The Impossibility of Us Page 13

  He looks down at the half camel in his hand. “Oops?”

  I laugh. “Put it out of its misery already.”

  He tosses what’s left of the cookie into his mouth, watching as Janie draws her version of a cat—a circle with two triangular ears on top. She gives it long, long whiskers before looking up to seek our approval.

  “Well done,” Mati says as I flash her a thumbs-up.

  I bend my legs in close and wrap my arms around them. I rest my cheek on my knees so I can look more comfortably at my babysitting buddy. “Is Mati your full name?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s Matihullah. I was named after an old friend of my baba’s. My sister was Janie’s age when I was born and she couldn’t pronounce it, so my parents shortened it to Mati.”

  “Matihullah.” It sounds so serious. “I like it, though I think Mati suits you better.”

  He bumps my knee with his. Pings of electricity dance across my skin. “I think so, too.”

  We’re motionless, watching each other, breathing in tandem.

  Enchanted … That’s the only word that comes close to encompassing how I feel—how he makes me feel.

  His gaze slips to my mouth. He licks his lower lip, absently I think, but God, I’d trade my Nikon to know what’s going on in his head. Because kiss me, kiss me, kiss me is bouncing around in mine and even though I know he won’t—can’t, damn it—I want him to think about it as compulsively, as fanatically, as I do. He’d be a good kisser, I’m certain. He’s aware and deliberate by nature, but gentle and thoughtful and passionate, too. Plus, those lips … He’d be a prodigy—a virtuoso of the kiss.

  Janie appears in front of us suddenly, like she teleported across the yard. She’s covered in chalk dust and frosting. “Auntie, I’m tired.”

  The spell is broken.

  elise

  I help Janie through a bath, brush the sugar from her tiny teeth, then lie down beside her on her twin bed. I read from a book of fairy tales, whimsical stories about princesses who meet their princes and fall in love without challenge or consequence—sort of. I mean, sometimes the infatuated couples have to outsmart an angry witch or battle a fire-breathing dragon, but there’s always, always, always a happily ever after.

  Must be nice.

  When Janie’s eyelids grow heavy and her thumb finds its way into her mouth, I tuck her beneath her garden fairy sheets and kiss her fine hair. I flip off the overhead light in favor of the golden glow of the night-light, then wind the music box that sits atop her bookshelf. “Once Upon a Dream” … Nick had it shipped to Audrey the day she told him they were expecting a baby girl, a phone call that spanned North Carolina to Afghanistan, and was, as Aud tells it, spilling over with joy.

  As soon as the soft tinkle of music begins, Janie snuggles into her covers and closes her eyes, like the song chosen for her by her daddy brings a special sense of comfort. I stand over her bed for a moment that stretches into many, letting my gaze trace her chubby cheeks and her sloped nose and her lips, heart-shaped, like mine and my mom’s and my brother’s.

  He’d be so head-over-heels in love with his little girl. He’d be the best dad, too, and with very little example to speak of.

  When I return to the living room, Mati’s tucked into a corner of the sofa, paging through the latest issue of US Weekly. He drops it onto the table when he notices me, guiltily, like I caught him doing something wrong.

  “You’re welcome to read Aud’s celebrity gossip magazines if you like,” I tell him, lingering in the doorway.

  “Celebrity gossip means nothing to me,” he says in that windswept voice of his.

  I cross the room and sit down beside him, though not too close. Despite the energy that crackles between us, I have no idea what he wants, what he’s ready for, how far he’s willing to go. What’s happening between us, this tentative, complicated thing, is bursting with heat, but it’s also being steered by his beliefs. Still, he came to a basically empty cottage to spend time with me. That’s got to mean something.

  “Sorry I was gone so long,” I say, slipping off my shoes and tucking my feet under. “Janie’s bedtime routine is intense.”

  “Your niece is cute,” Mati says. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees like he’s not sure how to manage his long limbs within the confined space of the sofa. He graces me with a smile, slight, uncertain but sincere. “And you’re a good auntie. She adores you.”

  “Sometimes I feel bad for her, being surrounded by women all the time—not that women aren’t an awesome influence or anything. I just … I wish my brother were here to teach her how to roughhouse and shoot a BB gun and burp the alphabet—things he taught me. Temper the flow of estrogen, you know?”

  Mati’s brows hitch, and heat scales my neck—I doubt anyone’s ever chatted him up about female sex hormones. I clear my throat in an attempt to dislodge my foot from its depths, but his smile expands and he says, with exaggerated awe, “You know how to burp the alphabet?”

  “Ha-ha,” I deadpan. “Careful, or I’ll demonstrate.”

  “You teach Janie all kinds of things. That song about the colors? She wouldn’t know it without you.”

  I shrug. “All kids learn the colors. They’re a preschool staple.”

  “But not all kids know badass songs about the colors.” His eyes spark with joviality—he’s clearly proud of his slang-y curse.

  “Very good,” I say. “You keep teaching me beautiful Pashto words, and I’ll make a gutter mouth of you.”

  “Maybe you can teach me a song about rude words.”

  I laugh. “There’re more important things I should teach you first.”

  He pivots, bringing a leg up so he can face me squarely. His knee rests against my thigh, barely, but the contact feels illicit and exciting, like the zap of a live wire. My pulse kicks into high gear as my gaze rises to his, heated but somber.

  We’re not teasing anymore.

  His voice is a breeze in the otherwise silent room. “What can you teach me, Elise?”

  I let go of a shuddery breath. “What do you want to know, Mati?”

  He reaches for me, slowly, cautiously. His hand, warm, roughened with callouses, lands on my arm. I look down to find that his complexion is tawny and mine’s like cream, and something about the contrast speaks to me, whispers, This is right.

  He strokes the crook of my elbow, where my skin is tissue-paper thin. His fingers draw tiny circles, trace my forearm, brush the inside of my wrist. It’s innocent, his touch, and it’s everything but: stirring and sensual and suggestive. My breath comes rapidly and I’m hot everywhere, tingling from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. I’m certain he notices because his face is cracked open like a book, inscribed with words like satisfied and smug and—I think—longing.

  I capture his hand, the hand with the gentle, meandering fingers, and realize, mortifyingly enough, I’m shaking. I can barely look at him, barely form a coherent thought. I was never tongue-tied when I was with Kurt, never timid or on edge. I never worried about impressing him or saying the right thing. He was a kind, handsome boy, but he was just a boy.

  Mati … Mati is more.

  I raise a hand to his cheek, grazing his perpetual stubble. His eyes close and I’m relieved. The way I’m feeling, awestruck and deferential and like I’m seconds from floating away, must be so obvious.

  He keeps his eyes shut as I pass my fingers along his forehead, his jaw, his lids. I run my hand through his thick hair, something I’ve wanted to do for eternities. I touch his lips, feather-light, solicitous, attentive, like a kiss. I feel his warm exhale.

  He covers my hand with his, stilling it, pulling it down to rest on his leg. He opens his eyes. He looks at me the way he did that first day at the beach, after we slogged out of the water, winded and weary. He looks at me like he sees through me, beyond clothes and hair and flesh—like he sees into me.

  “I know what you can teach me,” he says, a rumble of thunder deep in his throat.

&n
bsp; I incline toward him, like he’s a magnet and I’m iron. “What?”

  His gaze falls, then snaps back to mine. “Teach me how to kiss.”

  I retreat, stunned. “But you can’t—”

  “I can. I want to, Elise.”

  He’s so composed, so steadfast. Meanwhile, my heart’s pounding and my skin’s thrumming and my head’s going crazy. I want to kiss him, too—I’m dying to kiss him—but I wonder if I’m corrupting this boy who’s pure and stalwart, unwavering in his beliefs.

  I want to, Elise.

  Mati isn’t corruptible. Being here, being together … It’s as much his decision as it is mine.

  I bring my palms up to rest against his cheeks. I feel his apprehension, his inexperience, through the heat of his skin, like they’re my own. But he’s wearing a wisp of a smile and, God, he’s looking at me like he longs for me—like he aches for me.

  I push onto my knees, matching his height. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he whispers.

  I tilt my head and slowly lean in.

  MATI

  Her lips feel like flower petals,

  and taste like syrup—

  sugar, lemon, orange blossom.

  Her kiss wards off evil,

  worry,

  fear.

  Her kiss makes me invincible.

  This …

  This is what I have missed.

  This is what I have spent a lifetime without.

  This, and her.

  When she withdraws,

  I feel cold and needy.

  I want her—

  more, always, forever.

  She is elemental;

  she is essential.

  Her retreat is cursory,

  a pause, a breath, a transition.

  She moves over me.

  She smiles.

  She closes her eyes.

  She kisses me again,

  or I kiss her.

  We kiss each other—

  her, me, us.

  This kiss is deeper.

  Hotter and headier.

  Hands and lips,

  contented sounds.

  Hips and tongues,

  heavy breaths.

  Hair in knots.

  Legs entwined.

  I could die with the ecstasy of it.

  The air shifts.

  Her body freezes.

  Her eyes fly open,

  wide and guilty.

  I am disoriented,

  confused,

  tumbling through fog.

  Why would she stop so suddenly?

  And then,

  from across the room,

  a gasp.

  elise

  “What the hell, Elise?”

  I scramble off Mati, off the couch, blotting our kiss away with the back of my hand.

  “Audrey!”

  “Don’t Audrey me,” she says, storming into the room. She’s wearing her restaurant clothes: black slacks and a white button-down. Her hair’s tied back in a long pony. Her face is aflame. She looks at Mati. No, she glares at Mati, who’s half sitting, half lying on her sofa, exactly the way I left him. He’s gaping at me like, What should I do?

  “You’re home early,” I say to my sister-in-law.

  She ignores my mindless observation, instead thrusting a finger in Mati’s direction and spitting, “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s…” I glance at Mati again and then, because he’s so surprised he’s petrified, I offer him my hand. He grips it and I do my best to lug his solid frame up. It’d be comical, if every single thing about this moment weren’t completely screwed up. When he’s standing, folded in on himself but a head taller than Audrey and me, I say, “He’s my friend.”

  “Your friend? Have you lost your mind?” She’s talking too loud; she’s going to wake Janie. “This is my house, Elise. My daughter is down the hall. You think it’s okay to bring someone like him here?”

  I reach out to touch Mati’s arm. He’s trembling, and I feel, suddenly, like I’m going to burst into tears. If I’m embarrassed, he must be mortified. The way Audrey’s talking about him—like he’s a piece of trash I dragged in from the alley—makes my stomach roil.

  “His name is Mati,” I say, like an introduction might fix this.

  She clenches the strap of her bag. “I don’t care what his name is!”

  She’s being so unfair, so spiteful, so mind-bogglingly rude, I feel like I’m addressing a stranger. “Please don’t judge him, Aud.”

  Her eyes go wide. She wrenches her bag off and flings it onto the sofa, where it lands upside down, spilling keys and coins across the cushion. “If you don’t want me to judge him, don’t bring him into my house. Into my life!”

  Janie’s whimpers drift into the living room.

  Audrey yanks her ponytail loose and pushes her hands through her hair. “Great. Because tonight hasn’t been shitty enough.” She launches a look of disgust at Mati, then me. Its impact knocks the wind out of my lungs. She falls onto the couch and starts shoving things back into her bag, her hair hanging limply. She seems a thousand years older than she did when she left for her shift, tired and hopeless, and now she’s sniffling and even though I hate her for the way she’s treating Mati, I still want to hug her.

  “I should go,” he murmurs.

  “Good riddance,” Audrey mutters. I’m about to round on her, but then she sniffs again and I realize she’s crying legitimate tears.

  Shit.

  I walk Mati to the door. My heart’s hammering, a residual buzz from that kiss (God, that kiss) and from the shock of being caught, and chastised, and humiliated by the blatant ignorance of one of my favorite people.

  Audrey’s tears … they always, always get me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to Mati.

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, then pulls the front door open. “We can talk later.”

  “Soon,” I say, clinging to him. “I’ll call you.”

  He nods, extracting his hand from mine with a sad, sad smile. And then he walks out, closing the door gently behind him.

  I stay in the foyer for a few minutes, leaning on the wall, catching my breath. I listen to the gut-wrenching anthem of Audrey’s weeping, and then the quieter ballade of her attempting to compose herself. I hear her pad down the hall, the squeaky hinges of Janie’s door, the soft hum of Aud’s voice as she calms her daughter.

  God, I’ve made a mess. I should’ve gotten her permission before inviting Mati. Introduced them officially, first. I should’ve kept my hands to myself because if she’d walked in on us talking, she might not have been so shocked. And Mati … he left with sorrowful eyes, his shoulders stooped with distress. I’m to blame.

  Audrey appears in the foyer, eyes red, cheeks flushed. “Are you leaving?” she asks, but there’s no venom left in her voice. She sounds drained, like she doesn’t give a shit what I do.

  “If you want me to.”

  She shakes her head. “Come sit down.”

  I follow her into the living room. She sinks onto the sofa, so I do, too, into the corner Mati vacated a few minutes ago. I can feel his lingering heat. I ask, “Is Janie okay?”

  Audrey nods. “Just startled. She’s never woken up to yelling.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have had him here while you were away.”

  “You shouldn’t have had him here at all.”

  “But … why?” I truly do not understand the prejudice she and my mom have against Mati. I mean, initially, maybe—I felt it, too, the sting of the word “Afghanistan,” the way it intensified every terrible second that’s passed since Nick died. But I got to know him, and my apprehension disappeared. Mom and Audrey don’t want to see how fantastic he is. They’re too scared—too narrow-minded—to care.

  “Why?” Audrey asks, flabbergasted. “Because it’s too damn hard!”

  “It wouldn’t be, if you’d give him a chance.”

  “I don’t want to give him a chance, and you sh
ouldn’t, either. He’s leaving, thank God, and then none of us will ever have to think about him again. We’ll be better off.”

  I blink away the threat of tears. “Not me.”

  Audrey shakes her head. “I saw the way you were kissing him—I saw the way you looked at him, like a lovesick puppy. You don’t even know him. It’s awful.”

  “I know him—I know everything I need to know. It’s you who’s awful, you and my mom.”

  “Elise, Nick died because of those people!”

  I shoot up off the sofa. Anger courses through me, making my mouth taste bitter. “Nick never would’ve treated one of my friends the way you just treated Mati. He’d be disgusted by the way you acted.”

  She rears back, like I’ve slapped her, and guilt crashes into me.

  “Aud—”

  “No,” she says, glaring up at me. “Get out of my house.”

  I stare at her for a moment that stretches so long and taut, it becomes unbearable. She stares right back, eyes flashing with fury. Who is she?

  “Elise, go!”

  * * *

  I step out of Audrey’s cottage, into the night.

  I dial Mati, stumbling down the sidewalk.

  He answers immediately. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, but my voice sounds unsteady. “Are you home?”

  “No. I walked to town. I needed air.”

  I need air, too. And I need him, because right now, he’s the only person capable of mending the gash torn through me. “Will you meet me?”

  “Where?”

  Not my house. I’m sure Audrey’s on the phone with my mom, and I’m sure she’s reporting exactly what she walked in on, which means Mom is mid-freak-out. As if on cue, my phone beeps with an incoming call.

  “There’s a park on Raspberry Street,” I tell Mati, letting the call go to voice mail.

  “The citadel made of wood?”

  I smile despite myself. “If a citadel is the same as a castle, then yes. I can be there in ten.”

  “I can be there in five.”

  elise

  I find him sitting on the ground in front of the deserted play structure, illuminated by the glow of the overhead streetlamps. He’s hunched over his notebook, pen in hand, scribbling furiously. His face is a valley of shadows.