Eighteen-year-old Hayat Amanullah has it all: a loving family, a carefree life, and a future at the Ivy League school of her dreams. But her perfect life shatters when her oldest brother suddenly dies in a car accident. The tight-knit Amanullah fami...
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~ Shamrock (flower): Lightheartedness ~
Abeer stays for much of the day and — to my surprise — I'm not annoyed by her company.
After I recounted what happened last night, she — naturally — freaked out. Told me I needed to buy dead bolts and put mouse traps on the floor next to my bed ("the benefits will outweigh the costs!", she had squeaked when I gave her an appalled look). She advised me to inform someone in my house so they could keep an eye out if there would ever be a next time, God forbid.
That last one is a definite no. I can't burden anyone in my family like that. Everyone has enough on their plates already. When I told Abeer this, she glared at me and said, "Fine. I'll just tell Ihsaan bhai myself."
I had grabbed her arm in panic and half-shouted, "No!" Then, calmer, "No, Abeer, please. Ihsaan is the last person who needs to know. He has . . . too much going on."
"But he's your brother — "
"No," I had repeated more firmly. And this time Abeer had chewed on her lips and given me an anxious look before nodding reluctantly.
Now, as a small celebration for his promotion, we're both in the kitchen baking a cake for Ihsaan. Well, because of my inability to walk much without hissing in pain, Abeer is doing most of the work. She follows my instructions and mixes the ingredients together, all the while shaking her head and laughing in surprise.
"I just — I still can't believe it. You hated cooking. Baking. Anything that had to do with the kitchen."
I shrug. "People change."
"No, but like, the weirdest thing is, after trying your pasta I've discovered that you're actually good at cooking now. How did that happen?"
"Thanks," I reply drily.
Abeer laughs, the sound loud and consuming, occupying the entire space we're in. For a moment, the tension in my shoulders eases and my heart fills with nothing but absolute warmth. It's been a long time since I've heard laughter like that in my house.
We're interrupted by slow footsteps descending the stairs. Abeer's furrowed brows meet my surprised gaze as my mom enters the kitchen.
Her hair is matted to one side of her head — as it often is because she seldom leaves her bed — and there are deep shadows under her lifeless eyes.
"Auntie!" Abeer drops the egg — still in its shell and all — into the batter and excitedly rushes towards my mom. She carefully wraps her arms around her so as not to get chocolatey hands in Mama's hair. "Salaam! How are you?"
For a brief moment, Mama stands motionless. Then her lifeless eyes spark with light and she wraps her arms around my old best friend.
