His handshake was big, warm ... and a little limp. When I teased him about it later, Ali protested that he was trying to be polite. It was a classic clash of East and West embodied in a handshake. An Arab man was impolite, forward even, if he shook a woman’s hand too firmly. In America, a loose grip meant the man was a wimp.
I liked the way he dressed, in dark jeans and a button-down shirt. Respectful but not too much. At the previous meet and greets, the potential husbands wore suits. It smacked of trying too hard. There was no competition. Ali exuded cool. He was relaxed and confident, with a laid-back attitude and easy smile.
We went for a walk to escape both sets of parents, who were busy trying not to stare and pretending not to eavesdrop. There were no sidewalks in our suburban Virginia neighborhood, so we walked along the side of the quiet street. I wanted to know everything about him.
“There’s not much to tell.” His voice, deep and warm, slightly gravelly, sliced through me like a hot knife through butter. “I’m a CPA. I work at one of the big accounting firms in DC.”
“Do you like being an accountant?” He didn’t strike me as the accountant type. And I couldn’t imagine working with numbers all day. Words were my thing.
“I do enjoy the work. I find it satisfying when everything adds up.” So maybe he was a little bit of a nerd. A hot nerd.
He shared some of his experiences growing up in Northern Virginia. His parents, like mine, were immigrants, but he was born in the States. After playing sports in high school, he’d gone to James Madison University and lived the frat boy life. I liked that he was as Americanized as me.
“High school athlete. College frat bro,” I said flippantly. “Sounds like you were a party boy.”
“I won’t lie to you.” A shadow crossed over his face. “I used to drink.”
I was taken aback by how seriously he took my teasing comment. “I was just kidding.”
“I don’t drink anymore.” He frowned and momentarily seemed very far away. “I don’t like the feeling of losing control.”
“You don’t drink at all now?” The young people in our Arab American community, the ones who were Muslim, were a mixed lot. Some were religious and never touched alcohol. Others went wild in college only to give up drinking once they had families. Some never stopped.
“No. I don’t drink at all.” He shook his head and then smiled, as if mentally shaking off whatever memory had gotten ahold of him. “Now tell me more about yourself. I know you just graduated. What’s your next step?”
I was more than happy to leave his sudden dark mood behind. “I’m finishing up an internship at the Smithsonian. I’m hoping to get a full-time job there.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who works at a museum. What kind of work do you do?”
“I help set up new exhibits. Mostly on the writing side with the informational panels that explain what the display is about.”
“That sounds interesting,” he said like he meant it.
“It is. I love it.” I pulled my sweater tighter around me, against the early-fall chill.
He noticed. “Are you cold? Should we go back? Or I can run to the house and get you a jacket.”
“No, I’m OK.” I didn’t want him going anywhere. Not even for a few minutes.
We started down a slope in the road. “I’ve been out of school for three years. I own a town house at Tysons Corner.” He got straight to the point. “My parents are really pushing hard for me to get married.”
He didn’t have to tell me why his mother and father were so eager. Many Arab families tried to marry off their kids as soon as possible. Settling down young helped avoid the temptations of American life, which, God forbid, included marrying a non-Muslim.
“What about you?” I asked him. “Doyoufeel ready to get married?”
“Yes. I do. Absolutely.” He answered in a firm, declarative way. As if he was speaking as much to himself as he was to me. Then his voice softened, and his slow smile made my insides warm and dreamy. “Especially now that I’ve met you.”
Of course I melted. That night, as I replayed our conversation over and over again in my head, I remembered the strange feeling that fluttered through me when I first laid eyes on Ali. It was almost like a flicker of recognition, an instinctual knowing that this encounter was unlike any other.
“It’skismet al-naseeb.” Mama sighed happily when I mentioned the sensation to her and Lulu. “Your soul immediately recognized your fated mate, even if your mind didn’t.”
Lulu rolled her eyes. “Oh,please.”
I laughed it off, but meeting Ali made a believer out of me. The concept of a fated mate secretly struck me as deliciously romantic. And, despite Lulu’s skepticism, I couldn’t wait to live out my very own fairy tale.
Chapter Three
Now
