Page 68 of Writing Mr. Right

“I can wish for you to stay!” I declare. I take out one of the candles.

“What?” he splutters as I jab it into the cupcake. “But it’s not your birthday. The candle only worked because of the power of your birthday.”

I shrug. “So, maybe I can make ityourbirthday.”

“I don’t have a birthday.”

“You do now.” I turn to the kitchen drawers, rifling around until I find matches. “You may be my muse, but I’m still the writer. These past couple of months, I feel like I’ve gained so much strength and faith in my writing abilities that I can decide whatever I want.” I take a second to peer at the clock on the stove, which confirms it’s only a minute until midnight. “AndI declare that in one minute, it’s your birthday. You can be the one who wishes to stay.” I strike one of the matches, then cup my hand over the flame so nothing will blow it out as the fire catches on the wick. Blue flickers just once in the flame, just like it did when I used a candle for myself. Once the candle is lit, I shake out the match and turn my expectant stare to Aashiq.

He just looks at me, one brow raised. His protests are on the tip of his tongue, not out of unkindness but to gently remind me of what we’ve already agreed to. But he won’t say it out loud, which I know because of the lingering flicker in his eye—hope.

I quickly check the stove again, and while it’s still 11:59, who knows how many seconds are left. “Listen,” I start, turning my head back to face Aashiq. “If this doesn’t work, then I’ll go back to my laptop, and typeTHE END. You’ll disappear, and that’ll be the end. But if itdoeswork…” I trail off because I don’t need to finish the sentence. We know what this could lead to.

All our wants. All our dreams.

His gaze turns to the candle. As he sucks in a breath, he suddenly lifts his head to me. “No matter what happens,” he says, “I’m so proud of you. And thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

I frown. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Yes, you have.” He touches the pad of his thumb to my chin. “You gave me the chance to love someone.”

My heart swells, but the warmth quickly dissipates in place of rising anxiety because we’re running out of time. Thankfully, Aashiq sucks in a breath and blows as the clock shifts to 12 a.m. The flame extinguishes, and little spirals of smoke swirl upward into the air.

We stare at the burnt candle for a moment before I nod. “Right. Time to see if it worked.” I march back over to the couch, sit down, and pull the laptop close to me again.

With steady fingers, I type.

THE END.

Three Years Later

The bookstore that hosts my book launch spares no detail. Cookies with tiny edible versions of my cover on top. A huge display of my book in the front window for everyone to see when they walk by. They set up a few rows of chairs right in front of the small area where I’ll sit and discuss the book with my conversation partner, a more established romance author named Zahra Butt. Though judging by the hordes of people who stand behind the already-filled chairs, the seating wasn’t enough to accommodate everyone. And best of all, there’s a giant boarded poster of my book cover, with its brown-skinned characters proudly on display. The Manahil on the cover holds a pen in her hand and cradles a stack of papers to her front. She stands back-to-back with Junaid, who stares over his shoulder at Manahil with an energetic smile. Manahil herself peeks at Junaid from the corner of her eyes, and it’s clear that whatever’s going to happen between them will be juicy. The title,My Lovely Muse, is bold on the bottom in white. And best of all, my name stretches across the top in the softest shade of pink.

In the back area of the bookstore, where I’m waiting for the official time of the event to begin, I sit on the couch, tapping my fingers in my lap. I was told to wait here by the store manager, Kyle, but then he left to check on something, so I’m alone. Nerves prickle my entire body, and my legs bounce in response to the restless energy. My gaze searches around the whole room before it lands on the table next to me, where a stack of my signed books sit. Giddiness spreads through my veins, and I pick up a copy.

My fingers run along my name.Ziya Khan.There was always a tiny, tiny part of me that wondered if I’d ever see this day. But by the grace of Allah, here I am.

This is for present-day me. And teenage me. And child me. But also for all the girls and women who look like me. Thiswhole time, I wasn’t the only person I was writing for. I was writing for them, too, and now we all get to celebrate.

“Ziya!” I hear, and I lift my head to see Emily poking her head through the doorway. She grins and steps all the way through, shutting the door behind her.

“Emily!” I scold, but a grin of my own stretches my cheeks as I stand. I put the copy of the book I was holding back on the table, then meet her halfway. “What are you doing back here? You could get in trouble with the employees.”

“Like they’ll kick me out. I’m the author’s best friend.” Emily wraps her arms around me, pulling me in. It’s a bit awkward on account of her medium-sized baby bump, but we make it work. “I just wanted to come and wish you luck! And congratulate you again.” She breaks the hug. “You look amazing, by the way!”

I peer down at my outfit. I chose a pleated black skirt with tights, and on top I wore a burgundy turtleneck. “Thanks,” I say. “It took me so long to figure out what I wanted to wear, but I decided it was best to go for simple chic.”

“Perfect choice.” She jostles our entwined hands. “I can’t believe this is happening!”

Laughter bursts from my throat. “Me, either!”

“No, I’m serious.” Emily shakes her head. “With all you’ve told me about how slow publishing can be, and after so many years of nothing, to suddenly have everything happen all at once is wild.”

She’s not wrong about that; my experience this time around has been incredibly out of the norm. Compared to the years I spent drafting and revising and slogging in the query trenches, I finished the first draft ofMy Lovely Musequickly and revised with the help of some beta readers I found online. This happened within a handful of months, and despite the short timeline, I felt confident enough in the book to send it out to agents. I got interest immediately, which didn’t get my hopes up, because that’s happened before only to be followed by aslew of rejections. But within a month I had my first offer of representation, and then I gained two more before deciding to go with the second offering literary agent. We spent the next couple of months doing revisions, and then we were on submission to editors at publishing houses. I expected to be on sub for months—and luckily, I had law school, as well as the new friends I made there, to keep me distracted—but to my shock, within one month I had my publishing offer. I was lucky in that my agent had a history of fighting for diverse authors, and my editor was a new one who was hungry for new and underrepresented voices. Flash forward two years, and here we are on release day. It all happened so fast I can’t quite believe it.

“It may have taken a long time,” I begin, “but I’m glad to be here now.” I squeeze her hands, then peek over her shoulder. “Is everybody here?”

“Yup,” Emily confirms. “I saw your parents in the very front row, and your siblings are both here, but I think they’re finding something in the children’s section to keep their kids distracted during your event.” Her eyes brighten. “I even saw your coworkers in the audience. Your boss, too.”

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