Home > Misfit in Love (Saints and Misfits #2)(9)

Misfit in Love (Saints and Misfits #2)(9)
Author: S. K. Ali

Like where’s Uncle Bilal’s wife?

“I can stay for a bit. I don’t need to get back right way,” I say, before smiling friendly-like but tentatively at Dania and Lamya. “And what about your mom? Is she going to join us?”

There’s a second of silence before the three of them, Uncle Bilal and his daughters, speak all at once. “Mom’s in England. With her new family.” “Mom’s remarried.” “Mariam and I divorced when the twins were six. Then Dania and Lamya moved back here from England to go to high school, and have been with me since. It’s just us three, our family. For now.”

This last part trails from the joined voices.

Why do they look kind of confused by my question?

And, for now?

Mom grasps the handle of her luggage and glances at her room key. “We’ll meet at dinner then, insha’Allah? I’d better go get settled in. I had a long drive up.” She adds an awkward laugh to this. “And you had an even longer journey.”

Why are her cheeks flushing? I put my arm through hers and speak confidently, not giving in to the weird vibes I’m getting here. “Where did you guys come from?”

“I flew into Chicago from New York, picked up the girls, and drove here in a rental car. We wanted to be sure to make it in time for dinner,” Uncle Bilal says, his eyes lingering a bit too long on my mom’s face, like he’s trying to figure out what Mom’s feeling—but in a tender way.

“Okay, Mom, we better go unpack. Insha’Allah, we’ll be seeing you.” I smile and wave at Dania and Lamya, and then take the handle of Mom’s luggage and begin to roll the bag toward the Tree of Red Fluffs. Nearing the elevators, I glance behind. “What floor, Mom?”

“Fifth.” She waves feebly at Uncle Bilal and his daughters as she leaves to follow me.

But they’re right behind us. “We’re on the fifth floor, too!” Uncle Bilal beams again and… is that a flush on his cheeks too?

I grab Mom’s arm tighter. I don’t realize how tight until she wiggles out of it as the elevator doors open.

“Janna! We have to go!” Dawud appears in front of the elevator we’re assembling in, still cradling his Gatorade bottles. “It’s almost six, and your dad said the movie is going to be after dinner! Which is at six! You said you’d get me back!”

We all stare at him before Mom nudges me. “Go, Janna. Maybe you can come by later? And I’m coming to the house tomorrow really early, anyhow. To help with wedding prep.”

Uncle Bilal puts a hand on the elevator door to hold it open, and I hesitate before stepping out. When I turn back, it’s to watch the door close on Mom and them.

To watch the door close on Mom, flushed and smiling funny, and them, flushed too. Well, one of them, that is.

The tall guy who called Mom one of his best friends from college.

Who’s also divorced.

 

* * *

 

I drive back slowly, my mind turning things over, making whole scenarios up—like Mom and Uncle Bilal and Dania and Lamya having dinner together at the hotel. And then taking a summer evening stroll through the “quaint” town. And then eating ice cream at that ice-cream place by the side of the road beside the largest lake here, the one the town’s named after: Mystic Lake.

Ice cream.

I glance at Dawud, who’s waving his arms out the window like he’s one of those floppy air-filled figures businesses use to advertise their wares.

He’s the one who prevented me from spending more time with Mom. “Too bad you didn’t get your ice cream.”

I just want him to squirm a little. Feel a gut pinch.

But he doesn’t and just smiles goofily, pointing ahead. I turn my eyes back to the road, and there, way up ahead, is the ice-cream truck, driving the same direction we are. On its way to the end of the road, which runs through a peninsula of houses filled with kids, after which he’ll circle back to our place.

I speed up. I want to get home in time to prepare for jolly mean-uncle ice-cream man. So I can show Haytham the truth of the matter.

But when I pass the truck and make it to Dad’s driveway, there’s a car parked in the spot where Haytham’s car was before.

And I forget all about the ice-cream-truck theory.

It’s a car I know really well.

Nuah’s.

He got here early. Today. For me.

 

 

Chapter Seven

 


Dad’s house is quiet when we enter. Like no one is home.

But when you step into the hallway from the foyer, there’s a direct view to the huge glass doors to the patio that take up almost the entire back wall, and I see Dad and Linda out there in front of the barbecue. The doors are open, and I can smell the burgers they’re grilling.

I leave Dawud behind and make my way to the backyard. Everyone must be outside, getting food.

It’s just Dad and Linda out there, though. And the laddoos, who are both working on wrecking a bubble-blowing machine by pushing each other to try to stand and balance themselves on it.

“Just in time for the first burger!” Dad, in his regular summer uniform of a buttoned-up dress shirt with shorts, flips a patty and snaps the long tongs at me. “Cheese melted on it or no?”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Went for prayer.” Dad peels a slice of cheese from the stack by the condiments on the long outdoor table and holds it over the grill. “Cheese?”

“No thanks, Dad. I’ll eat after. With everyone.” I’d better join them for Asr salat, too. “Are they praying in the family room?”

“No, they’re in the basement. More friends of Muhammad and Sarah drove up.” Linda holds a container out for Dad to put the burgers in. “You sure you don’t want to have one with us now? They’re beautifully done.”

“I have to pray too. But maybe he’ll have one with you guys?” I point at Dawud, who’s just stepped out, a big smile growing on his face—maybe because he saw the burgers.

No, it’s due to the bubbles desperately escaping from the machine under attack.

Linda nods, and I head inside to make wudu in the main-floor bathroom.

We’re taught at the mosque that prayer with others, in congregation, is rewarded twenty-seven times more than prayer alone. This is a compelling reason to hasten to the basement.

Let’s call my first glimpse of Nuah in six months, since he last came up to Eastspring for Christmas break, a bonus.

 

* * *

 

I joined the prayer late, so I’m still in prayer mode, catching up on the rakats I missed, my eyes closed because that’s the only way I can come even one iota close to concentrating on salat, when I hear everyone else begin to shuffle up the stairs.

I finish and sit alone on the white sheet that has been spread on the carpeted floor.

I need to make dua. I need to make sure I talk to God before doing this.

Ya Allah, make this go right, this thing with Nuah. When I tell him.

I know one thing: I’m pretty sure God loves Nuah. He’s kind and humble and always smiling, always friendly. That’s the type of person my mom’s brother, Amu, the imam at the Eastspring mosque, always says is gold to God. Whenever he says this, though, he always peers at me and not Muhammad, who already goes around with a goofy grin plastered on his face. Whereas I’ve been told my resting face is a perpetual pout, which is the opposite of my middle name, Ibtissam, meaning “smile” in Arabic—Mom’s choice for my first name until Dad overrode her for the more anglicized Janna.

Hot Books
» House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1)
» A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire
» From Blood and Ash (Blood And Ash #1)
» A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime
» Deviant King (Royal Elite #1)
» Den of Vipers
» House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2)
» The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #
» Sweet Temptation
» The Sweetest Oblivion (Made #1)
» Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels #6)
» Wreck & Ruin
» Steel Princess (Royal Elite #2)
» Twisted Hate (Twisted #3)
» The Play (Briar U Book 3)