Ali was my ex–best friend’s older brother. He and his sister, Zahra, were the two people I did not want to think about. My memories of them both were so saturated in emotion I could hardly breathe around the thoughts, and barreling face-first into my past wasn’t helping matters in my chest. Even now, I was barely holding it together, so assaulted were my senses by the mere sight of him.
It was almost cruel.
Ali was, among other things, the kind of handsome that transcended the insular social circles frequented by most members of Middle Eastern communities. He was the kind of good-looking that made white people forget he was terrorist-adjacent. He was the kind of brown guy who charmed PTA moms, dazzled otherwise racist teachers, inspired people to learn a thing or two about Ramadan.
I’d once hated Ali. Hated him for so effortlessly straddlingthe line between two worlds. Hated that he seemed to pay no price for his happiness. But then, for a very long time, I didn’t.
Didn’t hate him at all.
I sighed. My tired body needed to lean against something or else start moving and never stop, but I could presently do neither. Instead, I sat back down, folding myself onto the concrete with all the grace of a newborn calf. I picked up the forgotten lighter off the ground, ran my thumb over the top. Ali had gone solid in the last thirty seconds. Silent.
So I spoke. “Do you go to school here now?”
He was quiet a moment longer before he exhaled, seemed to come back to himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”
Ali was a year older than me, and I’d thought for sure he’d go out of state for college. Zahra rarely fed me details on her brother’s life, and I’d never dared to ask; I just assumed. The Ali I’d known had been effortlessly smart and had big plans for his future. Then again, I knew how quickly things could change. My own life was unrecognizable from what it was a year ago. I knew this, and yet I couldn’t seem to help it when I said—
“I thought you got into Yale?”
Ali turned. Surprise brightened his eyes for only a second before they faded back to black. He looked away again and the harsh lamplight rewarded him, casting his features in stark, beautiful lines. He swallowed, the slight, near-imperceptible movement sending a bolt of feeling through my chest.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
“Then why are y—”
“Listen, I don’t really want to talk about last year, okay?”
“Oh.” My heart was suddenly racing. “Okay.”
He took a deep breath, exhaled a degree of tension. “When did you start smoking?”
I put down the lighter. “I don’t really want to talk about last year, either.”
He looked at me then, looked for so long I thought it might kill me. Quietly, he said, “What are you doing here?”
“I take a class here.”
“I know that. I meant what are you doinghere”—he nodded at the ground—“soaking wet and smoking cigarettes?”
“Wait, how do you know I take a class here?”
Ali looked away, ran a hand through his hair. “Shadi, come on.”
My mind went blank. I felt suddenly stupid. “What?”
He turned to face me.
He met my eyes with brazen defiance, almost daring me to look away. I felt the heat of that look in my blood. Felt it in my cheeks, the pit of my stomach.
“I asked,” he said.
It was both a confession and a condemnation; I felt the weight of it at once. It was suddenly clear that he’d asked Zahra about me, about my life—even now, after everything.
I had not. I’d tried instead to forget him entirely, and I’d not succeeded.
“Listen,” he said, but his voice had gone cold. “If you already have a ride, I’ll leave you alone. But if you don’t, let me drive you home. You’re bleeding. You’re shivering. You look terrible.”
My eyes widened at the insult before the rational part of my brain even had a chance to process the context, but Ali registered his mistake immediately. Spoke in a rush.
