After my walk with Ryan, I hustle through a shower and, despite thedon’t try too hardwhispers of my conscience, stumble through a blowout and a basic makeup job. Coffee at Van Dough’s isn’t a formal affair, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to walk in looking like a slouch.
I leave Bambi on her doggy pillow in the library (Mom barely glances up from her computer to mumble a goodbye), then walk the few blocks from our cottage to town. The bakery’s empty—now’s the downtime between lunch and dinner—and the middle-aged woman behind the counter appears happy to have someone to serve. I tell her I’m waiting for a friend, then pick a table in the front corner, close to the window but hidden from the glances of passersby. Somehow, solitude seems judicious.
Mati walks in a few minutes late. He’s wearing jeans, plus a gray T-shirt that’s doing his frame all sorts of favors. His dark hair’s tousled, like he’s been pushing his hand through it, and he’s full of apologies. His father’s appointment ran over, they ended up stuck in noontime SanJose traffic, and there was a questioning about where he was going and who he was meeting.
“What did you tell them?” I ask while we wait for my coffee and his chai.
“That I was meeting a friend in town—the truth.”
The woman behind the counter peers at him as she makes our drinks. She doesn’t seem so pleased to have customers anymore, and I’m puzzled—she was so nice before. When our order’s ready, steaming in trough-size mugs, she clanks them onto the countertop. Liquid sloshes over the mugs’ rims, but she doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t say anything, actually, which is weird. And annoying. But Mati pretends not to notice, so I do, too.
We take our drinks to the table I claimed earlier. It seems intimate, tiny, now that Mati and his long limbs are present. Before sitting, he empties the back pocket of his jeans: key, pen, wallet, and notebook of what I suppose are eloquent words. I’m so preoccupied by it and its secrets, we bump knees as we scoot in across from each other. I giggle nervously. He looks like I stuck him with a hot poker.
“Would your parents be upset,” I ask when my laughter has died, “if they saw you now?”
He hesitates—because he doesn’t want me to think negatively of his parents, or because he doesn’t want to offend me, I’m not sure. He clears his throat. “My father would probably understand. He knows what it’s like to be…” He fiddles with the string of the tea bag dangling from his mug. When he glances up again, he’s flushed. The sight of him discomfited is so endearing, it’s hard to resist the urge to touch his hand. He starts again. “My mother would likely disapprove. She is very traditional.”
As far as…?I want to say.
“How’s your chai?” I ask instead.
He smiles. “Weak. But I’m not complaining. Ramadan recently ended and after a month of daylight fasting, weak chai in the afternoon is a treat.”
Ramadan. I make a mental note to look it up later. “How was your father’s appointment?”
His smile thins, though I can tell he’s trying to maintain an intrepid facade. “There’s been no real change. His doctors tell us the medicines take their time to work. They tell us not to be discouraged, but my baba—myfather—was quiet during the ride back to Cypress Beach.”
“I can’t even imagine. I’m really sorry.”
He shrugs even as worry tightens his jaw. “We’ve been hearing the same for months. One day, the doctor will give us good news and my father will have reason to celebrate.”
“I hope so. Also, if you call him baba at home, then you should call him baba when you’re with me, too.”
He smiles again, appreciative. “How’s your coffee?”
“It’s okay. I only really like it when it’s swimming with sugar.”
“Sweet,” he says. “Khwazzais the Pashto word.”
“Khwazza,” I repeat, wishing I could say it with the elegance that’s inherent to him.
“Andburais sugar.”
“Bura.”
He nods proudly, like I’ve spoken a whole soliloquy of Pashto, not two simple words. “At home, we sometimes flavor our chai with saffron. And we often sit on the floor when we drink it. On a rug, or cushions. But not at a table like this.”
I glance over my shoulder at the woman behind the counter. She’s stocking the pastry case with buttery baked goods, paying no attention to us now. “We could ditch our chairs, if you want. Camp out on the floor.”
“I have no desire to draw extra attention to myself.”
I appraise him, trying to make sense of his remark, and his suddenly serious expression. When I can’t, I ask, “Do you hate it here?”
His mouth lifts with wry amusement. “At this cafe?”
I smile—I can’t help it. These peeks at his playful side are surreptitious glimpses of the person he really is; the person who I suspect isbeing stifled by family illness and a foreign land. “America,” I clarify. “The differences?”
“I did. I still do, occasionally. Not the differences—I like learning about your culture—but the judgment. The stares. The assumptions.”
