“Wow. Wow, wow, wow!” Dawud suddenly shouts, his face still covered with what I now see is a super-heavy book, almost like a textbook.
It says WEDDINGS in big letters across the top. The bottom says TO DIE FOR.
“Can we get this flower-ceiling thing for the wedding? It’s like an upside-down garden! The one made from lilies is the best!” He lowers the book and looks at Haytham through round glasses askew. He’s eight years old, so he ignores me.
“Aren’t you going to say salaam to Janna?” Haytham takes the book from him and closes it.
“Assalamu alaikum, Janna,” Dawud mutters to the trellis above him. “We could have the flowers hanging from up there! It’s going to be so cool!”
I respond to his salaam and turn to leave. But then turn back.
“Okay, yeah, that was a good apology,” I say, putting an arm out for hugs from Logan and Luke, the two temporarily reformed hooligans. “Thank you.”
They descend the stairs toward me, Haytham standing proudly behind them, holding the wedding textbook.
“Ugh, you’re all wet, Janna!” Logan jumps back. Luke just squishes himself into my thighs, laughing as his shirt and face get wet.
“Well, that’s what happens when you go into the lake. But now let me go inside to shower and change maybe?” I dislodge Luke, who’s still rubbing his face in my burkini, and start walking toward the house. “Thanks for the cupcake.”
I say this to Logan and Luke, but I sneak a small glance at Haytham to acknowledge his part in reforming them.
He nods at me and smiles again, before saying, “Hey, just an FYI, don’t use the bathroom on the third floor. The one attached to the alcove guest room. It’s got a fan issue, and it’s still steamed up from my shower just now.”
I nod and head to the back patio.
Behind me, I hear Logan say, “Now finish the song, Uncle Haytham!”
Uncle Haytham? How did that happen so fast?
“ ‘I wanna live in a land called Paradise. Wanna see the birds fly…’ ”
His voice.
Haytham’s voice is unbelievable.
Deep, melodic, passionate.
I can’t stop my head from swiveling. He’s sitting on the gazebo steps, the kids gathered around him, and when he notices me, he lifts a pretend hat and continues singing.
Maybe I should choose a lighter, fresher color hijab to wear after my shower, instead of the raggedy black one I was going to wear today around the house and to go into town to see Mom.
I mean, I don’t even have a lighter, fresher color scarf in the stuff I brought here, but I can check my stepmother Linda’s closet. She doesn’t wear hijab, but she has a massive wardrobe with tons of accessories. And she’s always cool with me borrowing stuff—even without asking.
As I walk across the second-floor landing to knock on the master bedroom door, Muhammad emerges from his room. “Sarah’s downstairs in the basement. She said she wants to see you about something.”
“Okay, but then I might be late to go see Mom.”
“Mom’s not getting in until five—she made a stop on her way. Check your messages.” Muhammad looks at me carefully. “You okay? With the laddoos laughing at you like that?”
“They apologized. And gave me a cupcake.”
“Oh yeah, Haytham made those for their drive over. Sarah said he packed the car with his baked goods.”
“That was a good cupcake.”
Why is Muhammad peering at me more carefully now?
“Hey, listen—be careful around Haytham, okay? Especially since he’s staying here in the guesthouse. Him, Sarah, and Dawud.”
I turn from Dad and Linda’s bedroom door to face him. “Why? What do you mean, be careful?”
“I mean just know that he’s… really unaware of his magnetic qualities. On people.” Muhammad laughs.
“You mean, he’s a player?” I don’t let my heart sink. Because this is officially good news.
Haytham is a player. Which is UGH. So I’m on firm ground—not one iota near falling for a gorgeous, baking, chivalrous, singing player. Who’s great with kids.
“No way, no, of course not!” Muhammad looks alarmed. “Never. He’s the president of his MSA. Or he was last year. And he’s studying Islamic studies.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” I frown. As if any of it proves anything. The monster who attacked me two years ago was considered a “pious good boy” at the mosque.
“I know, but in this case it does. He’s legit. The man doesn’t fool around at all. And is serious about stuff like that.”
“Oh.” I wonder if my face looks as contorted as my heart feels. It felt tons better when Haytham could be written off. Because I write off people like that immediately—people who pretend to be saintly.
“I mean Sarah’s told me he’s gotten into things where people have thought he was interested in them when he wasn’t. And it’s all because he’s cool and kind, you know?”
“Oh my God, Muhammad!” I open the master bedroom door, anger mixing with embarrassment. “Do you really think I think he likes me? I just met him! Plus, I don’t even find him interesting in that way?”
“I thought you might have, you know, fallen for the you know what.” He points at his brow. “ ’Cause I noticed the way you looked at that forehead. In the lake. It was in awe, Janna.”
I go inside and close the door in his face.
Siblings know all the unmentionables about you.
* * *
Somehow I find myself in the third-floor bathroom.
I have no idea why I gathered my clothes from my second-floor bedroom and bypassed its beautifully appointed en suite bathroom and lifted my feet up the steps to the alcove guest bedroom.
It is steamy, but the fogged-up mirror is slowly clearing. At the edges, not the middle.
Are those words?
Someone’s written something onto the mirror, into the fog.
The weight of your soul
Joined with its many kindreds
Will light upon
The rest of the verse disappears into the now reappearing mirror.
I look at my reflection in the clearing parts.
My face is lit by the light of intrigue, the beginnings of fascination.
On top of being a kid tamer and a baker and a singer, he’s a poet, too?
I can’t wait until Nuah gets here tomorrow.
* * *
After my shower I find Sarah in the basement, in the storage room, counting boxes of something. She immediately wraps me in a hug. “Janna! Assalamu alaikum, my Janna!”
Sarah Mahmoud, my sister-in-law-to-be, is beautiful, kind, and completely determined in a steely, iron-grip CEO kind of way, while radiating positivity. Even her clothes beam joy—right now she has on a bright mustard-colored shirt over jeans, topped with an even brighter chiffon-mustard scarf, perfectly peaked at the top of her head à la the latest hijab style, round sunglasses resting atop it all.
Her entire vibe all the time is Joy to the World (That I Plan on Dominating)!
“Wait, you didn’t go into the room next door, right?” I say, worried she saw the way Linda and I decorated it for the henna party tomorrow night. It’s a surprise we organized under the supervision of Linda’s friend, Ms. Mehta, who’s super into the latest desi decor and fashions. She showed us how to throw the “most authentic mehndi party ever,” which included draping lots of brightly colored, long, sheer saris all over the walls, with twinkling lights in between them. My arms are still tired from all the work yesterday.