I spend the early months of winter hanging out with Bambi, meeting up with Xavier for milkshakes, and baking cookies with Janie. Ryan comes to visit at Christmastime, bunking at his gram’s, so I get to spend tons of time with him. Mati and I continue to email daily—hourly, sometimes. I send him snapshots of our beach, our park, any dandelion I happen upon. He sends me poems about nothing, and poems about everything.
In January, after a painting class I attend on my own (because Audrey gave up brushes and acrylics weeks ago), I treat myself to a slice of pie at The Hamlet. I have a table to myself, only my thoughts for company, and it feels good, being alone but not lonely; it’s a sense of peace, a strengthening of character thanks to new people and new experiences.
I realize I like this girl I’ve become. I think my brother would, too.
It’s there at that table, halfway through my wedge of cherry pie, that I make myself a promise: I will continue to funnel energy into myself, but I will try to reestablish a relationship with my mom, too. It will have to be a new relationship—a different relationship—because while her opinions regarding Afghans and Muslims and Mati haven’t changed, I think it’s possible to love her despite her prejudices.
On a chilly Saturday morning in February, as I’m getting ready to drive to Sacramento to see Nick, she walks into my room. “I’d like to come along,” she says, voice quavering.
I turn away from my mirror to face her. She’s dressed in a pair of khakis and a cable-knit sweater, and she’s holding two travel mugs. “I’d like that,” I tell her. “Nicky would, too.”
She drives, slow and cautious. Halfway to the cemetery, she broaches the topic that’s been tabled since August: Mati. “You’re still in contact with him?”
“Every day.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Hopefully, I’ll see him again—we’re working on it.”
“It’s not good for you, pining for that boy.”
“I’m not pining for him—I’m carrying on. I’m staying busy. I’m making a life for myself. But I love him, and nothing you say will change that.”
“I wish you’d never met him,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
I pat her arm, sorry for her obstinacy, and sad about the good she misses because of it. But my sympathy only stretches so far, and my voice is ironclad when I tell her, “I’m so glad I did.”
This is what I’ve learned: While my mom might continue to dig her heels in regarding Mati, his culture, and his religion, I don’t have to stop modeling acceptance. I don’t have to stop believing that someday, she’ll come around.
In March, Xavier moves to San Antonio. He’s been stationed at Lackland Air Force Base, less than three hours from Texas A&M. I’m bummed to see him go but thrilled for him and Ryan. I use my surplus of free time to do more reading on Islam. I learn about its doctrine and its customs. I come to appreciate its history and its values.
In April, I find out that I’ve been accepted into the San Francisco Art Institute. Mom cries, and I do, too. I’m happy—so, so happy—but I’m going to miss Cypress Beach. I start to spend more time on the sand, more time on the quiet sidewalks, more time in the overpriced boutiques. I soak it up, this town I thought I’d hate.
In June, I graduate from Cypress Valley High. I ask my manager at The Hamlet to up my hours. I squirrel away every cent I earn. Living in San Francisco is costly, and even though my mom has agreed to help me with rent (I found a furnished studio apartment in a safe neighborhood, close to campus), there will be plenty of other expenses.
In August, I begin to pack my things. I spend every spare minute with Bambi, because she has to stay in Cypress Beach while I’m away at school. I hope she’ll keep my mom in check.
A week before the semester is to begin, I walk my dog next door, where Iris will keep watch over her while my family and I head for San Francisco. Then I climb into the loaded-down BMW with Mom, Audrey, and Janie, and we drive north to the city.
They help me unpack. Audrey paints the wall next to my bed the same blue-green she picked for my room back home. I hang some of my photographs and paintings, sporadic, like a little gallery. My mom stocks my cabinets with cereal and bread and cans of tuna, new dishes, a toaster, and a rice cooker. Janie draws a picture of the four Parker girls on a stray sheet of packing paper, then tapes it to the fridge.
When they leave, a piece of my heart trails behind them.
At the same time, though, finally, I am free. Free to make choices that are right for me, to love the soul handpicked for mine.
Two days later, I hail a cab for a ride to the San Francisco International Airport.
Mati has been granted a student visa and accepted at San Francisco State.
I am joyful.
Like me, he’s renting a studio apartment. I checked it out for him yesterday; it’s only a few blocks from where I’m living. It’s full of light and there’s a built-in writing desk next to a big bay window. It’s perfect.
I arrive at the airport early and loiter near the baggage carousels. The place is full of people: families returning from tropical vacations, smartly dressed men and women traveling for business, plus lots of greeters, like me. I long to pace the floor, but it’s too crowded and I’m reluctant to appear as eager as I feel. I snag a miraculously empty chair and people-watch, fidgeting, until …
Oh God.
Until I see him walking toward me, long and lean and beautiful. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and there’s a sweatshirt draped across his arm. He’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair is shorter than it was the last time we video chatted, like he’s recently had it trimmed.
His eyes are the same—bright, blazing.
They settle on me, and his face opens in a grin, and before I register moving, I’m out of my seat, running toward him. I leap into his arms, wrap myself around him, bury my face in his neck. We’re a spectacle. He’s laughing and I’m laughing and finally, finally, I pull myself together enough to call up the sentiment I’ve written at the end of every email, every letter I’ve sent him over the last year.
Only now, I get to use it while holding his hands, while losing myself to his wildfire gaze.
“Za ta sara meena kwam.”
He grins, misty-eyed, and kisses me.
Minutes, hours, days pass. I’d forgotten this—how his kisses feel, and how they make me feel. When it’s over, I’m warm, malleable, practically purring. He grins, knowing, and weaves his fingers through mine. Hand in hand, we walk to the baggage carousel, where we’ll wait for his luggage.
“So,” he says, pulling me into his chest, touching my hair, my cheeks, my neck, his eyes skimming my face like centuries have passed and all he cares to do is relearn my features. “This is San Francisco.”
I smile up at him. “This is San Francisco. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“No more waiting,” he says. “No more distance. Never again.”
This time I kiss him, and it’s the best kiss, because I’m certain now.
A million more will follow.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am so fortunate to be part of the Swoon Reads family, where I feel at all times supported and celebrated. Jean Feiwel and Lauren Scobell, thank you for cultivating this incredible community. Kat Brzozowski, working with you has been a dream. Your insight, wisdom, and warmth have taught me so much. Because of you, The Impossibility of Us is a book I am truly proud of.
Kelsey Marrujo, thank you for rocking all things publicity. Emily Settle, thank you for your helpfulness and eternal patience. Ashley Woodfolk, thank you for championing this book, and for your brilliant title suggestion—it’s so much better than mine was! Lauren Forte, thank you for lending your copyediting expertise to this story. Liz Dresner and Becca Syracuse, thank you for the beautiful, beautiful cover; I still can’t stop staring at it! And to the authors known affectionately as the Swoon Squad, um … wow. What an amazing group of people to walk this road with.