Page 37 of Writing Mr. Right

Mercifully, Ammi and Abbu keep their conversation appropriate, though I have to step in a few times when Ammi gets too close to revealing childhood secrets I’d rather keep buried. They mainly talk to our family friends anyway, who are just a couple of aunties and uncles.

After lunch, everyone shifts to the living room. Considering the last time Aashiq was in the living room, he offended multiple family members, I offer to give him a tour of the house instead. Except the size of the house means our tour only lasts five minutes.

We end up at my childhood bedroom. I open the door, swinging it open to let him go first. “And this is where the magic used to happen,” I declare, a flair of dramatics airing around my words.

My parents have kept this room mostly the same. My single bed is still pressed against the wall, and my dresser sits across from it. You can still see the faint outlines of where all my posters used to be plastered to the walls; Abbu never got around to repainting. My desk is still here, too, but instead of my old PC, Ammi’s sewing machine rests on top of it. After I moved out, she converted this room into her sewing room. She mostly does alterations, but sometimes she’ll make things to sell. My parents must’ve left the bed and the dresser in here in case they have overnight company.

Aashiq chuckles and ducks inside. I literally mean duck; he has to lower his head to keep it from hitting the ceiling. I guess I never noticed how low the ceiling is. Either I’m shorter than I thought, or Aashiq is taller than I thought. It’s possible it’s both.

His gaze sweeps across the room, eyes drinking everything in, and even though I don’t live here anymore, the urge to coverup the walls hits me like a freight train. Letting someone see your childhood bedroom is a strange kind of intimacy. I like to think the person who slept in this room isn’t the same person who stands in it now, but I don’t know. The girl who lived here wasn’t popular. She didn’t have many friends. She had a lot of weird quirks. Her preferred Friday night was staying in and reading the next book of the YA fantasy series she’d been bingeing instead of going with her peers to parties. And then because of that, when her high school friends grew up, she lost touch with them. She was so sheltered, and she had no idea what living in the real world was like. If I think very hard about it, it feels eerily like I haven’t grown up at all. Like one day, I started shopping in the adult section, but my mind is still in the junior department.

Discomfort wedges its way into my chest. I link my fingers, holding my breath as Aashiq pokes around and does one final complete turn about the room before finally collapsing on top of the bed. “That lunch was intense,” he states.

I chuckle, then move to sit next to him. “I thought you loved hanging around people.”

“Normally I do,” he explains. “But for some reason, I felt uncomfortable. Sitting in that chair with everyone surrounding me, it felt like I was being interrogated.”

“You kind ofwere,” I say. “They all think you’re my boyfriend, remember?”

“Oh, right.” He nods. “Is that how they treated your brother-in-law?”

“Hmm, I’d say so.” I brace my hands on either side of me and lean back. “Tasneem Baji was the first person in our family to get married, so our parents had high expectations of her partner. But between his work and how well he treats my sister, they had nothing to worry about.”

“Your sister is quite…”

“Egotistical? Haughty? Full of herself?”

“I was going to choose a much nicer word.”

“Of course you were.” I pat his leg. “It’s okay, I’m used to it. I know she seems like a lot, but we’ve just never been close. She likes to think she’s much more sophisticated than the rest of us. But that’s not anyone’s fault.”

“That doesn’t give her—or your sister-in-law—the right to try to undermine your life,” he reasons. “Your life path is your life path. You can do whatever you want with your degree. Just because you don’t want to be a lawyer doesn’t take away from all the work you did in university.”

My breathing stutters, and my gaze drops to my fingernails. “Actually…” I swallow thickly. “Idowant to be a lawyer.”

Aashiq doesn’t say anything, no matter how long I stare at my hands. Finally, I drag my eyes to his, and judging by the patience on his face, he’s not going to say anything until I elaborate. “It’s just… I didn’t want to when I was initially studying, you know? But once I started working at the firm, I decided maybe itwassomething I wanted to do, but I didn’t want to deal with the I told you so’s from people in my life when I refused to go to law school right after university, and now I’m worried it’s too late. I also don’t have the funds to do it myself, so I’m hoping Colin might sponsor my JD.” My shoulders droop. “I guess I let what other people think override what I want for myself.”

“You know, despite the vibes I’m getting from your mom, thirty is still young,” Aashiq points out. “And you’re blessed to have so many opportunities to choose from. It sounds like the only person getting in your way is you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, but I don’t offer a counter remark to his words. I can’t, because what he said is true, but I don’t feel like diving into an existential despair when I still have to go back downstairs and be among people for a while longer. “So,” I start instead, “what do you think of the party? Is it everything you hoped for?”

“I mean, other than the fact I accidentally insulted your sister,”he begins, “I’m having a good time.” He tilts his head to the side. “It’s also reminding me of why I envy you.”

I furrow my brows. “Envy? Why?”

“Well, because I’m a part of you I don’t have a family of my own,” he answers, but his tone is unsentimental. Usually when people say that stuff, melancholy underlies their words. But for Aashiq, it’s just a fact. “I never thought of it as something bad, because I’ve never had any reason to think that. But when your mother asked me about my family and I had to tell her I don’t have one, I saw the pain on her face. I thought for the first time maybe itissomething to be upset about.” He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, I’ve watched other families from inside your head. I see what they have, and it reminds me I don’t have that. I don’t have anyone, and maybe that’s sadder than I thought it was.

“I also don’t have a career of my own,” he explains. “Yes, I show up to your work and watch you do things and help you out when you let me. But sometimes it makes me wonder whatIcould be doing. Could I be a doctor? A museum curator? A custodian at a school?” He tilts his head. “I never used to think like this when I was in your mind. I neverhadto think about it. In there, I waited around until you needed me, and then I helped you with your work. And then I went back to…being in a strange limbo. And after being here, I realize that even though I love helping you, waiting around wasn’t very fun. Maybe I’m made for more.”

Guilt sits heavily in my gut. “I’m sorry.”

He quirks a brow. “What for? It’s nothing you can control.”

“I know, but…” My gaze drops down to his hand, so I reach over and take it. “From now on, don’t say you don’t have anyone. You have me. And as for the career thing…” I suck in a deeper breath. I know I’m going to regret this, but… “I’ll let you handle more responsibilities at the firm. Even if being a legal secretary isn’t what you want to be, at least you’ll be getting some kind of fulfillment.”

Aashiq stares at our interlocked fingers, then drags his eyes to meet mine. He squeezes my hand. “Thanks, Ziya. I appreciate it.”

We sit in silence for a bit, then I finally draw a breath. “I guess we should get back to the party before Ammi comes searching for us.”

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