HIS NAME WAS HAMEED. SINCE HE WAS NO LONGER MINE, I COULD say it without blushing. In a way, I was glad I’d never spoken his name. To me, it was nothing but a hollow string of sounds. Nor did his face affect me. I had no memory of his eyes and had never seen his hands. In so many ways, Hameed was a stranger to me.
The scent of the orchard, the sound of his voice, his approaching footsteps—those were the triggers for both my heartache and my rage.
I would never be so blind again.
The newly engaged couple spent time together, walking through the neighborhood in full view of others with their shy smiles and quiet conversations. Najiba blushed when she returned home. I knew why. I could have told her about our private conversations and the empty promises her fiancé had made to me, but I bit my tongue. It was the noble thing to do, I told myself.
For weeks, I watched the couple come and go. KokoGul beamed and busied herself with the wedding arrangements. There were many busy afternoons spent with Bibi Shireen. They were just as taken with each other as the new bride and groom were. I kept my feelings to myself after that day. KokoGul excused my behavior after the shirnee, uninterested in exploring the matter further. She said nothing to my father about the dress I’d shredded.
I ran into Hameed in the courtyard once. He was waiting for Najiba, who’d run into the house to get a scarf. It was fall and the chill of the night air carried into the early morning. The house door slammed behind me. Hameed turned, his boyish smile evaporating at the sight of me. I could see the tension in his legs and arms. Every fiber of his body wanted to escape, our courtyard suddenly feeling like a small cage. He might as well have been inches from my face.
He muttered a faint greeting and turned to the side, his hands disappearing deep into his pockets.
I hesitated, wanting to retreat with the basket of wet clothes and return to the house, but the look on his face gave me strength. His eyes looked away in shame and his shoulders were pulled together, as if he were trying to fold himself in half.
“Salaam,” I said loudly and clearly. My voice surprised me. Hameed winced.
I walked past him slowly, aware of each breath and counting the steps between us. I made my way to the side of the house, still visible to him, where I began to hang the damp laundry from a clothesline. I snapped the moisture from each piece before draping it over the rope. It would be hours before anything would dry in the brisk air.
I could see Hameed fidget from the corner of my eye.
I wanted to hate him.
“Fereiba . . .” His voice was nothing more than a whisper.
My back was turned to him. I closed my eyes. Two drops of water fell from my father’s damp shirt and landed on my toes.
“These things are family matters. Nothing was ever really in my hands.”
I listened.
“And now I just want you to be happy. For the sake of the families, let’s put it behind us.”
His tone was dismissive. My shame boiled into indignation.
“Put what behind us?” I snapped.
“Do you really want to be this way? You know I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”
“I don’t know anything about you. Najiba knows even less.”
He huffed in frustration. I turned around and met his narrowed eyes.
“You know if you say anything, it would look very bad for you,” he seethed.
“If I say anything? Is that what worries you? I have no interest in spoiling my sister’s life,” I said, though it was a half-truth. “I pity her for winding up with a boy who pretends to hang his heart from a tree.”
“You’ve no idea what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?”
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and took two steps toward me.