“No, I’m okay.” I fail to quell an ill-timed shiver.
He unzips his sweatshirt, then shrugs it off. He’s got a T-shirt on underneath, not enough to keep him comfortable in the shade. Still, he holds his hoodie out to me.
“Mati, no. Then you’ll be cold.”
“I will not.” He gives his hoodie a little shake. “Go ahead.”
I take it, slipping my arms into the soft cotton. I zip it all the way up, the way he wore it, and his scent engulfs me. It’s so good—comforting, like being in a bathtub full of warm, rich bubbles. I’m reminded of yesterday, the hug that felt more intimate than any interaction I’ve ever had with a boy. The hug that felt like a promise. I relive it down to its finest detail, wrapped up in his hoodie.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he answers.
Somehow, there’s more behind our words than a borrowed sweatshirt.
“Your parents are nice,” I tell him.
“Baba likes you.”
“I like him, too. God, Mati, he’s so sick. And he still smokes?”
“One cigarette, always after lunch. He says it’s a reward for making it to another day, but I think he lacks the strength to quit completely.”
“I didn’t realize it was…”so bad.
“I know. Today is a good day, though, believe it or not, and his doctors say he’s showing improvement.”
“Do you think he really wants to meet Bambi?”
Mati nods. “I can already picture him playing with her in the yard. Most things Westerners do, he wants to try. He would probably eat pork chops and applesauce if he could.”
“What about your mother?”
He grimaces. “She prefers the Afghan way. I wish she would have acted… differently.”
“She’s an amazing cook.”
“But with you… I wish she would have been different with you.”
I give a humorless laugh; I sound like a baying hound. “Yesterday my mom treated you like shit. Your mom was downright chummy in comparison.”
“Your mom did not treat me like—she did not treat me badly. She was uncomfortable. It’s hard to let go of conceptions we’ve spent years building. When I think about your brother, it makes sense that she’s angry.”
“Her anger is misguided. Maybe you’re too understanding.”
He touches the tail of my braid where it’s fallen over my shoulder, rubbing the strands of my hair between his fingers. He must be preoccupied by his thoughts because when he catches himself, he snatches his hand away, glaring at it like it’s got a mind of its own. His expression pulls taut and he moves to shove his fists into his sweatshirt pockets—his “I’m uncomfortable” tell—but he’s not wearing his sweatshirt anymore and, oh, if I could just take his hand and tangle it with mine, all the tension and strain and yearning of this moment would disappear.
Or not. Maybe it’d be worse, like on the way home from Sacramento,when he held my hand for hours, literally. Every second I spent with my palm enveloped in his was incredible, but I was left feeling… not content. I dropped him off wanting more, more,more.
Kind of like right now.
I slip my hands into the pockets of the borrowed sweatshirt, mostly to keep from reaching for him. As his face relaxes, like there’s relief in watching me perform his action, my fingers close over a firm rectangle—his notebook.
I trace its cardboard cover within the depths of the pocket, its feathered-paper edges, its coiled spine. I pull it out and let it rest on my palm, but I don’t open it. It’s too personal. His lockbox of secrets and wishes and dreams.
He regards it warily, as if it’s sprouted sharp teeth and a pointed-dagger tail.
I let my gaze travel from where it sits on my palm, to his face. “Do you write in Pashto?”
