"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
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I DON'T KNOW MUCH ARABIC. I know the basics.And I know how to curse out bitches like Buttercup. The last one felt very important to younger me, as I wanted to make sure that when Farrah Zahed and Daniel Fakhoury fell away into brisk Arabic conversations, they weren't blatantly trash-talking me to my face.
And I knew enough Spanish to know when Rafael Herrera was spewing cuss words back and forth, no filter.
Cursing was always a priority of mine, clearly.
Other than fuck you, I was never good with words though. Maybe that's why my father spoke to Aryan first. Because I must be glaring. I was good at glaring where I failed at talking.
Ivan once told me I could turn a man to stone with just my eyes. However, Ivan was poetic and pretentious and often said whatever pretty words it took for us to fuck. And it usually worked.
Pretty words and tightly-woven history always chipped away at me and today is no exception.
Aryan's hands are still on my waist but they fall away when I feel my grip on the Dija's to-go bag slacken. He moves quickly and intercepts them.
He's protecting the cookies, I tell myself and curl my hands into fists in the aftermath as he brushes away and drops the bag quietly onto the counter, nearing my father while I stay planted.
My mother's eyes flick over him then back to me but I can't look at her right now. Petra is scowling into her cup.
There's my mother's glittering, shiny dallah coffee pot that she'd gotten as a wedding gift to Petra. It glints gold on the kitchen island and I can't help but think about how she'd taken it and matching gold-trimmed ceramic cups out of the cupboards for him.
Aryan does me the favour of not turning to look at me and my expression, shrivelling apart where I stand and I can't help it, and I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for Aryan Shankar. The world has shifted off its fucking axis.
He says nothing to Daniel Fakhoury.
I can't look away from him. I can't even remember the last time I'd seen him in this house. My glare is so hot I feel like I could burn up with it.
And to think only moments before, I was willing to burn up with Aryan Shankar again. My heart is made up of wilted flower petals and I should know better than to risk it.
I should know better than to risk it for the starlight in his eyes.
When I was younger, and the flowers on the kitchen island were still whole and I could point out and name the constellations in the sky, we would sit on the same cushion on the couch, the tv screen lit up with Arabic soap operas that had my father roaring with laughter. I never knew what was going on sometimes, no subtitles, but I just liked to sit nearby and hear him laugh. He'd even translate the funny parts for me.
