Malik sits down and immediately pulls the table closer toward him to give me a little more space. “Thanks,” I tell him.
I can’t even bring myself to make eye contact with him. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because for once it’s nice to not be the only person in the room who is aware of the space my body takes up. To me, the gesture is so sweet that I feel a lump in my throat forming.
“Of course,” he says.
Love is in the details.
“How’d you find this place?” I ask.
He reaches behind the mini jukebox and hands me a menu. “Priya. My older sister. This used to be her hangout. Everything in Clover City shuts down by ten or eleven, so the only twenty-four-hour diners we have are crawling with people from school. But this place is a little out of the way.”
“I’m never really out that late, but that makes sense.”
“My parents aren’t what you would call strict,” he says. “My sister and her friends would study here all night. When I was a freshman and she was a senior, she started bringing me with her. Plus this is one of the few places still open when I get out of work on Fridays and Saturdays.”
Malik works at our only movie theater, the Lone Star Four, and it’s like this whole facet of him that I don’t even know. “When did you start working at the theater?” I ask.
“Last spring. If Priya was going to leave me her car, I had to find a way to pay for gas. I love it there, but late-night weekend shows put me home so late I’m already jonesing for breakfast.”
“Must be nice not to have strict parents. My mom is beyond strict. She would never let me have a job where I work that late.”
He shrugs. “It’s sort of weird. With my aunties and uncles... they’re in their kids’ business all the time. Priya says they’re like ingrown hairs.”
I laugh. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. What makes your parents different?”
“Well...”
“I’ll be over in a sec!” shouts Lupe from across the diner.
“Thanks,” calls Malik before turning back to me. “I mean, it’s not that weird for my family or for Hindu culture, really. Especially with the older generations.” He pauses for a moment. “My parents had an arranged marriage.”
That is definitely not what I expected to hear. I smile maybe too widely. “Wow!”
“But they love each other. They really do.”
I lean in a little. “You don’t have to convince me.”
“I know,” he says, “but it’s sort of crazy, because sometimes I feel like they were meant to be. Like, they were specifically built for each other.”
“Must be nice,” I say. “So does that mean you’ll... get married that way, too?”
“I don’t think so,” he says. “My parents told me and Priya that we can decide if we want their help or not.”
“Oh. Okay.” I hold up the menu, trying to cover the relief spread across my lips. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to marry the guy. Or maybe I will someday! Who knows? But that’s on the table still.So that’s nice, I think.
“Anyway, my parents couldn’t have kids for the longest time. It’s not like all they ever wanted was kids. My mom was a literature professor up until she retired a few years ago, and my dad’s an engineer. Not having kids was a bummer, but they like being the cool aunt and uncle, too. Then when my mom was forty-three and my dad was forty-eight, they had Priya. According to my dad, she was their miracle. And then two years later, I was their surprise. My mom gave me her maiden name, Malik.” He pronounces it differently thanme and all of our teachers do. It sounds like Mah-lick instead of Maleak. “She has four sisters and no brothers, so it was her way of passing it on.”
“That’s amazing.” I wince a little. “But have I been mispronouncing your name this whole time?”
He laughs. “Well, I answer to both pronunciations. Even my sister pronounces it the way you do. Unless she’s pissed, then she pronounces it like our parents and my aunties.”
“That’s such a great story about your parents, though.”
His sparkling-white teeth peek out from behind his lips as he smiles. “Yeah.” He nods along. “Yeah, it sort of is. So they’re just a little more chill, I guess. Priya thinks it’s because they’re older and they’ve watched all our cousins grow up.”
“What can I get ya?” asks Lupe as she makes her way over to our table. Her uniform is a bright mustard-colored dress with a thick black belt and black piping on every edge. I immediately like her, and I think it’s because the woman is built like a snowman and that’s not too far off from my apple-shaped body.
I glance down at the menu. “I’ll take the funny-face pancakes and a side of hash browns and a root beer, too.”
