The Impossibility of Us Read online

He’s not selfish; I am.

  But then there are his other words; words better than empty promises, because they sing the truth. You’re taking a piece of me with you. I understand these words. I feel these words. It’s as if he mined them from the quarry of my heart.

  “I don’t want to walk away,” I whisper.

  His eyes widen. “No?”

  I shake my head. “And can we just … not talk about this again?”

  He laughs, his whole body unwinding. “You brought it up.”

  “Because I can’t stop thinking about how hard it’s going to be later.”

  “Do you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

  “What?”

  “How good it is now.”

  He leans in and, at the same time, so do I. We meet, and we kiss, and there is nothing careful or neat or polite about it—it’s the opposite of every kiss we’ve shared since the night we spent at the park. He winds my ponytail around one hand and grips my hip with the other, using his height to angle me back until I’m leaning against the arm of the sofa. I open my mouth to his; he tastes like bliss, like daydreams, like home. Winding my arms around his neck, I tug his hat off so I can play in his thick hair. I ease back further, taking him with me, until he’s stretched over me, supporting his weight on his elbows. I spend a second fretting about his ribs, his comfort, but he seems pretty okay, actually, so I settle beneath him. His kisses become deeper, and mine become greedier, and it’s entirely possible I will never get enough of this. Of him.

  We kiss for eternities, and oh God, it’s perfect. The sort of perfect I’m not likely to forget. The sort of perfect no other boy will live up to in a lifetime of kisses.

  When he pulls back, he gives me a glazed-over smile. “I could get lost, kissing you.”

  My lips feel full, swollen, and my chin is raw from the sandpaper stubble on his. Not that I care, because the burn is a reminder, a feeling of aliveness that’s been elusive for too many years. His hips are nestled against my hips, his feet tangled with my feet. He’s got one hand linked with mine, and the fingers of his other twist and twirl the locks of hair that have escaped my ponytail. He feathers his lips over my throat, my cheeks, my eyelids, kisses like dandelion fluff. He was right …

  This is good.

  Time passes and the light shifts, casting new shadows on the walls. I remember, with urgency, his parents. I check the time and find it’s growing late.

  No, no, no. I’m not sure when we’ll get another afternoon like this.

  “I should go,” I say to save him the awkwardness of booting me from the cottage.

  He pulls away from where he’s nuzzling my neck. “Already?”

  “Unless you want your parents to find me here … with you … like this.”

  He smiles sheepishly and moves away so I can sit up. I let my hair down, combing my fingers through the tangles he made, and gather it into a smooth ponytail. He repositions his hat, watching me, riveted, and then I remember: most of the girls in his country cover their hair. It’s no wonder he’s always touching mine.

  “Can we do this again?” he asks as I finish.

  “I’ll check my schedule,” I tease.

  He takes my face in his hands, kisses me again, briefly, fiercely. When he draws back, he says, “Remember when we were on our way to Sacramento? I told you I’m supposed to guard my modesty?”

  I blink, my cheeks warming. This is what we’re going to talk about? After that? “Uh, yeah.”

  “You probably noticed, but … I’m not guarding it so carefully anymore.”

  I’m trying to make sense of what he’s saying, where he’s going with this line of conversation, but I’m coming up blank. His religion is important to him and I’m important to him, but I’m not sure how we connect—if we can connect. “What does that mean, Mati?”

  His hands are still bracketing my face, his palms cool against my flushed skin. He says, “Kissing you. Touching you. Being here with you, alone. I’ve chosen to do these things, even though Allah and the Quran say I shouldn’t.”

  “Because you think I’m a freebie?”

  His brows pinch together. He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he’s lost.

  “Context clues,” I say. “A freebie. Like, what you do with me isn’t a strike against your morals. We’re a window of time that doesn’t count, because as soon as you leave, that window will slam shut.”

  He presses his lips to my forehead, branding my skin with his intensity. “Oh, I think we count. Since we met, I’ve been trying to reconcile my faith with my wishes, with my dreams, with my desires, and I keep thinking … It must be possible to be devoted to Islam while still holding on to my individuality. It must be okay to be Muslim, and me. I am a product of Allah. He created me, a person who has fallen for you. I just don’t understand how that can be wrong.”

  I stare at him, struck silent by his honesty and his intelligence and his enormous heart.

  We aren’t wrong; we can’t be wrong.

  I kiss him, long and slow.

  I file the sensation away for later, when kissing him is an impossibility.

  I tell him breathlessly, “I love you for saying that.”

  And then I’m out the door.

  My heart swoops-dips-dives in the gray-blue sky.

  elise

  I love you for saying that.

  God, the absolute worst time for my filter to malfunction. It slipped—totally slipped—because when I’m with Mati, apparently I am at all times compelled to say exactly what’s on my mind. I shudder with embarrassment as I walk down the sidewalk toward Audrey’s.

  Janie proves to be an ideal distraction. We whip up a batch of chocolate-chip cookies (I do the measuring, and she does the mixing), then we sit in front of the oven, watching them soften and puddle, setting into gooey perfection. I tell her a story about her daddy: how, when he was fourteen, he ate an entire batch of cookie dough, raw egg and all, straight from the fridge.

  “Nana was so upset,” I say, reveling in Janie’s wide-eyed amazement.

  “Did Daddy get in trouble?”

  “Well, sort of, but not because Nana punished him. His tummy got sick and he was miserable for the rest of the day.”

  She giggles. “Poor Daddy!”

  When our cookies are done, I put several on a plate, still warm from the oven. “We should only eat two each,” Janie says sagely. “We don’t want to have sick tummies.”

  “That’s right,” I say, pouring glasses of cold milk for dunking.

  We watch The Little Mermaid while we snack. Janie sings “Part of Your World” like she feels the lyrics in her little bones; I do, too. When the movie is done, we order pizza.

  “Just cheese, Auntie,” she says, holding my hand as I make the call.

  Later, after a bubble bath and a manicure of sparkly pink polish, we settle on her bed for stories. We make it through Beauty and the Beast and half of Aladdin before she’s out, sucking her thumb, squeezing a plush baby doll to her chest. I wind her music box anyway, then tuck her blankets up to her chin and kiss her squishy cheek.

  Her eyes, rimmed in long blond lashes, flutter open. “I love you, Auntie,” she whispers.

  “I love you, too, girlie.”

  “Babysit me again soon, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  I leave her room wrapped up in thoughts about how careful I need to be when it comes to spending time with Mati—Audrey can’t find out. I can’t lose more time with my niece; since my brother died, I’ve felt a sense of duty to him, and to Janie. It’s my job to pass stories of Nick and his childhood antics to his daughter. I can’t fail him, and I can’t fail her.

  I spend the rest of the evening on the sofa, editing images on my laptop. The photo I took of Mati this afternoon is sublime. I see him, all of him, with arresting clarity. It’s as if his essence, his aura, his soul, swirl in air around him, rendering the colors of the garden in the background bland. I want the world to see him this way: son, brother, wri
ter, dreamer.

  When Audrey comes through the door, she’s rumpled and weary. She drops her bag on the entryway table and scans the living room, like she expects me to have a troop of Afghan boys hiding behind curtains and inside cabinets.

  “Everything go okay?” she asks, collapsing on the sofa.

  “Awesome. There’s leftover pizza in the fridge, and tons of cookies on a plate in the microwave.” I pause, tempted to tell her about Nick and his cookie-dough overindulgence, too—it happened shortly before their time—but she looks so tired. I close my laptop and slide it into my bag, eager, suddenly, to be on my way. “Janie was an angel as usual. We watched The Little Mermaid.”

  Aud slips her swollen feet out of her flats. “She loves that movie.”

  “I know.”

  Silence. She’s my closest friend, my sister, and she’ll barely meet my gaze.

  “I should go.”

  She nods, then stands to walk me out. At the door, she takes my hand and says, “Thanks for babysitting. I know things have been rough, but I’m happy to have you back.”

  Happy in her delusion.

  Still, it’s a step.

  MATI

  I love you for saying that

  is not

  the same

  as I love you.

  This is what I tell myself

  as I sit through my parents’

  evening conversation.

  As I boil water for chai.

  As I warm leftovers and eat,

  standing alone,

  at the kitchen counter.

  This is what I tell myself

  after I say my final prayer,

  as I try, and fail, to sleep.

  Because …

  What if it is the same?

  I think she could love me,

  if circumstances were different.

  But for us, love is perilous.

  She will be okay if we are friendship.

  If we are flirtation.

  If we are romance in a fanciful turret,

  and long kisses on a cramped sofa.

  She will be okay if the

  (bittersweet) feelings are mine alone.

  I love her, I love her, I love her,

  but she does not

  (cannot) love me back.

  She will not be okay if her heart is vested.

  It will doubtlessly be broken,

  and while I can endure the guilt

  that comes with courting her,

  if I hurt her, regret will bury me.

  There is so much she will never

  (can never) know.

  The promises I made before her

  will seem ill-conceived,

  and my commitments

  will hold no weight.

  Centuries of tribal strife will end

  if I fulfill my duty,

  but she will not see it that way—

  not if she is in love with me.

  I leave my bed.

  I dress.

  I walk, stealthily,

  out of the cottage.

  I have to know for sure.

  elise

  I’m headed down the sidewalk, thinking of Janie and cookies, Mati and kisses, dandelions and shooting stars, when a tall, shadowed figure steps out from behind a stocky tree, right into my path. A shriek escapes my throat, and my hands fly up, curled into fists, a sudden surge of adrenaline demanding fight!

  “Elise, it’s okay!”

  Warm hands land on my arms. Draw me forward. Hold me against a solid chest.

  Mati.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, gentle words rustling my ponytail.

  My arms loop instinctually around his middle, though my heart’s still hammering my ribs in a relentless attempt to escape. I take a shaky breath; his familiar scent eases my nerves enough to let me sputter, “God, Mati, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing?”

  “Waiting for you.” He edges back and presses a palm to my chest, just over my heart, letting his heat melt what’s left of my panic. “I’ve been here awhile. I knew Audrey would be coming home, and I didn’t want to upset her again.”

  I look back at her cottage; the front lights are still on, shining through the sheer curtains that cover the arched windows. I reshoulder my bag and slip my hand into his. I lead him down the sidewalk, away from Aud’s and town, toward seclusion and safety. We walk to the beach, to the picnic table where, weeks ago, he left the note that changed everything.

  We sit on the tabletop, bathed in moonlight, feet propped on the bench. The sky mirrors my ceiling at home, black and sprinkled with stars, like someone tossed a handful of silver glitter into the heavens. I can just make out the ocean’s restless waves against the sand below, but otherwise the night is hushed and still. I rest my head on Mati’s shoulder. “So why were you sneaking around like a creep?”

  He laughs, soft and sonorous. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—I needed to see you.”

  “Not that I’m complaining, but why the urgency?”

  “You said something before you left earlier. You probably don’t remember, but…”

  Damn it. I’ve been hoping my declaration went over his head, that he heard it as an offhand comment, just one of those things Americans say. Obviously not.

  I giggle, a nervous, giddy, mortified sound. “Oh. That.”

  “Yes. That.”

  “It just came out, Mati. Because that was nice, what you said—that we count. That we can’t be wrong. I was, like, moved. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable. I’m worried.”

  “About what?”

  “About whether you meant it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Elise. Did you mean it?”

  “I…” Am at a complete loss for words.

  Shit, shit, shit. I meant it. I love him, and it’s possible I have since we met here, at this beach, since that first time my heart reached for his. I’ve known with certainty since our night in the turret, but I can’t tell him—not when he’s regarding me with an air of utter terror.

  “Either way,” he says, “I need to know how serious you were—are. How serious we are.”

  “Mati…” Because, no, we can’t be serious, despite how I feel.

  He breathes a sigh that sounds suspiciously like relief. “It’s okay. It was an expression, one I didn’t follow, and that’s good. Because even though I’m growing to love you with strength that scares me, it’s better if you do not fall so hard.”

  I stare into his bottomless eyes. He stares back, unwavering. I need to say something; I need to respond with comparable compassion. I swallow. “Uh, how is that better?”

  His mouth turns up in an endeared smile. God, he is far superior with words, and he knows it. “It is better,” he says patiently, “because when I leave, you won’t be so hurt.”

  I feel weird, like I’ve plummeted into frigid water. My senses are slow, uncooperative, and my reactions are sluggish. My lungs feel heavy, underoxygenated, and the result is a rush of vertigo so powerful, I have to grab the edge of the table to remain upright.

  I’ll be inconsolable when he goes. How does he not realize?

  I forage for words—the right words—to make him understand. “Mati, when you leave, I will crumble.”

  His head drops. “I hoped—”

  “What? That I’d kiss you goodbye and go about my day? Do you not see the way I look at you, or feel the way I touch you? Do you not realize that I’m always trying to get as close to you as possible? That I’m constantly adjusting my Mati dial so I can stay tuned in to you through incessant static?”

  He’s still looking at the ground when he mumbles, “It just—you feeling the way I feel … it seems too good to be real.”

  “Well, it is real. I love you for saying what you said, and I love you.”

  I lean forward and catch his mouth with mine. I’ll kiss the stunned look off his face. I’ll drill everything I just said through his thick s
kull. I’ll make him understand how profoundly he’s affected me, and how deeply I care.

  When I pull away, he gives me a meek smile, his eyes swimming with trepidation.

  “Hey,” I whisper, tugging his hat from his head so I can run my fingers through his hair. “No doubts, okay? Earlier, you talked about how good we are. Nothing’s changed, right?”

  He blows out a leaden breath. It takes a second, but he shakes his head. “No. Nothing has changed.” He lifts his hat from where it sits on my lap and fits it over my head, ponytail and all. I’m certain it looks ridiculous but, finally, his mouth turns up in a smile.

  “We’re okay?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure we’ll ever be okay. Right now, I am two things. Khoshqháala.”

  He waits, and I repeat: “Khoshqháala.”

  “And ghamdzhan.”

  “What do they mean?”

  His expression is woeful, but his eyes burn flame-hot, the way they do, I’ve come to realize, when he’s thinking about kissing me. He tips his head, pressing his mouth to mine.

  “Happy,” he whispers against my lips. He kisses me again, lingering. “And so, so sad.”

  elise

  At home, Mom and I maintain a careful cease-fire. We speak to each other when necessary, and with unnatural politeness. She returns my phone, finally, which is the same as reclaiming a limb. Over the weekend, I get another chance to babysit Janie, and Audrey treats me almost normally. I indulge in a milkshake date with Ryan, which, thankfully, is a more cheery meeting than our last conversation in the yard.

  Mostly, life feels okay, except for the fact that Mati and I are forced to keep our relationship secret. He still meets me at the beach in the mornings, but we’re vigilant now, checking the stretch of sand that used to feel like ours for anyone who might pose a threat. I glance over my shoulder before taking his outstretched hand, and he surveys the picnic area before kissing me goodbye. At night, we sneak off to the dark solitude of the park. When I can’t get away, I spend hours on the phone with him. It’s a comfort to fall asleep to the timbre of his voice, the melody of his brooding words.

  A week before he’s due to return to Afghanistan, we spend a morning at the beach, trudging through the sand, watching my dog scuttle around up ahead without a care in the world. I’m envious. I feel wretched (seven days until he’s gone forever—seven days, seven days, seven days) and I can tell Mati’s mind is working overtime. He pauses to launch Bambi’s tennis ball, then watches it soar through the air with a faraway expression.