Page 11

He gets up to collect it off the ground for me, and as he does, he asks, "What were you going to go as?"

I frown, thinking immediately of my typical go-to. "Uh, mummy..."

He turns back, lips pursed into a barely contained smirk. "Forgive me, but isn't that a little on the nose for you?"

"What? I like it! It’s my culture—that’s why I study this stuff." My words land somewhere between playful and defensive. Kevin knows how passionate I am about my work, but I’m still surprised by how sensitive I feel about it now.

"You are? Egyptian?" he asks more gently.

"Yeah," I say with that same hesitation, the fact seemingly never having mattered til this moment.

I search his eyes, suddenly worried this will make him look at me differently, a feeling I’ve had my entire life when people discover my pedigree. But just like with the emojis, there is no judgment, only that warm, accepting smile paired with perhaps a hint of embarrassment.

"Okay, fine, mummy." He taps his chin. "What goes with a mummy?"

"Before you ask, you can't do Indiana Jones grave robber, and no, I don't think you can do a pharaoh either because I doubt you can pull off brown face."

He cocks an eye at the suggestion. "Maybe I can just be a cowboy?"

"I can work with that,” I say with a smirk, hoping I didn’t squash his hopes with my overbearing feedback. “There's a thrift shop around the corner from our place."

"Sounds like a plan," he replies with a smile.

We start heading back, passing my favorite Egyptian restaurant one last time. This time, I ignore the decorations, instead picturing us inside, sharing kebab or moussaka. The thought comes so naturally, it surprises me. For the first time, I realize I don’t just want to spend time with someone in the moment—I want tomorrow with them, too. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that for anyone before.

Next thing I know, I suggest we stop at one of the countless convenience stores that dot Manhattan. For the sake of time, I say I’ll pop in under the guise of grabbing some chips to bring to the party so we don’t show up empty-handed. As I do, Kevin conveniently gets a call and insists I go in alone while he takes it.

I do so, and I'm glad I did, because as I'm waiting in line, I finally find the condoms. For the briefest moment, I hesitate, wondering if I might be being a little presumptive, before a voice in my head assures me it’s better to be safe than sorry.

I feel a heat well in my core as I think about the quiet moments we keep sharing, the times on the roof, the easy way I can talk to him, and then I'm reaching for the nearest pack just as we start to shuffle forward. In a moment of hesitation, I peer around the row of people in front of me so I can get a good look at my tall, broad date still talking on his phone. It takes no effort to imagine his strong arms holding me, and then I’m turning around and grabbing the box of XL size too, just to be safe.

A moment later, I am checked out with my hopes tucked neatly under the chips as I go to rejoin him. "Everything okay with your call?"

"Yep," he says with that same smile. "My uncle just wanted to check on how I was doing."

"And how are you doing?"

His formal smile turns to something warmer. "I'll let you know once we figure out what I'm wearing tonight."

I pout, feigning disappointment, before we head to the thrift shop and begin our search anew.

"Alright, so, you got jeans; hell, you even got the jacket. All I think you really need is a kerchief and a hat. Maybe I should have looked for a toy pistol in that store."

"You think we are going to find a cowboy hat in a thrift store in NYC?"

"I'll be shocked if we don't," I shoot back.

I start following him through the rows of clothing, trying to determine why bolos and scarves are mixed between shirts and pants. As I do, we slip back into our easy banter.

“So, where did you live before NYC?” I ask.

"Jeez, all over. I was just in Rochester before this. What about you? How long have you lived in the U.S.?" he asks.

"I was born here—"

"Holy crap, you were right!" His outburst cuts me off as he collects and tries on a smaller-sized cowboy hat.

He turns and says something to me, something I can't understand in the slightest, all hard sounds, even though I know it's probably something nice by the way he says it with a smile under that dorky headwear. Then when he realizes I can't understand, he looks as embarrassed as I do. That's because, like so many other people who learn I'm Egyptian, he tried to address me in Arabic.