“See, that’s interesting.” I tilted my head. “Because at the wedding you were laughing plenty. Smiling. You let me slide that garter up that thick thigh. Even shoved my chest, which—and I want to be clear about this—I didn’t file a police report about. Very gracious of me.”
Her face changed. Just barely. A flicker behind her eyes that said she remembered exactly what I was talking about and didn’t appreciate me bringing it up. The garter. My hand on her leg. Her palm on my chest. That half-second where neither of us was pretending we didn’t feel it.
“That was a tradition,” she said. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You had plenty of choices. You chose to let me go past your knee,” I leaned in and inhaled her sweet scent. “But sure. Tradition.”
She slowly backed up. “You are incredibly?—”
“Charming? Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“Insufferable. The word is insufferable.”
“Hmm. That’s not what your eyes are saying.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits so thin I was genuinely concerned she might cut me with them. She clutched her purse tighter, like she was considering using it as a weapon, and stepped around me toward the ladies’ room.
“My name,” she said without turning around, “is Mehar. Not Mean-har. Not anything else your oversized ego wants to invent. Mehar.”
“Whatever you say, Mean-har.”
The bathroom doorshut behind her with a slam.
I walked backto my seat with my hands in my pockets and something unfamiliar sitting in my chest. I liked her spice and I knew where it was coming from. I didn’t know all the details but I know she’s been through a lot.
“What are you smiling about?” Rita asked when I sat down.
“Nothing.”
“Mmhmm.” She gave me that look. “You look like trouble.”
“I’m always trouble, Grandma.”
“That’s what worries me.”
? ? ?
The lights dimmed at seven o’clock sharp.
Mehar slid into the row just before the lights went all the way down. She’d come from the direction of the bathrooms, her face freshly composed, not a hair out of place. She took the empty seat next to Zainab without looking in my direction once, which I found impressive given that I was directly behind her and she’d have to actively work to avoid my entire line of sight. Dedicated. I respected the commitment. But it ignited something in me. It made me want to break her. Not in a bad way. But I wanted to crack her open and draw her out of her shell. I could tell by that uptight walk she hadn’t been fucked right—nor loved right.
What the fuck am I talkin’ about? I ain’t got time for no shit like that. But for someone as beautiful as her, I could make time.
Zainab leaned over and whispered something to her. Mehar nodded, squeezed her sister’s arm, and settled in. Back straight. Chin up. Armor on. Like she hadn’t just cursed me out in a hallway over a purse.
A woman in a black blazer walked to the center of the stage and welcomed everyone to the Spring Showcase. She listed off the performers, thanked the parents, reminded everyone to silence their phones. Standard stuff. I tuned out most of it until she said Yusef’s name.
“Performing Frédéric Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G Minor… Yusef Ali.”
“That’s an advanced piece,” Rita whispered.
Prime glanced back at me. I raised an eyebrow. He raised one back.
Yusef walked out from stage left. Suit jacket. Bow tie. Fresh lineup. His glasses catching the stage lights. He looked small out there, the grand piano massive and gleaming beside him, but he didn’t look nervous. He looked focused.
He sat at the bench. Adjusted the height. Positioned his hands.
And then he played.
