“What is it?” I ask her.
Amira quickly throws on a stiff, plastic smile. “Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then why do you look like you have something to tell me?”
“What? No.” She shakes her head. “Just tired. Exams were killer.”
I’m pretty sure that in addition to a lack of sweat glands, Amira also lacks the ability to lie. The girl is an open book with a worn, bent spine that won’t even let it close properly. “Amira?” I press.
“I promise, there’s nothing.” She stirs her iced coffee again, though it’s mostly just ice now. “But I am really happy. Happy to see you, happy to be done with school. Fulfilled, I guess.”
“Okay . . .” I trail off, watching her.
“I really appreciate you doing all this research, though,” she continues.
“It’s sweet and thoughtful. You’re always so sweet and—”
“Stop,” I say, slapping my hand on the folder. “Seriously, just tell me what’s going on.”
She takes a deep breath, then another. “Imetsomeone,” she finally blurts, as if it’s all one word.
“Wait, what?” I lean forward to better hear over the background noise.
“I met someone!” she says, louder. Almost too loud, because now the barista is looking forlorn.
“What the hell do you mean, you met someone?”
She glances at the window again. Then she looks right at me.
Her eyes are watering.
And it’s not just that. Everything about her is coated in a sickly syrup-sweet happiness that’s stickier than the humidity. Flushed cheeks. Warm glow. All the telltale signs of a person in love. Which means she’s not messing with me.
Oh God.
My sister has actually met someone.
I blink. Swallow. “Wait. When? How?” The connection between my brain and my body has short-circuited, and I can feel the frantic pump of blood vessels coursing through me, can feel every cell of my being vibrating with confusion.
“I’ve been seeing him for the past three months. You know how I did my final paper with Professor Kline, at her clinic?” I nod. “I met him through the clinic. He’s trying to start this nonprofit to help kids released from juvenile detention get life skills. It’s amazing. The work he’s doing”—she blows a puff of air—“he’s amazing. I interviewed him for my paper, and then we kind of got to working together, and . . . I really, really like him, Kiran.”
Amira closes her eyes, sinks deeper into her chair, and I shit you not, she hugs herself. Wraps her arms around herself like a lovesick Disney princess. I’ve never seen her like this before and it’s like I can barely recognize her.
“God, it’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, but I really like him. Really, really, really, really—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. But three months? Why haven’t you said anything?”
“It was never a formal thing”—she starts blushing—“I mean, not that informal, either, until . . . recently. It just kind of happened. Plus, if I’d told you, you’d have told Dad. And you know what he’s like—we can’t talk about boys unless it’s serious.”
I bite my lip. It’s true; dating in the casual sense is still frowned upon in many Muslim communities, and it’s not something you can openly talk about unless you’ve practically made a formal Jane Austen–style declaration that you’re in pursuit of a life partner.
It’s partially why I never told Amira about my first and only boyfriend, either. But still.
My skull’s buzzing like the inside of a hive. Amira meeting someone is . . . big. She’s always been so focused on school and her career. I don’t think she’s ever even had the time to fall in love before, until now.
Silence settles in the space between us, and there’s a sickening weight in my stomach that wasn’t there before. In a matter of minutes, something has irrevocably changed between us—had already changed, without me even knowing. A change in the status quo where I might not be the first person Amira calls to rant about stuff at the office or update me on the latest books she’s read. Or tell me her secrets.
Slowly, Amira pulls herself up. “Nothing is set in stone yet, but . . . he might be moving to California soon, so we’re still trying to figure things out for us. There’s an organization there that works with legal nonprofits and they’re going to help fund him, get him up and running. Again, nothing’s set. We just need to discuss our future a bit more. Make plans, maybe.”
My throat aches too much to say anything.
“I know this all sounds like it’s moving absurdly fast, but honestly, Kiran, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. And trust me, I’ve thought about it a lot. He was there for me. When Mom died. The work we did gave me something to hold on to. He gave me something to hold on to. . . . Kiran?”
I’m squeezing the edge of my chair, digging my fingernails into the wood. The sound is gone: the jazz music, the clattering, the hiss of the espresso machine. Everything is just a dull ache in my ears as the room spins around me.
California? What about job searching in Philly? What about our new apartment, the Crock-Pot, the late nights, the macarons? What about visiting Mom’s grave together and crying together to
make up for the grieving I couldn’t do because I was waiting for her? What about Dad, and living together as a family again, like Mom wanted—does that mean nothing to her?
What about me?
Excerpted from It All Comes Back to You by Farah Naz Rishi, on sale September 14, 2021. Copyright © 2021 Farah Naz Rishi. Reprinted with permission of HarperCollins Children’s Books.
