He smiles sheepishly and moves away so I can sit up. I let my hair down, combing my fingers through the tangles he made, and gather it into a smooth ponytail. He repositions his hat, watching me, riveted, and then I remember: most of the girls in his country cover their hair. It’s no wonder he’s always touching mine.
“Can we do this again?” he asks as I finish.
“I’ll check my schedule,” I tease.
He takes my face in his hands, kisses me again, briefly, fiercely. When he draws back, he says, “Remember when we were on our way to Sacramento? I told you I’m supposed to guard my modesty?”
I blink, my cheeks warming.Thisis what we’re going to talk about? Afterthat? “Uh, yeah.”
“You probably noticed, but… I’m not guarding it so carefully anymore.”
I’m trying to make sense of what he’s saying, where he’s going with this line of conversation, but I’m coming up blank. His religion is important to him and I’m important to him, but I’m not sure how we connect—if wecanconnect. “What does that mean, Mati?”
His hands are still bracketing my face, his palms cool against my flushed skin. He says, “Kissing you. Touching you. Being here with you, alone. I’ve chosen to do these things, even though Allah and the Quran say I shouldn’t.”
“Because you think I’m a freebie?”
His brows pinch together. He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he’s lost.
“Context clues,” I say. “A freebie. Like, what you do with me isn’t a strike against your morals. We’re a window of time that doesn’t count, because as soon as you leave, that window will slam shut.”
He presses his lips to my forehead, branding my skin with his intensity. “Oh, I think we count. Since we met, I’ve been trying to reconcile my faith with my wishes, with my dreams, with my desires, and I keep thinking… It must be possible to be devoted to Islam while still holding on to my individuality. It must be okay to be Muslim, andme. I am a product of Allah. He created me, a person who has fallen for you. I just don’t understand how that can be wrong.”
I stare at him, struck silent by his honesty and his intelligence and his enormous heart.
We aren’t wrong; wecan’tbe wrong.
I kiss him, long and slow.
I file the sensation away for later, when kissing him is an impossibility.
I tell him breathlessly, “I love you for saying that.”
And then I’m out the door.
My heart swoops-dips-dives in the gray-blue sky.
elise
Ilove you for saying that.
God, the absoluteworsttime for my filter to malfunction. It slipped—totallyslipped—because when I’m with Mati, apparently I am at all times compelled to say exactly what’s on my mind. I shudder with embarrassment as I walk down the sidewalk toward Audrey’s.
Janie proves to be an ideal distraction. We whip up a batch of chocolate-chip cookies (I do the measuring, and she does the mixing), then we sit in front of the oven, watching them soften and puddle, setting into gooey perfection. I tell her a story about her daddy: how, when he was fourteen, he ate an entire batch of cookie dough, raw egg and all, straight from the fridge.
“Nana was so upset,” I say, reveling in Janie’s wide-eyed amazement.
“Did Daddy get in trouble?”
“Well, sort of, but not because Nana punished him. His tummy got sick and he was miserable for the rest of the day.”
She giggles. “Poor Daddy!”
When our cookies are done, I put several on a plate, still warm from the oven. “We should only eat two each,” Janie says sagely. “We don’t want to have sick tummies.”
“That’s right,” I say, pouring glasses of cold milk for dunking.
We watchThe Little Mermaidwhile we snack. Janie sings “Part of Your World” like she feels the lyrics in her little bones; I do, too. When the movie is done, we order pizza.
