When she puts it like that, I pause. Of course I want to do something special for Sarah.
But it’s just not my idea of fun: spending time with these people I barely know, dancing in their hotel room. “I kind of have to see when my brother’s ready to drive back. I’m following him to my dad’s.”
“They had appetizers with us,” Uncle Bilal says. “Muhammad and Nuah. And your brother invited Layth to the wedding too.”
Layth shakes his head. “But I’m not coming. I gotta get to Miami.”
“You need to get to Miami by Tuesday night,” Dania says, shaking her head. “Sleep in on Saturday, and we’ll make sure to remind you to leave the minute the wedding is over to sleep some more. And drive all day Sunday.”
Lamya pipes up too, animated. “Come on, Layth. You have to spend at least a couple of days with us. Not just a few measly hours.”
Layth doesn’t say anything. Just looks down at his plate. And then looks at Uncle Bilal, his expression now strangely sad. “You sure you want me sticking around?”
Uncle Bilal looks uncomfortable for a second. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I think you should stay. Meet my old friend Haroon and hang out with your cousins a bit more. We got two rooms here. I’ll ask to be switched to a room with two beds, and you can stay with me.”
At that Layth raises his eyebrows.
I look at Mom discreetly. Clearly there’s some family drama going on that we have no idea about.
These people are strangers after all.
Of course Muhammad being Muhammad would just invite any- and everyone he meets. He probably invited that perky restaurant host with the high ponytail, too.
* * *
I go to meet Muhammad and Nuah at the front of the hotel, while Mom continues on to dessert with Uncle Bilal and family.
I left the restaurant relieved, because it was evident that Uncle Bilal is just an-old-pal-from-college situation. And nothing like what my imagination was trying to lead me to believe.
Nuah jumps out of the car when Muhammad pulls up in front of the hotel. “Do you want me to drive, and you can take a ride in here with Muhammad?”
“No, it’s okay.” I take Haytham’s car keys out. “I’ll be okay as long as I’m following you guys.”
“All right. We won’t go too fast.” Nuah gets back in after giving me a thumbs-up.
He hasn’t changed his sweet self at all.
As I get in the car, and all the way on the drive, I imagine what it would have been like if it had been me and Nuah in the car alone.
I catch my own eyes in the rearview and tell myself, Girl, that’s going to be in your future. You and Nuah, together.
Chapter Twelve
We enter the dark home theater right as one of my favorite movie scenes ever begins: Vizzini choosing which potentially poisonless goblet to drink from as masked Westley watches and a blindfolded Buttercup listens.
I fold myself into the lone sofa at the back while Nuah and Muhammad each take a comfy armchair, one of the many arranged in rows in front of the 105-inch TV.
I’ve seen this scene in The Princess Bride so many times that I whisper-echo all of Westley’s retorts to Vizzini, who’s analyzing his choices out loud. For some reason, “Truly, you have a dizzying intellect” doesn’t come out in a whisper but as an outburst—which causes almost everyone turn around to me.
That gives permission for the floodgates to open, and there’s a rendition in unison of “As you wiiiiiiiiissshhhh” as Westley rolls down the hill and then, for the rest of the movie, commentary erupting from various parts of the room at different times.
As I sit in the back and listen to impassioned takes on the best fighting moves and the possibility of Andre the Giant not having actually died, I realize that because Linda opted out of movie night, I’m the only girl in a room full of guys aged three to fifty.
Luke (snoring, but still), Logan, Dawud, Nuah, Haytham, Muhammad, and Dad.
I text Mom. Don’t forget to bring my clothes okay?
Yes, first thing sweetums!
I send her a row of various happy emojis. I love that she answered so quickly even though she’s still probably with Uncle Bilal’s family.
Dad gets up to get more popcorn for Logan, and I get a jolt thinking of Mom being here in the morning. With Dad.
Tomorrow will be the first time they’ve been together for longer than thirty minutes since their divorce. What’s going to happen?
Will they act awkward or like they’re acquaintances? Or even like they’re strangers?
But they’re not strangers. At some point they were in love. Such deep love that they wanted to live with each other for the rest of their lives. Said they wanted to. Committed to it.
And then… they didn’t stay true to their words. They said adios to each other, to a life together, when I was ten and Muhammad was sixteen, turning seventeen.
The cynical part of me wants to believe that this proves that love isn’t reliable. That it isn’t something that becomes real and true once you say so.
But maybe Dad and Mom’s love was forged too quickly. The story I always heard was “We met as third-year students, at a friend’s house off-campus, on Eid.” They got married before their last year of college, and Mom had Muhammad right away.
That seems fast. Maybe that was the problem.
Then there’s that other thing Muhammad told me, that Mom never told me herself. About Dad and Linda getting together before Dad got divorced. Way before, according to Muhammad.
But is my brother even reliable?
I think about Mom’s face earlier today, flushing on seeing Uncle Bilal.
Ugh. I don’t want to think about her like that.
That she would have feelings like I do for Nuah.
Now, even in the dark, I notice that Nuah’s head is down. He must be looking at his phone.
He’s been quiet. He’s the only one who hasn’t contributed to the movie discussions, who didn’t parrot “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die” over and over, who doesn’t even look up now when Muhammad, sword-less, gets up to mime Inigo’s sword fight with Dawud, who’s got his short and blunt plastic sword all drawn and ready.
Logan howls with laughter in response to seeing Muhammad getting stabbed repeatedly on his butt, but still Nuah’s head stays down.
Hey, were the gummy bears *nice enough*? I stare at the back of his head with a ready smile after texting this, but he doesn’t turn to me. Our thing is he’s super nice and I’m always saying I’m not and so we don’t match. So he used to periodically ask via text So JY, are you nice enough yet?
He continues staring at his phone for a few more minutes and then shifts in his seat, pocketing the phone and watching the movie to its happily-ever-after end.
* * *
“Kumbaya, my Lord, kumbaya. Kumbaya, Rab’bi, kumbaya,” Haytham sings, with his guitar.
It’s really late but we’re sitting around a fire by the lake because the laddoos can’t go to sleep without a campfire every night. Muhammad’s convinced Haytham to sing.
I close my eyes and listen. He’s got such a fantastic voice, and it actually makes my heart beat slower, makes me feel more mellow. Like nothing’s going on in my head. None of the racing thoughts that take over when I need something to happen, when I need to achieve something, like get an A on a test, pass my driver’s exam, or get into my first-choice college.