“And this particular video has nothing to do with Dad and Dadaji,” Fatima went on, her gaze unnervingly sharp. “People aren’t talking about that at all. They’re talking about your super-romantic opposites-attract love story.”
That statement pricked the balloon of Zaf’s worry, because as far as he could tell—and he may have obsessively scrolled through the comments on his way here—it was true. Hmm.
“This associates your name with something positive. The more people think about #DrRugbae, the less they’ll remember about . . . before,” Fatima insisted.
“Doctor what?” Mum interjected. “What is this love-story nonsense? Zafir?”
“It’s not a love story,” Zaf gritted out. “My friend got stuck in a lift.”
“And you just had to carry her out in your big, strong arms,” Fatima snorted.
“I think,” Kiran said with a slow, dangerous smile, “that I’d like to see this famous video.”
Zaf glared at his niece. “I am regretting every time I ever fed you as a child. I should have let you starve.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about your new girlfriend. If your follower count is anything to go by, she’s getting Tackle It a ton of publicity.”
That was . . . an interesting way to look at it, but for one crucial detail. “Great, except she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Well, maybe she should be. I like Dani. She’s smart and funny and a good teacher.”
Mum made a sound that suggested she was moments from a pride-and-excitement-induced heart attack. “Zafir is marrying a teacher? From a university?”
Kiran, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Wait. Is this the woman you’re always telling me about, with the hair and the books and whatever?”
Aaand that was his cue to leave. He pointed at Fatima and said ominously, “I’m not done with you.”
She snorted. Kids these days had no healthy fear of their elders.
“Zaf,” Kiran said, “you can’t ignore me forever. Or even for an hour, usually.”
“Fatima!” Mum was practically shrieking now. “Show me that video!”
“All right,” Zaf said loudly, “love you guys, gotta go.”
“Wait! Zafir! Where are you going?”
He was already at the front door. He may have sprinted. “Bye!”
Only when he was partway to his flat did Zaf realize he’d failed in his mission to kill his niece, or even properly shout at her. But every time he thought about it, he saw Fluff’s happy little face and heard her calmly explaining how she’d actually done him a favor, and he felt bad about telling her off.
Which didn’t mean she was right. Obviously.
Zaf wandered out of the neighborhood he’d grown up in, a working-class one that his family had always refused to leave, occupied by Pakistanis like them, other South Asians, West Africans, Jamaicans. His own city apartment was less diverse and way less familiar, but on the plus side, he didn’t have any neighbors to make nice with. Or make eye contact with. These things swung in roundabouts.
As he moved through the city streets, passing the glowing signs and lit-up windows of chicken shops and dive bars, he muttered under his breath, “This is not a good thing. This is not a good thing. And what the hell is Dani going to say?” He had no idea, but he didn’t think women generally appreciated becoming social media sensations without their consent. This could affect her work or something. And Zaf knew her well enough to realize that if that happened, she’d sneak into his flat and slit his throat as he slept.
But when he got home and checked his phone again, he was . . . thoughtful. Fatima had been right about the boom in his follower count. There were more comments and likes under his pictures than ever, most people actually interacting with the content or asking questions about the nonprofit. Other people were commenting #DrRugbae and IS THIS REALLY ZAFIR ANSARI?, which kind of ruined the effect—but no one, he noticed, had posted anything about his “tragic past.” People used to call him that all the time. Tragic.
He pushed that thought away, along with the flare of old, aching anger it caused, and switched over to Twitter. Typed in that ridiculous hashtag. Took a breath, propped his legs up on the sofa, and started reading.
He scrolled until his eyes blurred and saw not one mention of his brother or his dad, not one mention of death and pain. Fatima’s earlier words came back to him, and something hopeful and daring and a little bit ridiculous stirred in his chest. Then he switched over to his DMs, scowled at the influx of messages from strangers—and saw, buried in the chaos, one from the Nottingham Post.
Zaf stared. Blinked, hard. Stared some more. He tapped the account, noticed the verified check mark, and fought a spike of anxiety before hopping off the sofa and starting to pace.
“Open it,” he told himself. “Just open it. If it’s some bullshit question, you can delete it and block them. It’s social media. You have control over social media.”
Well—you did unless someone filmed you salivating over a work friend and posted it online and it went viral. But still. He had control over this. So he sat down and opened the message, and his old, habitual nerves were replaced by a fizzy, sunshine sort of shock. No invasive questions about dark times or personal struggles here—just invasive questions about his nonexistent relationship.
Hi Zafir,
Hope you’re well. Our team is planning to cover the adorable #DrRugbae video, and we were hoping you and your girlfriend might have something to add before we publish. Is there anything you’d like to say about the video? We’d love to mention all the good you’re doing with Tackle It, too.
Holy shit. They’d love to mention Tackle It? Maybe Fatima was right. Zaf tapped out the first few words of a response, then deleted it all at once.
You and your girlfriend. That’s what the message said: they thought Dani was his girlfriend. If he replied, he’d need to correct them. But if he corrected them, why the
