“Her anger is misguided. Maybe you’re too understanding.”
He touches the tail of my braid where it’s fallen over my shoulder, rubbing the strands of my hair between his fingers. He must be preoccupied by his thoughts because when he catches himself, he snatches his hand away, glaring at it like it’s got a mind of its own. His expression pulls taut and he moves to shove his fists into his sweatshirt pockets—his “I’m uncomfortable” tell—but he’s not wearing his sweatshirt anymore and, oh, if I could just take his hand and tangle it with mine, all the tension and strain and yearning of this moment would disappear.
Or not. Maybe it’d be worse, like on the way home from Sacramento, when he held my hand for hours, literally. Every second I spent with my palm enveloped in his was incredible, but I was left feeling … not content. I dropped him off wanting more, more, more.
Kind of like right now.
I slip my hands into the pockets of the borrowed sweatshirt, mostly to keep from reaching for him. As his face relaxes, like there’s relief in watching me perform his action, my fingers close over a firm rectangle—his notebook.
I trace its cardboard cover within the depths of the pocket, its feathered-paper edges, its coiled spine. I pull it out and let it rest on my palm, but I don’t open it. It’s too personal. His lockbox of secrets and wishes and dreams.
He regards it warily, as if it’s sprouted sharp teeth and a pointed-dagger tail.
I let my gaze travel from where it sits on my palm, to his face. “Do you write in Pashto?”
“English, since I’ve been in America.”
“What would you say if I asked to read something?”
One corner of his mouth quirks up, fashioning an adorably askew smile. “I would say, ‘You are a very curious person.’”
This, for some reason, makes me laugh. “I like when you joke.”
“I like when you make me feel light enough for jokes.”
I hold his gaze and tell him what he must already know: “I like you.”
He blinks, languid, thick lashes brushing high cheekbones. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re a flurry of conflict. “Elise … all this … us. It’s very complicated. You understand, don’t you?”
“I do.” I understand that his response isn’t a rebuff, or a denial of his feelings. It’s the opposite. He likes me, too; that’s why it’s complicated.
He glances at his notebook, still balanced on my hand, then looks at me. I see trust in his eyes, trust and affirmation and affection, and my skin prickles with heat.
He says, “You can read something, if you really want to.”
“I really want to.”
He takes the notebook and thumbs through it, his face drawn in circumspection. He flips past some pages quickly, wearing an expression like, Oh, hell no, and considers others more carefully. I’m wondering at the criteria he’s using for this prudent selection process when, finally, he opens the notebook’s pages wide and looks up at me.
“This one was for fun,” he says, smiling reluctantly. “I was just … playing around.”
He holds the notebook out to me.
MATI
Twinkle, twinkle shiny star,
set ablaze the sky so far.
In his world she lights a spark, illuminating swathes of dark.
Her eyes, her smile, glowing bright, twinkle, twinkle, up all night.
Waves and gulls, at the beach, words to teach and walls to breech.
In her he has found a friend, links to mend, bonds transcend.
Walking, wandering, toes in sand, how he longs to take her hand.
Dandelions, foggy skies,
sights now seen through wondrous eyes.
Glinting in a night of black, thanks to her he can’t look back.
Take a breath, away they’ll fly, up above the world so high.
Twinkle, twinkle shiny star, she has marked him like a scar.
I was dead, then alive. Weeping, then laughing.
—Rumi
elise
The day after my lunch at Mati’s cottage (the day after he let me read about stars and scars and wondrous eyes, the day after I nearly swooned in the middle of a busted-up cemetery), I’m cruising out the gate with Bambi and her trusty tennis ball when Ryan intercepts me.
“You’re headed to the beach, aren’t you?” he says over the hedge.
“Yep.”
“Perfect, because Xavier and I are about to meet up. If you’re going to hang out with Mati, we can double.”
I hesitate, wavering between my need to be a good friend, my wish to lay eyes on Xavier, and my selfish desire to keep Mati to myself.
“I take it your lunch with the parents went well,” Ryan says with a pointed raise of his brow. “It may not have, if it weren’t for me. Keep that in mind while you’re trying to come up with an excuse for ditching us.”
I crack a smile. “Oh, all right. You guys can tag along.”
“Cool. I’ll call Xavier and tell him to head for the beach.”
Bambi woofs, wagging her tail at the gate. I wave an arm. “Call while we walk.”
On the way, I text Mati to fill him in about Xavier, and by the time Ryan and I reach the beach, we find the two of them waiting near the top of the stairs. There’s a red Wrangler parked nearby, a US Air Force sticker adhered to its rear window. Ryan was right—Xavier is good-looking. He’s almost as tall as Mati, with a similar wiry build. His skin is brown, his eyes nearly black, and his smile is warm. He’d blend right in with the company of young soldiers who came to Sacramento for my brother’s burial. He greets Ryan with an affectionate shoulder bump, which makes me smile. It’s nice, seeing Ryan so happy.
I’m equally happy when Mati reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Good morning, Elise,” he says and, benign as they are, his words feel like a secret—a private exchange between the two of us.
Xavier’s brought a football, which strikes me as kind of funny. Ryan’s not exactly sporty, and though Nicky taught me the ins and outs of soccer, helmets and shoulder pads weren’t his thing. Somehow, I can’t see Mati throwing a football on the streets of Kabul.
But as soon as we hit the sand, he and Xavier are tossing the ball back and forth, the gap between them stretching wider and wider as they make their way down the beach. Ryan and I follow, taking turns throwing Bambi’s tennis ball into the surf. When we reach the end of the sand, we stop to watch her frolic, chasing seagulls like she was born to do it. Ryan asks about yesterday’s lunch, and Mati tells him how impressed his parents were with me, a half truth, I’m sure—I doubt Hala spent the evening singing my praises. Then I feel obligated to admit to Mati that Ryan schooled me on how not to make a fool of myself during a Muslim meal. He seems touched—that Ryan went to the trouble to tutor me, or that I bothered to learn, I’m not sure.
After our long walk back, Xavier and Mati persuade Ryan and me to play a game of catch. I’m terrible and Ryan’s not much better, but Mati surprises me with his athleticism. I mean, he’s tall and lean and his arms are corded with muscle, but football. It’s so … American.
We pass, and pass, and pass, and then, conversationally, Ryan says, “So Jordan called yesterday.”
Xavier’s spiral flies wide.
Mati retrieves the ball, brushing sand from its leather. “Jordan is your…?”
“Ex,” Ryan says. He glances at Xavier, then quickly away. “He’s having second thoughts about ending things.”
“Why?” Mati asks. He tosses the ball to me, and I make a lucky catch.
“He’s thinking the distance between our schools won’t be so bad after all.”
I throw a wobbly pass to Xavier, hoping to distract him from the awkward topic Ryan thrust upon us. He connects, but sloppily.
“How far apart will you be?” Mati asks.
“We’ll both be in Texas. Couple of hours’ drive.”
“Oh.” Mati sounds let down. I try to catch his eye, but Bambi’s barreling toward him, wet and sandy, and he has to dodge her before he’s bowled over.