“I’m going to go sit up front with my mom to see this and be there to congratulate them first when the ceremony’s done,” I tell Tats. “Are you coming?
“No, there are guests still arriving. Jeremy and I will take care of the table.”
I make my way to the curve of chairs at the left of the gazebo where our side of the family’s sitting, facing the audience like Sarah’s family. On the other side, I catch Dawud’s eyes as he stands up to wiggle a bit, favors basket in his hands, before being yanked down by someone.
His eyes are not the only ones I see. In the audience, Uncle Bilal is in a seat at the far right in between Dania and Lamya, but his gaze keeps turning to the left. Up front to our family row.
Mom.
Dad’s sitting a few chairs away, so puffed up, proud, and happy. Linda sits beside him, leaning into him, her elbow fitting into the crook of his arm.
Is that what Amu meant about the “serenity and refuge of true love”?
I look at Uncle Bilal once more. He’s trying to look at the stage, but there go his eyes again, just taking a tiny look before darting back.
Will he show love and mercy to Mom?
Because I know she will to whoever she’s with.
* * *
After the ceremony we all hug one another. Even Sarah’s family is hugging us, even Auntie Rima’s hugging me, even Sarah’s mom is, and it’s so so tight that her face dissolves into a smile when she pulls away, and this is weird, but the more I let everyone hug me, the more I just relax into hugs.
So much that I go and find Dania and Lamya and hug them, too.
* * *
As dinner’s winding down, the ice-cream truck chimes, and Haytham takes the mic and makes an announcement that children of all ages are invited to buy treats but only if they hold their money tight in their hands and make “the longest, straightest, silentest line in the world.” When he says this, I glance with raised eyebrows at Sausun, sitting beside me at my specially chosen table of nine. “He’s a Super Uncle already.”
“And?” Sausun shoots back.
“And Super Uncle needs votes,” I remind her.
“Janna, quit it. I’m already following Abdul Kareem on all my socials. His rendition of ‘Tala’al-Badru’ is impeccable. Unbeatable.”
“That’s because you haven’t heard Haytham’s rendition. I have, and it’s amazing.” I shrug and get up. “I have to go help him, since I arranged for the ice-cream truck to be here. Anyone want ice cream?”
Just as I ask this, Dad takes the mic from Haytham and makes an announcement of his own. “Perfect. Will the balloon artist please head to the ice-cream truck? To entertain the children?” Dad watches the artist, who’s been waiting for his gig, go off. Then he turns back to the guests. “The kids can get their ice cream, and the adults can get dessert. As you may all know, I run Lite Indian Desserts. Rich, traditional desserts with a twist: They’re not rich in calories! Twists are what I specialize in. So of course, in commemoration of my son’s wedding… Sorry.” He pauses and looks over at the section where Sarah’s family is seated. “I mean, my son’s nikah ceremony—a reminder, the real wedding reception is next year, folks—I’ve decided to unveil my newest twist. Will the LID Inc. gentlemen and gentlewomen standing by please come and serve the dessert selections to each table?”
Servers immediately move in with trays that they set three to a table, with three sweets on each.
“These are just a small sampling of my new line, more of which are available at the dessert table at the back.” Dad stands taller with pride and continues. “Honored guests, may I present you with my fusion line of Indian and Arab sweets, playfully titled Desarabi, launching on Monday! Taste and note the names of your favorites, which are easy to see on the specially made, clearly labeled trays.”
I lean over and look at the white cardboard tray of three sweets that’s been placed between me, Sausun, Tats, and Jeremy. Baklaburfi (baklava and burfi), basboodda (basbousa and laddoo), and kunakheer (kunafeh and kheer) stare back at me. I raise my eyes to the table up front where Muhammad and Sarah are seated, to see their reactions.
Sarah looks somewhere between amused and impressed while Muhammad appears shocked.
I decide not to check out Sarah’s family’s reactions and just go help Haytham.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Alex, the ice-cream-truck guy, is smiling, with his sister Katarina beside him. The balloon artist has already started making animals for the kids waiting in line.
“Aha!” I tell Haytham. “See? I was right. Happy ice-cream dude!”
“Look at the line,” he counters. “Of course he’s happy. The guy’s making a killing. Hope he has enough ice cream.”
“I still won.”
“Okay, you won.” He smiles at me, and Tats looks over with raised eyebrows from where she’s helping the laddoos peel their ice-cream treats.
Great. The story about Haytham she made up is going to grow in her head.
“And tomorrow, you’ll win. The competition. Insha’Allah,” I tell him.
“About that. Your cousins, Adnan and Imran, they taught me this song, apparently one of your brother’s favorite songs. I’m going to sing it without any music. It’s just the first lines and the chorus. They’re going to help me keep tune in the background a cappella, with hums and snaps.”
“But I thought the entries were done.”
“No, I don’t mean for the Muslim Voice. I mean for right after this, when I’m singing in the gazebo. Do you think she’ll like it?”
“Who?”
“Sausun.”
“Oh, now I get it—you’re trying to sing a cappella to get her on your side.” I smile.
Uh-oh, Tats is looking over again. She’s probably thinking, They’re smiling at each other—it’s true love.
I look at Haytham. He’s looking back at me expectantly.
“I like it. Great idea,” I assure him.
“No, do you think she’ll be interested?” He shifts uncomfortably. “In me?”
I break out in the hugest smile ever. I don’t care if Tats is staring like a hawk.
The skies are blue, my brother just got married to the love of his life, there’s a jolly ice-cream truck and driver right beside me, balloon animals are being made, and Haytham likes Sausun.
After Muhammad and Sarah, that’s the best crush of this whole too-much-love-happening wedding yet.
* * *
Chaahe tum kuchh na kaho maine sun liya.
Holding his phone in front of him for the lyrics, Haytham sings the opening lines of “Pehla Nasha,” a Hindi song Muhammad and I heard from Dad all the time growing up.
Haytham is so good the laddoos try to sing along from the audience, mistaking it for the real thing.
I move over to where Sausun’s standing, a glass of pop in her hand. “What do you think?”
She raises her glass to me. “Better. Also, what are you? His agent?”
“No, just a gal tasked to find out if you’re open to looking into an eligible young man who can sing whatever song you want, train and subdue any child within a five-mile radius, bake cupcakes, and also glue flowers together.” I add quickly, “Oh, and compose poetry in the shower.”