I lean forward and catch his mouth with mine. I’ll kiss the stunned look off his face. I’ll drill everything I just said through his thick skull. I’ll make him understand how profoundly he’s affected me, and how deeply I care.
When I pull away, he gives me a meek smile, his eyes swimming with trepidation.
“Hey,” I whisper, tugging his hat from his head so I can run my fingers through his hair. “No doubts, okay? Earlier, you talked about how good we are. Nothing’s changed, right?”
He blows out a leaden breath. It takes a second, but he shakes his head. “No. Nothing has changed.” He lifts his hat from where it sits on my lap and fits it over my head, ponytail and all. I’m certain it looks ridiculous but, finally, his mouth turns up in a smile.
“We’re okay?” I ask.
“I’m not sure we’ll ever be okay. Right now, I am two things. Khoshqháala.”
He waits, and I repeat: “Khoshqháala.”
“And ghamdzhan.”
“What do they mean?”
His expression is woeful, but his eyes burn flame-hot, the way they do, I’ve come to realize, when he’s thinking about kissing me. He tips his head, pressing his mouth to mine.
“Happy,” he whispers against my lips. He kisses me again, lingering. “And so, so sad.”
elise
At home, Mom and I maintain a careful cease-fire. We speak to each other when necessary, and with unnatural politeness. She returns my phone, finally, which is the same as reclaiming a limb. Over the weekend, I get another chance to babysit Janie, and Audrey treats me almost normally. I indulge in a milkshake date with Ryan, which, thankfully, is a more cheery meeting than our last conversation in the yard.
Mostly, life feels okay, except for the fact that Mati and I are forced to keep our relationship secret. He still meets me at the beach in the mornings, but we’re vigilant now, checking the stretch of sand that used to feel like ours for anyone who might pose a threat. I glance over my shoulder before taking his outstretched hand, and he surveys the picnic area before kissing me goodbye. At night, we sneak off to the dark solitude of the park. When I can’t get away, I spend hours on the phone with him. It’s a comfort to fall asleep to the timbre of his voice, the melody of his brooding words.
A week before he’s due to return to Afghanistan, we spend a morning at the beach, trudging through the sand, watching my dog scuttle around up ahead without a care in the world. I’m envious. I feel wretched (seven days until he’s gone forever—seven days, seven days, seven days) and I can tell Mati’s mind is working overtime. He pauses to launch Bambi’s tennis ball, then watches it soar through the air with a faraway expression.
I touch his arm. “Are you okay?”
He shrugs and starts walking again.
I catch up. “Hey, talk to me.”
“I just—I feel…” He sighs, drawing a hand slowly over his face. He reappears, looking wrecked.
“I know,” I say, weaving my fingers through his. I know, and I don’t want to talk about it, acknowledge it, face it, either. I push up on my toes to press my cheek against his. “I know,” I say again, my heavy heart dragging my pitch low. “But right now, I want to be here with you—present, with you. I want to forget next week, saying goodbye, the future. Mati, help me forget?”
He leaves a trail of kisses on my cheek, a slow journey to my mouth, and then, for a few minutes, I really do forget. Because the beach is ours and he’s holding me close and it’s impossible to think of anything but the way he kisses … as if he cherishes me, as if he’s giving himself over to a longing that will never be satiated.
He pulls back, returning briefly to press his lips to my forehead, then starts walking again, with my hand folded into his. He seems lighter, and I am lighter. I lean into him, vowing to retain this feeling. To focus on it, the good, every time I start to feel down.
He sidesteps Bambi as she barrels past, sopping wet tennis ball clamped in her jaw. Conversationally, he says, “My baba mentioned you this morning.”
“Uh-oh.”
He laughs. “The opposite, actually. He really does like you.”
“Unlike your mother.”
“Mama doesn’t dislike you.”
I roll my eyes. I’m so tired of feeling like the truest part of my life is on display for others to judge, or hidden away so others won’t judge.
“I mean it,” he says. “The truth is, she has very little experience with your culture and because of that, in some ways, from her position, you’re … exotic.”
I snort—I can’t help myself. I couldn’t be less exotic—more ordinary—if I tried.
“Think about it,” Mati says. “Your life is so different from the life she led as a teenager. By the time she was your age, she was married and managing a household. She didn’t have the luxury of exploring the world, of considering colleges, of choosing her husband.”
“Like that’s my fault?”
“It’s not. But it’s still a factor. And beyond that, I think she sees you as a threat. She’s laid out a narrow path for my sister and brother and me, and when she sees one of us stepping away, her instinct is to look for someone to blame. I’ve strayed. I’ve disobeyed Allah and defied the Quran—I’ve sinned—and she believes that’s because of you.”
“But that’s not fair!”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’re tangled up in all this, but I promise, the way she acts has more to do with my choices than with you personally.”
I fight the impulse to dig my heels in on this, because stubbornness due to hurt feelings is pointless, a complete waste of energy. As we walk, I let Mati’s words permeate, making a genuine effort to broaden my point of view. Hala and I lead different lives, but that’s not her fault or mine. She loves her son, obviously, and it makes sense that she’d resort to defensiveness when it looks like he might be veering away from his values—especially with a girl she doesn’t understand.
Hala deserves grace, even if she doesn’t always give it.
“I talked to her about what she saw at the hospital,” Mati says, squeezing my hand. “Baba spoke to her as well. She agreed to let it pass.”
“That’s generous, I guess.”
“So generous you’ll consider coming by this afternoon?”
I turn to gape at him. Grace or not, that’s a terrible idea. But then I think of my own mother, about compassion put into practice, and how she’s failing epically. I find myself swayed by Mati’s expression, awash in hope. “Oh God … I don’t know.”
“With Bambi. My baba wants to meet her. He asked specifically, and he’s feeling well enough to sit out in the yard with her.” He loops his arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his side. “Your visit would be good for him, and it would be good for me.”
“How’s that?”
He leans down to speak into my ear. “I spend my afternoons thinking about you. Wondering about you. Writing about you. Missing you. If you come over, you’ll spare me the suffering.”
I roll my eyes. “You know you’re too good at this, right? It’s unfair, really. There’s this saying, something like ‘he could sell ice to an Eskimo,’ and that’s totally you. You open your mouth and all these lovely, convincing words spill out, and suddenly I’m nodding, ready and willing to do anything you ask.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Anything?”
I laugh. “In this case, I was referring to bringing my dog to visit your baba. But yeah … pretty much anything.”
He stops, and I do, too. My breath catches as he presses his hand to my cheek, turning my face up. He’s melting me with that heated expression of his, eyes warm and wanting. We stand still, sharing a gaze, sharing a breath. Then he pulls me into him, and I exist in the happiest place I know, Mati’s arms, listening to the steady thrum-thrum-thrum of his heart.
“You’ll come?” he says into my windblown hair.
“Of course I’ll come.”
elise