Page 52 of Writing Mr. Right

Aashiq pokes up from behind the couch, and the way it makes him look like a floating head is pretty funny. “Why don’t you take Ziya?”

Emily brightens. “Hey, that’s a good idea!” She turns to me. “What do you think, Zee? I know this is a busy time of year for the firm, too. If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to.”

Before, I would have turned Emily’s offer down in a heartbeat.Going to a work party with people I don’t know, sucking up to even more people I don’t know, all for a job I don’t work at? Not exactly my idea of a good Friday night. Also, I’m a writer. What am I supposed to talk about with a bunch of medical staff and rich business types?

But now, I just close my notebook. “Of course I’ll come with you, Em. We’ll make it fun.”

I can see the relief coursing through her body. “Oh, thank you!” She dashes over and throws her arms around my shoulders as she crashes onto the couch. A laugh bursts from me as I hug her back, and Aashiq, not one to miss out on fun, joins in the hug. Except he’s still behind the couch, so he kind of flops half on top of us. I expect Emily to be annoyed, but she laughs and shakes her head at his antics. Her smile tightens a little as she turns her stare to him, though. “I only have one plus-one,” she says.

Aashiq waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll stay home.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. You two make it a girls’ night. I’m sure I can keep myself occupied for a few hours while you’re gone.”

Emily raises a brow. “You’re not going to blow up the house, are you?”

“Of course not.” Aashiq chuckles. Then he pauses. “Wait. Can a snowblower blow up a house?”

Emily and I exchange alarmed looks. I return my attention to Aashiq and pat his hand. “Maybe you should stick to knitting.”

* * *

Normally, I’d be worried about what to wear to a hospital gala, but Tasneem Baji very unexpectedly sent me a lovely dress in the mail recently. It was a week or so after my birthday party, and because she didn’t bring me a gift on the day of my actual party, I assumed it was her way of making amends for the stuff she said. None of us siblings are very good at expressing ourselves to each other, but if this is her way of extending a hand to me, then who am I to knock it away? I sent her a text thankingher, and she made me promise to send her a photo the first time I wore it.

It’s an olive green maxi dress. The collar is high, covering my throat, and the long sleeves are poofy at the wrists. The silk is so soft against my skin I feel like I could curl into a ball and take a nap with the dress on. I pair it with gold heels and dangly gold earrings with hanging pearls. For my hair, I do a regular blowout because snow is falling lightly outside, and I don’t want to put in a lot of effort just for the precipitation to ruin it.

I pause at the door, where Emily is slipping into her own heels. I peer at Aashiq on the couch, a coloring book balanced on his lap and the beginning ofJust Like Heavenon the TV across from him. I ordered a pizza for him earlier, and just as I was about to take a slice for myself, he dumped a dollop of chocolate syrup on top of it and suddenly it wasn’t appealing anymore. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay on your own?” I ask him.

“Definitely.” He turns his pizza slice sideways and takes a bite of the crust. He did that the first time we had pizza together, and I thought about correcting him at the time but decided it wasn’t worth it. It’s a weird way to eat pizza, sure, but it makes him happy. “You two have a good time,” he adds.

I nod, then spin on my heel so I can lean in close to Emily’s ear. “And you’re sure you’re okay with leaving him here alone?”

Emily turns around so she can check on Aashiq, the skirt of her silver dress swooshing as she does so. She stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. “As long as he doesn’t suddenly get access to a snowblower, I think we’ll be good.”

I decide not to bring up his unexplainable powers and instead hope he took me seriously when I told him earlier he can’t conjure anything up while we’re gone. I pull on my long black coat, Emily puts on her own white wool coat, and then we’re off. We decided against taking the subway in our formalwear, so we share an Uber to Midtown, where the event is being held at The Glasshouse.

When we get there, we take the elevator up to the event space. This is a wildly expensive area and building, and it seems kind of counterintuitive that in order to ask people for money, they have to spend buttloads of it.

I can’t deny the place is gorgeous, though. The suite is gigantic; at least three or four times bigger than my whole office space. Dangling lights with tiny bulbs that cluster together hang over our heads, their yellow glow a sharp contrast to the soft purple and magenta lights covering the crowds of people who already frequent the floor. A few Christmas trees are tucked in various corners of the room, bringing a holly jolly vibe to the event. I notice a petite woman in seven-inch heels and a short dress, who, impressively, does not seem coldorlike she’s about to fall over. A tall man carrying two glasses of champagne in his hands is trying desperately not to spill as he weaves through the crowd. Someone bumps into him, though, and I see the splash of champagne onto his hands. But he just grits his teeth and keeps going, because he has no choice. Two girls hover by the floor-to-ceiling window, far off to the side, peering down at the ground and whispering something to each other that I obviously can’t hear over the rest of the crowd or the music. I tuck all these details away, lovingly placing them in files that then go into drawers in my brain for future writing purposes.

Those girls are right to be obsessed with the window. It provides a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline. It may be cliché or corny, but it really is one of my favorite parts of living in this city. Yes, 90 percent of the time the street smells like pee. Yes, trash litters every single corner. And yes, sometimes I’m paranoid when I ride public transit. But there’s a liveliness to New York. A restless energy. Endless possibilities. People shouldn’t just be gettingthroughlife; they should enjoy it. Loveit. And if the buildings of bustling Manhattan are how I find beauty and joy in my life, then I’m fine romanticizing them.

We take off our coats and leave them at coat check, and once we’re in the throng, Emily shudders. “Are you cold?” I ask, eyeing her sleeveless halter dress.

“No, I’m fine,” she replies. “I just hate this.”

“What?”

“This.” She gestures to the crowded room. “The ass-kissery and excessive extravagance. Why do wealthy people need a party to be inspired to donate money to hospitals that save lives every single day?”

I take a quick glance around the room. “Maybe you shouldn’t voice your distaste for your potential donors in a place where they can hear what you’re saying.”

She huffs. “It’s just irritating. You’re lucky you work in a small office. I bet your holiday parties aren’t about sucking up and making rich people feel important.”

They’re not, but I doubt telling her that is going to make her feel better. I square my shoulders. “Well, we’re here now,” I say. “Let’s make the best of it and find something to do.”

My eyes scan the crowd again, and they land on an old white man talking to two young people, who appear to be about our age. Judging by how the pair eagerly leans toward the older man and the lazy, almost bored expression on the older man’s face, whatever they’re trying to convince him of, they’re failing. I strain my hearing, and I can make out snippets of conversation.

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