The stunned silence went on long enough for Zaf’s nerves to balloon a little bit. Then, one by one, his family’s faces split into slow, proud grins, and the balloon popped, leaving nothing but relief.
“Chacha,” Fatima whispered, wide-eyed, “are you serious?”
He nodded. He knew this was huge, logically. He’d just been having trouble getting excited about it when his mind and his heart ached with other things. But now his mother whooped and clapped her hands, and Kiran was clutching her chest and beaming like a lightbulb, and Jamal was punching him in the shoulder and laughing, saying, “I see you, I see you,” and somehow all their enthusiasm broke down his own cautious, hurting wall and shoved excitement directly into his veins.
And just like that, Zaf was smiling, too.
An hour and another bowl of dessert later, the whole family still buzzing with congratulations, Jamal dragged Zaf into the hall.
“Come on, man. We need to go somewhere.”
Zaf followed along with a frown. “What? Since when?” Then Jamal pushed Zaf’s jacket into his hands and kicked his shoes toward him. “Where are we—?”
“Just taking Zafir for a walk, auntie,” Jamal called over his shoulder. “Be back in a minute. Come on, get your shoes on.”
“Why?” Zaf demanded, but he did it anyway. Jamal just winked. Then he opened the door and they broke out into the cool, spring evening, the sky above them a calm dove-gray. March was officially over, just like Zaf and Dani—but then, that had always been the plan. Yesterday had marked the end of their four weeks of faking it.
So much had happened between them, he barely even thought about that Dr. Rugbae shit anymore. Except when he was scrolling through the practically dead hashtag to find old, creepy pictures of them holding hands all over campus. Which was not healthy behavior, he realized that, but whatever. He was working on it.
Jamal flicked him in the back of the head. “You’re moping.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Look at your face—you’re moping.” Jamal steered him around a corner and down the street.
“Maybe I’m pissed because you just dragged me outside for no reason. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Nothing you need to panic about, anyway. I promise.”
A promise from Jamal was good enough to ease the threat of flickering anxiety, but Zaf still couldn’t stop himself from guessing. “Is this about one of the kids?”
“Nah. All good.”
Zaf thought some more. “Are you going to propose to Kiran?”
Jamal rolled his eyes. “Inshallah, obviously I’m gonna propose to Kiran.”
“And you’re taking me to discuss this on the . . . rugby field?” Because that’s where they’d wound up, he realized, as they stepped onto the familiar grass. “Right now? Is it that urgent?” A thought occurred, and Zaf thumped his friend in the shoulder. “Are you doing it today?”
“No. I haven’t even got a ring.” Jamal looked genuinely nervous for once in his laid-back life. “What kind of ring do you get a woman like that? Plus, it has to match the first one.”
The ring Zain Bhai gave her, the one she’d never taken off. Zaf’s heart squeezed, but it wasn’t discomfort so much as awed, gentle envy.
Love could hurt so bad, but fuck was it good.
Zaf was going back to work tomorrow. He had to. Maybe Danika would sail right past him as if they’d been nothing, maybe he’d have to chain himself to his desk so he wouldn’t chase after her like some lovestruck hero, but he needed to see her. Or he’d never get the chance to tell her he was sorry. Or to tell her that, if she didn’t want his love, fine—but if she did, it would always be there.
Always.
“So,” Zaf croaked, “you want ring advice?”
“From you? For what? Like you’re some fashion icon. I’ll ask Fluffy, thanks very much.”
Zaf laughed—and then, freed from the distraction of his sister’s possible proposal, he finally noticed the goalposts at the far end of the field. The ones they were walking toward right now. The ones that usually stood plain and unadorned, the white paint chipped and the metal rusting in places, against the backdrop of the field and the cluster of silver beeches just behind it.
Today those posts had countless bunches of huge, bright flowers wrapped around them. Every inch of metal, up to the crossbar, was hidden by white and red carnations, each bigger than Zaf’s fist, a sea of petals scattered on the mud beneath the goal. Behind that spectacle, in the long evening shadows cast by the beeches, was a group of teenage boys perched on BMXs, who all started waving. They shouted over each other like excitable puppies given human form.
“Here he is!
“Here, Zaf, we kept an eye on all this because—”
“Fucking Ollie Carpenter was sniffing up here, but—”
“Quiet, quiet, we’re supposed to fuck off now.”
“Cheers, lads,” Jamal called, and they all dispersed.
Zaf stared. “What—?” Then someone else walked out of the shadows. The last person he’d ever expected to see, a living fantasy—but he felt the evening breeze on his cheeks and the familiar give of the
