“Lifeisn’t fair.”
“Mati, this is wrong. They deserve consequences.”
“The chance of me, an Afghan with a quickly expiring visa, getting justice in America is slim. There are too many people who look at me and see a threat. Who associate my family with bombs and fire and death, with men who carry assault rifles, who pledge their undying obedience to Allah and defend their brutality with the Quran. When I say that the climate for Muslims is ‘not good,’ I really mean that it’s dangerous—very dangerous. I can’t walk into a police station and accuse two white Americans of attacking me because who knows what lies they might counter with? I cannot entangle my family with the law, not now, when Baba is as near as he’s ever been to healthy. Not now, when we are so close to returning to Afghanistan.”
My face is hot with rage. A rash of disjointed arguments scramble up my throat, but then Mati eases his hand out of mine and raises it to the crown of my head. He runs his palm over my hair, slowing my pulse, nudging my anger away, if only for a moment. The way he’s looking at me… it’s an appeal, a plea for understanding, and while I absolutely donotunderstand—willneverunderstand how he can be so rational, so selfless, so composed in the face of gross inequality—I can appreciate how different his experience is from mine.
I’ve never walked in his shoes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t stroll beside him. That doesn’t mean I can’t learn from his perspective and offer support in all the ways I know how.
His hand moves to my face, his thumb brushing the arc of mycheekbone, the curve of my jaw. “Elise, this morning… I was scared. I waslost. I made it through, back to the cottage and all the way here, thinking of you. I don’t know what that means for me, for you, for us, but…” He trails off, his expression unguarded, simultaneously hopeful and tormented, and I see us, suddenly, as if out-of-body: his hand cupping my face, my fingers clutching his elbow, our cheeks rosy and tear-stained, our eyes wide and worshipful.
We look lovesick, just like Audrey said.
“Kiss me,” he whispers.
I do, gingerly pressing my mouth to his, mindful of his split lip and bruised cheek, gentle with his battered body. I have never kissed anyone so carefully, so attentively, yet I’m as hungry for him as I’ve ever been. It’s a good kiss, a restorative kiss, a long-overdue kiss. It lasts a fraction of a second, and a thousand lifetimes.
And then I hear muffled voices, an opening door, Ryan’s amused, “Oh, oops,” followed by deep chuckles.
I draw away from Mati as our friends crowd into the room, bellowing reassurances and sympathies, which Mati accepts amiably, if not wearily.
Not a minute later, Hala and Rasoul arrive. It happens so fast: She gives Ryan and Xavier inquisitive glances, and then she turns toward where I sit beside her son, my heart drowning in the pit of my stomach. Her mouth falls open as she observes my body, inclined toward Mati’s, my palm, aligned with his, my face, cloaked in a passion-induced haze—like his.
“Matihullah!” she cries.
I snatch my hand away as she unleashes a string of Pashto as rapid and sharp as machine-gun blasts. Rasoul touches her shoulder, but she doesn’t quiet until she’s said her piece, punctuating her tirade with an arctic glare aimed right at me.
Thank God she didn’t see us kissing.
Mati looks like a snared animal—cornered, fearful, humiliated. “Elise, maybe you should…”
He doesn’t have to finish; he needs me to go. The regret saturating his voice is the same as a thousand hailstones, pelting my skin.
“Thank you for coming,” Rasoul says, gracious. His hand lingers on his wife’s shoulder, equal parts cautionary and reassuring, making it clear that he sees the world in loops and curves, while Hala only perceives hard lines. Because she’s still looking at me like I’m depraved—like it’s my fault her son was attacked.
Her judgment seeps into my flesh, making me cold with shame.
Mati watches as I back toward the door, toward where Ryan and Xavier wait, toward escape from Hala’s harsh gaze.
“We’ll get her home safe,” Xavier says before stepping into the hallway with Ryan close behind.
I keep my shoulders back and my head high as I pass Mati’s parents. They say nothing, but his curiosity and her animosity, their combined concern, overwhelming in its intensity, make me wonder if I shouldn’t have come here after all.
MATI
She leaves with my heart in her hands.
Mama does not talk to me
for what remains of the day.
She listens to nurses and doctors,
and is attentive when Baba
translates words she does not know.
She purses her lips
