Man, her many ohs are making me feel like I’m a terrible person.
Maybe I am a terrible person.
Because I don’t like the idea of Mom being part of a new family. It’s strange and unknown, and I’m not ready. I like my world small, limited to just who I allow in.
As I enter the hotel, I shush the thought that comes into my head: Small and limited, like Dad sees the world?
I’m not like him, I think as I wait discreetly by the Tree of Red Fluffs for Dania to go into the elevator by herself.
Before I go ahead and wait for another one.
I just don’t like awkward elevator silences.
* * *
Back at the henna party, when Mom asked why I wanted to bunk with her tonight, I whispered something about there being too many guys around Dad’s place.
She’d nodded and then proceeded to tell me how Nuah had looked so happy when she’d seen him outside earlier, when she’d come in to prep me for the henna party with Auntie Maysa. “He’s such a sweet kid! You guys are perfect for each other.”
Now I’m in the hotel room bathroom wondering how to tell her about Nuah.
She has to know the truth.
Because otherwise, tomorrow, she’s going to go out of her way to be chummy with him and then come back to me and nudge me and look in his direction and smile and just be Mom.
Tomorrow.
Ugh.
No ideas come to my mind while I shower, scraping all the henna off my hands and sending the dried flecks down the drain.
No idea of how to tackle this with Mom without her feeling sorry for me.
Maybe I should tell her on our ride home to Eastspring on Sunday.
And keep her from interacting with Nuah in any possible way, by any means necessary, at the wedding.
* * *
I wrap my wet hair in a towel, put on Mom’s bathrobe that’s hanging on a hook by the towel shelf, and open the door of the bathroom… to what looks like another party.
Lamya, with her knees up and a phone in her hands, is sitting on the bed we designated as Tats’s, while Tats is in an armchair taking off her nail polish, her used cotton balls gathered in a pile on the adjacent side table. Dania’s on the bed that I’m going to be sharing with Mom, while Mom sits across from her on the wheely chair from the desk.
Dania’s got a facial mask on and is spreading one on Mom’s face too.
They’re all in their pajamas. And there’s music coming from Tats’s phone. “Ocean Eyes.”
It’s her old, chill-out-before-bed playlist.
She abruptly stops the song when she sees me.
Lamya and Dania look over at me when the music ends, and that’s when it hits me: Tats thinks I’m going to cry if I hear Billie Eilish. That I’m going to cry about Nuah—because we always called it the ultimate breakup song.
I back into the bathroom again and close the door.
Because I think Tats is right.
* * *
I take a pic of my hennaed hands, the intricate design on them an eruption of blooms, like a floral Persian rug, and share it on my Instagram story.
Then I erase our messages. Nuah’s and mine.
All of them.
When that’s done, before the emptiness enters me, the emptiness of nothing, no words, no jokes, no pics, no memes, no GIFs, nothing exchanged with Nuah, before “Ocean Eyes” enters my head on a loop, and before it feels like the song’s filling the bathroom, reminding me there’s nothing between me and Nuah, I click on the link that Layth sent me and watch a baby sloth being fed milk with a syringelike bottle.
I want a sloth. I want to bottle-feed it and have it loop its arms around my neck, and I want it to look up at my eyes once in a while for reassurance. I’d be the best at giving my sloth reassurance, because I’m pretty dependable.
Whoever I pledge my love or even my like to, I’ll be around for.
I pause the sloth video and look up into the mirror as it hits me that Dad wanted me to not fall for Nuah, and I stood up to him, but then—
But then Nuah didn’t want me to fall for him either.
It’s like a double burn.
It’s so quiet that I can hear the voices in the room outside. There are more of them out there now.
I unravel the towel and shake my hair out and then bundle it all back into the towel. I’m killing time, like if I wait here long enough, I’m going to come out to an empty room.
Someone knocks. “Janna, just wanted to tell you that Khadija and Zayneb stopped by too. They just got back to the hotel.”
Mom. Giving me this info, which is really code for Come out and be a polite host, girl.
Sigh. I should have known if I came back to stay with Mom with Tats, there’d be a party in the room.
Tats was the one who’d shouted “Come hang in our room!” to Dania and Lamya as we were all getting out of the car. I thought for sure they wouldn’t take her up on the offer.
I open the door again, and yeah, it’s a party.
Zayneb’s orange suitcase is open, and her Canadian treats are being passed around. I smell something really vinegary and suspect it’s coming from the big red bag of chips with an outline of a ketchup bottle on the front that’s in Mom’s hands right now.
I wave at everyone and sit on the long stool at the end of Tats’s bed and watch a bit of Lindsay Lohan in Freaky Friday, which of course Tats managed to find on the hotel TV.
I need to change into pajamas.
And maybe go out for some fresh air.
* * *
After a third visit to the bathroom to change, I’m now at the hotel room door in a super-faded Winnie-the-Pooh pajama shirt atop a pair of black silk pants with pink grinning skulls all over them, my worst set of pajamas (really thought I was going to be alone with Mom and Tats), with my fave black scarf thrown around my head, waving my wallet with a big smile. “Going to get American treats from the vending machine. Anyone want anything?”
Khadija rises slowly from the armchair Tats gave up for her, rubbing her stomach enclosed in a long white nightgown with a frilly neck. She adjusts her hijab so it sits more snugly. “I need a walk. I’ll come.”
I hope my falling face is not too visible.
Noooooo.
Chapter Twenty-Five
We walk down the carpeted hallway toward the elevators in silence.
“The vending machine is on the second floor,” I say preemptively, to ensure the conversation stays on the topics I want it to. “I couldn’t stand the smell of those ketchup chips. What’s that all about, anyway?”
“Did you try them?” Khadija asks.
“No. I don’t think I can get close enough to them to even try one chip.” I make a gagging motion.
“They’re good. And, really, nothing like ketchup. More of a sweet-and-salty thing. With crazy red coloring that comes off on your fingers.”
“No thanks.” I push the elevator button. “I’ll take my sour cream and onion chips any day.”
Silence.
“So what are you in the mood for? I’m thinking chips and maybe M&Ms.” I tilt my head, thinking carefully. “Maybe even peanut butter M&Ms if they have those.”
Khadija stops rubbing her stomach. “You know what, I’m not thinking that hard about it.”