“Yeah. I sure got a happily ever after, didn’t I?”
Mom makes a little choking sound.
Audrey touches her knee. “I’m sorry, Jocelyn. That was insensitive.”
They look to me, like they’re waiting formyapology. I stand, stunned and solitary, thinking of Nicky and that day on the sidewalk all those years ago.
Don’t walk through life blind,he told me, and I’m starting to understand what he meant.
“You’re wrong, both of you,” I tell Mom and Audrey. “Someday you’ll see.”
Mom rolls her eyes, infuriatingly haughty. “I don’t understand why you can’t chase a nice, normal boy. A boy like Ryan.”
I snort. “I’m notchasinganyone. Besides, Ryan’s gay.”
I whirl around and bolt for the safety of my room.
elise
The next morning, after we’ve strolled the beach, Mati offers to walk me home. “Unless you’re ready to tell me goodbye,” he adds, bashful.
I surrender to an irrepressible smile. “No. I’m not ready to tell you goodbye.”
He holds his hand out, and time screeches to a standstill as I stare at his palm. His life line is long, deeply defined, and commalike. I’m not surprised; he’s full of spirit and warmth. His love line is almost indiscernible, fading well before it reaches his index finger.
Wait—does he want to hold my hand?
“May I walk Bambi?” he says, tipping his chin toward her leash.
“Oh.Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I pass the leash over, silently berating myself for entertaining thepossibilityof taking his hand.
We head for the Parker cottage, walking at the leisurely pace I set because I’m not in a big hurry to get home. I point out Audrey’s cottage, and we detour through a few side streets, admiring yards bursting with flowers.
“My mama’s fallen in love with gardening since we came here,” Mati tells me.
“Mine hasn’t. She hardly leaves our cottage.”
“Because she’s so busy writing, I bet. That was me before I met you.”
I glance up at him, wondering whether he means to flatter me, or if saying lovely things is something he does inherently. The latter, I think. “Does your mom garden in Afghanistan?”
He shakes his head. “We have a courtyard with some grass and a few plants, but Kabul is not so good for growing things. It’s arid and urban and very crowded.”
“Have you always lived there?”
“No, I was born in Ghazni Province. My baba iskhan—leader—of a tribe there. After Americans started coming to Afghanistan in the early 2000s, he helped launch contracting companies for the U.S. and Afghan governments, which made him more money than he ever could have imagined. We moved to Kabul so he could expand his business, and so my brother and sister and I could go to international schools.”
I think about leaving bustling San Francisco for quiet Cypress Beach, what an adjustment it’s been. “Was it hard, starting over in a new city?”
“Sometimes. I’ll go back to Ghazni eventually, but had we never left, I probably wouldn’t have learned English. I probably wouldn’t have started writing. I might not have come to America, either.” Our eyes meet, and it’s there, unspoken, but etched into the bronze of his gaze:I wouldn’t have met you.
I look away, pleased, and a little rattled. “Are your brother and sister still in Kabul?”
“My sister, Leila, is married. She and her husband live in Ghazni. My brother, Aamir, is in Kabul. He’s still in school, so he is staying”—he pauses, his jaw tensing—“with my uncle.”
“That’s not good?”
He nudges Bambi away from a tree she’s stopped to sniff. His voice is cool when he says, “I don’t trust my uncle.”
