“Ali, the mosquitoes are going to eat everyone alive.”
He glanced back. “Someone will close the door.”
I’d rolled my eyes at him, started heading for the house. “They’re not going to notice until it’s—”
I jumped back, suddenly, when my foot sank into a muddy patch of grass, and promptly collided into Ali, who’d been following me inside. I’d been wearing a silk dress that summer day, but when he touched me, I might’ve been wearing nothing at all. The delicate fabric did little to dull the blow of sensation; I felt his hands on me like they were pressed against my skin, like I was naked in his arms.
I’d felt it, too, when he became aware of me, of the shape of me under his hands. When we collided he’d caught me from behind; I couldn’t see his face. Instead, I’d felt his weight pressed up against my own, heard the change in his breath when we touched, when his hands froze where they’d landed. One of his palms was flat against my stomach, the other holding fast to my hip. He let go of me slowly, with excruciating care, like he’d caught a crystal bowl in midair. His fingers grazed my torso as they retreated, skated across my belly button. We’d both gone quiet, the sounds of our breathing amplified in the silence.
Ali had finally drawn back but I felt the whisper of his touch at the base of my spine, felt his chest move as he inhaled, exhaled. Softly—so softly it was little more than an idea—his fingers traced the indentation at my waist, the curve of my hips. He said, “God, Shadi, you’re so beautiful sometimes I can’t even look at you,” and I’d just stood there, my heart jackhammering in my chest, my eyes closing on a sound, a desperate sound that escaped my lips, shattered the dream. I’d come back to myself with a terrifying awareness, walked back into the house without a word, without looking back.
Ali and I never discussed that moment, never even alluded to it. I think maybe we both knew, even then, that it was the beginning of something—something that might tear our lives to shreds.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory, pressed my forehead to my knees. Seeing Ali yesterday had broken the barricade in my mind meant to hold back precisely this kind of emotional stampede.
I needed to pull myself together.
I lifted my head, shoved my hands in my coat pockets, let the weather push me around. It wasn’t raining, not yet, but it had been storming all day, crows circling, trees rattling. I loved watching things breathe, loved watching branches sway, leaves hanging on for dear life. I didn’t mind the terrible gusts that nearly knocked back my scarf. There was something brutal about the wind, the way it slapped you in the face, left your ears ringing.
It made me feel alive.
The winds were currently too strong to allow a comfortable perusal of the newspaper, but there was a single cigarette abandoned in the linty lining of my right pocket, and I rolled it between my fingers, clenched and unclenched it in my fist. I nearly smiled.
These cigarettes had belonged to my brother.
I confiscated them before they came for his things, stole them out of their hiding places along with his weed, his dirty magazines, a box of condoms, and a single glass pipe. I didn’t want him to do anything more to break my parents’ hearts from beyond the grave. I didn’t want him to be defined by his weaknesses any more than I wanted to be defined by mine. It seemed a terrible injustice to be exposed in death, to be found out as predictably human, as frail as everyone else.
My father knew, of course. Or at least suspected.
My father was a connoisseur of all things—he had, in fact, given this mantle to himself. He loved to hear himself speak aloud the truths he’d decided were holy, and he felt strongly about all manner of diverse subjects: worthy hobbies, the best attributes, a precise work ethic, the exact ratio of water to espresso in an Americano. He had many ideas about the world, ideas he’d spent his entire life honing, and which he often felt compelled to share, loudly, with the still-forming clay of his children. My dad often declared that he and my mother were decent, pious people who’d brought their children up to be better than drug addicts. Those were his words, my father’s words, the ones he’d shouted when my brother came home with bloodshot eyes, smelling vaguely of weed for the umpteenth time.
My brother was a lazy liar.
Mehdi, too, drove a Honda Civic. A Honda Civic SI, bright blue, eighteen-inch rims. He’d modified it himself, put in a special exhaust, illegal blue lights, an insane sound system, a garish lip kit. He was expressly forbidden from drinking the alcohol he drank, expressly forbidden from dating the girls he dated, expressly forbidden from sneaking out of the house at night, which he did, nearly all the time. It was my window he used to climb out of, mine because of the ledge, the tree, the easy drop to the ground and the distance from my parents’ bedroom. He’d always kiss me on the forehead before he left, and I’d always leave my phone under my pillow, waiting, waiting for the buzz of his late-night text message asking me to unlock the front door.
My father had never been cruel, but he had always been cold. He loved rules, and he demanded respect from his children. He no doubt thought he was doing the right thing by trying to control Mehdi, but my dad had been so focused on the differences between them that he never seemed to understand that they were also the same.
Unyielding.
My father tried to break him, so my brother became water. My father tried to contain him, so my brother became the sea.
I heard a sudden crash.
I got
