut east to pick up I-5. From there, the drive’s easy. As soon as we’ve put the coast to our backs, the fog dissipates and the temperature climbs. Mati sheds his jacket, draping it neatly over the back of his seat, in favor of the white T-shirt he wears beneath. That’s it—jeans and a white T-shirt and that slouchy hat—but oh God, I have to constantly redirect my attention to the freeway because he looks dreamy. His arms are long and sinewy, a beautiful baked color, and his shirt is fitted in this incredibly appealing way that keeps tossing my mind into the gutteriest of gutters.
I wonder if he notices me as often as I notice him.
I wonder if he finds me as enticing as I find him.
In an effort to keep my eyes on the road and my hands to myself, I pull out the apples I packed. I pass one to him, and we eat like we’re ravenous (for food, not each other, obviously). When we’re done, we toss the cores out our windows, into the scorched air.
“I’m glad you’re coming with me today,” I say for lack of anything savvier.
He glances back at my camera bag, nestled safely on the floor behind my seat. “I’m looking forward to seeing you work.”
“Your parents are cool with you missing prayers? Hanging out with a girl?”
“Oh, totally cool,” he says, and then he grins, waiting for me to acknowledge his use of slang, I think.
“Nice,” I tell him. “Now we’ve just got to get you cursing.”
He laughs. “To be honest, I only told my baba where I’m going and who I’m with.”
“Your mother wouldn’t be totally cool?”
He considers. “You and me out all day, alone … She would object.”
“Why?”
“Because she follows Islamic values closely. She is also a proud Pashtun, and she wants me to settle with a Pashtun girl, a match that would benefit our family and our tribe.”
“Your father—your baba—doesn’t want that for you?”
“He does, eventually. His stance is less fixed. He understands that there are…” He clears his throat, turning to look out his window at the speed-smeared landscape as he mumbles, “Urges.”
“So, wait—you’ve never been alone with a girl?” This, to me, is unimaginable. But then, I was raised in San Francisco, where dating and sexual experimentation have long been part of coming of age. I spent my formative years living with a mother who writes what is essentially historical smut, who barely batted an eye when my brother and his girlfriend hung out behind his closed bedroom door, so long as they made good choices.
Mati’s grinning an arrogant grin; it looks good on him. “I’ve been alone with you,” he points out. “But otherwise, no. Dating is not something I need to do—it’s not necessary.”
“So you’ve never…?” Had sex? Rounded second base? Kissed a girl?
Oh my God—how is this only now occurring to me?
“The Quran says Muslims must guard their modesty. I’ve guarded mine.”
This is troublesome—like, very troublesome. I’ve guarded my modesty, too, though it hangs by a precarious thread, its former weave diligently unraveled by Kurt, my last quasi-boyfriend. Mati’s friendship is a banana split on a hot day—perfection—but the realization that romance is off the table sends my heart into the most terrible nosedive. Even considering his impending departure, the tentative circling we’ve done over the last couple of weeks was all sorts of thrilling, before, when making good on our flirtation was a possibility. To know that we can’t—I can’t kiss him or hug him or hold his hand; he’ll never make a move on me—is a crushing disappointment.
“So there’s no such thing as a casual Muslim?” I ask.
“Is there such a thing as a casual Christian?”
“Uh, yeah. You’re looking at one.”
He laughs, adjusting his hat.
“Seriously,” I go on, in case he thinks I’m kidding. “I go to church with my mom on Christmas Eve, and that’s it. When I was little, she read me stories from the Bible, but more for their moral lessons than their religious implications. I pray, but mostly just when I want something. I believe in a higher power, but I don’t picture the traditional white-bearded God sitting among clouds, dictating our fates, moving us around like pawns. And I doubted Him—hated Him—when He took my brother away.”
“That’s understandable,” Mati says charitably. His elbow comes to rest on the console that separates us, but when it brushes mine, he pulls back. Shifting in his seat, he creates a chasm between us.
I fill it with a question: “What you said about guarding your modesty … What if you don’t?”
“Well, if there was proof of an indiscretion, that would be a punishable offense. More than that, though, I would have to live with myself knowing that I willfully defied Allah.”
“But you’re human. You can’t be expected to be perfect.”
“No, of course not. Muslims are not immune to sin—I’m not immune to sin. But I do my best to honor Allah. There’s an Islamic concept, niyyah, which has to do with the intention in a person’s heart. It reminds us to pray with purpose, to act with forethought. To conduct ourselves with Allah in mind. It’s not always easy, but I try.”
“That’s because you’re a good person.”
He shrugs. “Thanks to the way I was raised—my family and my faith.”
“And because the laws in Afghanistan are strict?”