Other Side

18 | Teacher Talia

She stared at him blankly at the surprise literature lecture. "I can't say I know who the hell Steinbeck is, but the difference in popularity between those two books can't all come from their lengths. I mean, The Great Gatsby is practically a hazing ritual in American high schools, and DiCaprio was a total stud in the movie, so I managed to get through it engrossed." He rolled his eyes. "Maybe Jean-Christophe is a better example. I don't know of anyone who would sit through over a thousand pages, even if the dude who wrote it won a Nobel."

"Yes, but that book has ten volumes," he said but then rethought his statement. "But not like I'd sit through it either. Hell, I almost passed out trying to finish Wuthering Heights, and it wasn't even that long." He looked off into the distance again, staring out the pitch-black window above the sink. "On second thought, maybe some books really are boring...like everything by Steinbeck."

Ah, maybe she was finally converting him.
"Okay, so I can forgive your dislike of Wuthering Heights. I mean, didn't that Heath bar guy dig up his lover's grave? I'm pretty sure that was the only chapter of that book I didn't use Sparknotes for."

"Heathcliff, but yes. Yes, he did." The kitchen fell silent for a few moments before they both burst into laughter. When they caught their breaths, he leaned forward a little, eyes twinkling. "You know, you're somehow ten times more entertaining to talk to about books than any literature lover I've met, yet you somehow claim to hate it."

She chuckled and brushed her hands together to rid them of the crumbs. "Well, I sure hope the same thing applies to football. Because I'll be stealing the TV from three to six for the 49ers game, and you have no choice but to sit your ass down next to me."

He winced, pulling back. "Can't Fouad watch with you? He definitely likes that sport—I think."

She cocked her head to the side, sending him a blank look. "He's a Patriots fan, Zaid."

"And I'm a no-team fan," he shot back. Her eyes bore deeper into his soul, until he dropped his hands to the countertop and sighed, conceding at last. "Okay, fine. I'll watch with you. And I will pretend to understand the excitement behind yelling at burly men to bring an oval over an imaginary line."

She slung an arm over his shoulder, drawing him closer. "That's the sprit, dude. A couple more games, and I might even call you a real American."

"Ah, yes, my favorite little xenophobe." He tweaked her cheek and hopped off the counter. "Do you want me to toast you some more bread?"

"Maybe one more," she said, and not because she was hungry. Maybe she was enjoying this conversation more than she thought she would. "You know, I actually am curious after our earlier conversation. Were you always a reader? Or did the interest develop later on?"

He popped another small piece of bread in the toaster and turned around, resting his hands on the edge of the kitchen island. "It's more of the former, but the story doesn't start with me. It goes back a couple generations at the very least."

"Oh, really? Now I have to know, Zaid."

He smiled warmly. "My great-grandfather, Youssef, was a writer. He spent most of his time traveling in search of the next great place to set his stories. In his twenties, he settled in Beirut and opened up a small bookshop, where he would connect with other writers and scholars at the time. There he also met the love of his life, Najla, whom he went on to marry in the future."

"Hold on," she said, holding up her index finger. "Doesn't that make you one-eighth Lebanese, then?"

"Yes, but I'm never telling Paul that."

"Oh, crush the poor boy's heart more, will you?"

When he narrowed his eyes, she lifted her hands and let him continue. "He ran the shop for years, until one day it caught on fire. Whether or not it was arson, no one really knows, but only a small shelf of books made it out unscathed. Those books became family heirlooms, passed down first to my grandfather, Raad, then to my father, who was Youssef's namesake, then to me." When the warmth in his expression faded away, she knew what he was thinking about. "For what it's worth, that ancient book of poetry I've been trying to get through comes from that collection."