“Yes!”
And so we sing to the tune of “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” the song I taught her a few weeks ago: Red, yellow, green and blue, green and blue. Red, yellow, green and blue, green and blue. Purple, orange, brown and black. Red, yellow, green and blue, green and blue.
When we’re finished, Mati claps like he’s genuinely impressed. Janie curtseys.
She continues drawing, flowers and princess crowns and sunshines with googly eyes, humming our rainbow song while she works. Mati passes me the bag of animal cookies and I take a pink elephant, then go about picking sprinkles off to eat individually.
“That is … an odd way to eat a cookie,” he says.
“I know. I like to make them last.” And then, thanks to a random but perfectly timed recollection, I grin and say, “Khwazza.”
His eyes widen, and then he’s beaming. “Have you been studying?”
“Not really. I just happen to have an excellent teacher.”
“You are a flatterer.” He takes a frosted camel from the bag and bites its head off.
“And you’re vicious! You’re like the wolf from your story!”
He looks down at the half camel in his hand. “Oops?”
I laugh. “Put it out of its misery already.”
He tosses what’s left of the cookie into his mouth, watching as Janie draws her version of a cat—a circle with two triangular ears on top. She gives it long, long whiskers before looking up to seek our approval.
“Well done,” Mati says as I flash her a thumbs-up.
I bend my legs in close and wrap my arms around them. I rest my cheek on my knees so I can look more comfortably at my babysitting buddy. “Is Mati your full name?”
He shakes his head. “It’s Matihullah. I was named after an old friend of my baba’s. My sister was Janie’s age when I was born and she couldn’t pronounce it, so my parents shortened it to Mati.”
“Matihullah.” It sounds so serious. “I like it, though I think Mati suits you better.”
He bumps my knee with his. Pings of electricity dance across my skin. “I think so, too.”
We’re motionless, watching each other, breathing in tandem.
Enchanted … That’s the only word that comes close to encompassing how I feel—how he makes me feel.
His gaze slips to my mouth. He licks his lower lip, absently I think, but God, I’d trade my Nikon to know what’s going on in his head. Because kiss me, kiss me, kiss me is bouncing around in mine and even though I know he won’t—can’t, damn it—I want him to think about it as compulsively, as fanatically, as I do. He’d be a good kisser, I’m certain. He’s aware and deliberate by nature, but gentle and thoughtful and passionate, too. Plus, those lips … He’d be a prodigy—a virtuoso of the kiss.
Janie appears in front of us suddenly, like she teleported across the yard. She’s covered in chalk dust and frosting. “Auntie, I’m tired.”
The spell is broken.
elise
I help Janie through a bath, brush the sugar from her tiny teeth, then lie down beside her on her twin bed. I read from a book of fairy tales, whimsical stories about princesses who meet their princes and fall in love without challenge or consequence—sort of. I mean, sometimes the infatuated couples have to outsmart an angry witch or battle a fire-breathing dragon, but there’s always, always, always a happily ever after.
Must be nice.
When Janie’s eyelids grow heavy and her thumb finds its way into her mouth, I tuck her beneath her garden fairy sheets and kiss her fine hair. I flip off the overhead light in favor of the golden glow of the night-light, then wind the music box that sits atop her bookshelf. “Once Upon a Dream” … Nick had it shipped to Audrey the day she told him they were expecting a baby girl, a phone call that spanned North Carolina to Afghanistan, and was, as Aud tells it, spilling over with joy.
As soon as the soft tinkle of music begins, Janie snuggles into her covers and closes her eyes, like the song chosen for her by her daddy brings a special sense of comfort. I stand over her bed for a moment that stretches into many, letting my gaze trace her chubby cheeks and her sloped nose and her lips, heart-shaped, like mine and my mom’s and my brother’s.
He’d be so head-over-heels in love with his little girl. He’d be the best dad, too, and with very little example to speak of.
When I return to the living room, Mati’s tucked into a corner of the sofa, paging through the latest issue of US Weekly. He drops it onto the table when he notices me, guiltily, like I caught him doing something wrong.
“You’re welcome to read Aud’s celebrity gossip magazines if you like,” I tell him, lingering in the doorway.
“Celebrity gossip means nothing to me,” he says in that windswept voice of his.
I cross the room and sit down beside him, though not too close. Despite the energy that crackles between us, I have no idea what he wants, what he’s ready for, how far he’s willing to go. What’s happening between us, this tentative, complicated thing, is bursting with heat, but it’s also being steered by his beliefs. Still, he came to a basically empty cottage to spend time with me. That’s got to mean something.
“Sorry I was gone so long,” I say, slipping off my shoes and tucking my feet under. “Janie’s bedtime routine is intense.”
“Your niece is cute,” Mati says. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees like he’s not sure how to manage his long limbs within the confined space of the sofa. He graces me with a smile, slight, uncertain but sincere. “And you’re a good auntie. She adores you.”
“Sometimes I feel bad for her, being surrounded by women all the time—not that women aren’t an awesome influence or anything. I just … I wish my brother were here to teach her how to roughhouse and shoot a BB gun and burp the alphabet—things he taught me. Temper the flow of estrogen, you know?”
Mati’s brows hitch, and heat scales my neck—I doubt anyone’s ever chatted him up about female sex hormones. I clear my throat in an attempt to dislodge my foot from its depths, but his smile expands and he says, with exaggerated awe, “You know how to burp the alphabet?”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan. “Careful, or I’ll demonstrate.”
“You teach Janie all kinds of things. That song about the colors? She wouldn’t know it without you.”
I shrug. “All kids learn the colors. They’re a preschool staple.”
“But not all kids know badass songs about the colors.” His eyes spark with joviality—he’s clearly proud of his slang-y curse.
“Very good,” I say. “You keep teaching me beautiful Pashto words, and I’ll make a gutter mouth of you.”
“Maybe you can teach me a song about rude words.”
I laugh. “There’re more important things I should teach you first.”
He pivots, bringing a leg up so he can face me squarely. His knee rests against my thigh, barely, but the contact feels illicit and exciting, like the zap of a live wire. My pulse kicks into high gear as my gaze rises to his, heated but somber.
We’re not teasing anymore.
His voice is a breeze in the otherwise silent room. “What can you teach me, Elise?”
I let go of a shuddery breath. “What do you want to know, Mati?”
He reaches for me, slowly, cautiously. His hand, warm, roughened with callouses, lands on my arm. I look down to find that his complexion is tawny and mine’s like cream, and something about the contrast speaks to me, whispers, This is right.