Page 38 of Writing Mr. Right

“I suppose so,” he agrees. Reluctantly, I release his hand, and we stand. “But it was nice seeing your room.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he says. “I remember it vaguely from when you lived here, but it’s so interesting to see it for myself, especially now that you’re an adult.”

“Why?” I question. “I’m pretty much the same as I was before. I thought when I moved out for university, I’d grow into the person I was meant to be. But I don’t think I’ve changed much. That’s sad, too.”

“Well,” he begins, grabbing the doorknob and twisting it open, “sometimes growing doesn’t mean doing a complete one-eighty and becoming someone totally new. Sometimes it’s just becoming surer of the person you already are. You should never let yourself feel like you’re not better than the person you were yesterday, because you become better every single day.”

“Huh.” I stare at the earnest expression in his eyes. Warmth twinges in my stomach. “Maybe I am.” I playfully punch his shoulder on my way out of the room. “Or maybe you’re just full of crap again.”

“One day, Ziya Khan,” he teases. He shuts the door behind us. “One day, I’ll convince you I’m in fact not full of crap, but a very wise man.”

“‘Wise man’?” I repeat. I glance over my shoulder at him. “Yesterday, you put ketchup instead of sriracha sauce into our chow mein.”

“Hey! Those bottles are deceptively similar!”

“Sure they are,” I pacify, but laughter still warms my body as I head down the stairs to rejoin my family. I wasn’t sure about this party before, but maybe it’s exactly what I needed.

18

“Do you think today’s the day?” Fay whispers.

“It has to be,” Stella replies.

“He’s been standing there for ten minutes,” Sofia points out. She taps her pen against the corner of her mouth. “It’s not looking good for him.”

I jostle the large stack of paper in my arms. My muscles ache from the weight, and I uncomfortably shift it around so I can glance down at my watch. “I don’t have the time to wait.” I take a step forward.

Stella grabs my elbow and pulls me back. “Come on, he’s almost got it! Just wait another minute.”

The four of us linger in the hallway of the law office, right in front of the doorway to the supply room. We’re staring at Aashiq, who stands in front of the printer, his finger running along his upper lip. I sent him in here almost ten minutes ago to scan an important file one of our attorneys needs emailed to another lawyer. I was hesitant to let Aashiq do the job (especially because I’ve tried teaching him to use the printer at least five times now with no luck), but he always insists on helping me out at work. Not only to keep up the ruse that he’s supposedto be job-shadowing me, but because he wants to lighten my load to reduce my stress. Reluctantly, I agreed to let him scan the file, and then I got caught up helping Colin with a technical issue on his computer. I hadn’t even realized so much time had passed until I got back to my desk, realized I needed to scan some papers to my own computer, and then hurried over here and saw three of my coworkers observing Aashiq. And now the workday is over, and I really needed that file scanned half an hour ago.

“I don’thaveanother minute,” I reply. “We’re officially off the clock in like, three minutes, and I promised Attorney Patel I’d send those documents to Attorney Pollack before the end of the day.” I raise the stack of paper in my arms. “AndI still need to scan these files.”

“He’ssoclose to getting it!” Stella insists. She gestures to Aashiq’s back. “See?”

I follow her gaze to see Aashiq’s hand hovering above the touch screen arrows. If he presses the one to the left, it’ll give him options to change the ink color of whatever he wants to print. If he presses the one on the right, it’ll show the “scan” option. I’ve shown this to himfivetimes, but he just can’t seem to retain the information. I know I promised to give him more responsibilities while he’s here, but Iamregretting it a little.

I’m about to step forward and take over when slowly, tentatively, Aashiq touches the pad of his finger to the button on the right. The screen shows himScan, and his face breaks into a triumphant smile as he presses it again. The machine boots up with a glow, and it makes a churning noise as it takes in the information on the paper and sends it to my computer.

“Yes!” Stella, Faye, and Sofia chorus. At the sound, Aashiq turns around, his brows rising to his forehead. My coworkers burst into applause, flashing him thumbs-up and shouting words of encouragement. He ducks his head in embarrassment, a lock of his hair swooping over his eye.

I try my best to clap for him, too, then walk into the room. “Let’s speed things up, shall we? Work’s almost done, and we gotta get going afterward.”

Sofia stops clapping. “Wait, you’re not coming out with us?”

Aashiq lifts a brow. “Where are you going?”

“It’s our holiday party!” Faye explains. “We go out for dinner and drinks. We were hoping this would finally be the year Ziya agreed to come.”

“That sounds like fun!” Aashiq fixes me with a puzzled stare. “Why don’t you go?”

I chew my tongue. “I don’t drink,” I offer. “And I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“But youdoeat,” Aashiq counters. “And it’s a party. It’ll be fun!” He turns to Faye. “We’ll absolutely be coming.”

I have to hold back the urge to punch him in the shoulder. Why does he always think that just because he wants to do something, I’ll want to do it, too? I mean, I have enjoyed some of the stuff he’s encouraged me to do, but spending Friday night with my drunk coworkers doesn’t sound appealing. I’m opening up more with Stella, Faye, and Sofia—I talk with them in the coffee room during breaks, I joined their book club so I’m in a group chat with them now, and I’ve stepped out to lunch with them—but I prefer baby steps over Godzilla stomps forward.

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