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I DON'T LIKE COFFEE THAT MUCH. But this morning, I feel like I need something strong to carry me through the day. And day-drinking two days in a row isn't a good idea.
Aryan finds me the moment I step onto campus, coffee in hand, my distressed cardigan hanging off one shoulder and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of my head, prepared to be pulled down at a moment's notice.
He stands at the beginning of the lot, hands in his pockets, the morning sun dousing him in brightness. His dark eyes flicker to me immediately as I walk from my car and I know he's been waiting for me specifically.
I would do a mental count of how many people there are in the lot but I can't tear my gaze away from his. I curl my hand around the iced beverage in my hand— more sugar, ice and coconut milk than actual coffee, if we're being real—, its frosty exterior against my skin doing very little to calm my temper when it comes to Aryan Shankar.
He scans me, head to toe, from the bag hanging at my side to the shades at my head before dipping back down to meet my eyes. Pretty eyes.
I narrow them at him once while walking before unceremoniously reaching up and dropping my sunglasses down onto the nose of my bridge.
"We should talk—," Aryan says once I near him.
I walk right past him. He cuts off sharply.
"Fuck off," I say simply, not even turning my head, and I continue walking.
Aryan once again proves that he's much taller than me by easily falling into step beside me, his long legs not once straining to keep up pace. His tone is less friendly now, sarcastic even, as he tips his chin down at me. "Good morning to you too, Zahed," Aryan says. "Sleep well, didn't you?"
"It was a good morning until you started talking, Shankar," I tell him thinly, annoyed. He only chuckles. Why the hell is he still here?
I woke up to an endless stream of texts, an obscene amount of social media tags and about a dozen missed calls from Dima. The missed calls from Ivan were the ones I didn't answer. After one very awkward, very tense conversation with Dima that I was eager to be rid of only for him to propose he and I go for ice-cream later like old times, to which I uneasily agreed, I brushed my teeth only to be greeted by a grinning Petra at the kitchen island.
My mother had her head in the fridge so I couldn't quite see her reaction, just her curls peeking out around the silver door as Petra smirked across the kitchen at me. "Mira, you didn't tell us you had a boyfriend."
I'd shifted on my feet, mentally checking that my hair tumbled over my shoulder. Ivan's stupid mark would cause nothing but more trouble and questions for me.
But before I could've replied to Petra's questions, my mother closed the fridge door. Farrah Zahed was a kind-faced woman, warm eyes and a comforting, soft smile. Her hair fanned around her face in cinnamon brown curls, several shades lighter than mine. Born and raised in Syria, her voice still rang with faint notes of that accent while my father's own accent had been lost somewhere along Hollywood Boulevard.
"Your father called for you," she'd said to me.
At some point in time, we stopped calling him anything but your father in the house. Even when my mother moved on, even when she could shake his hand and smile with him, he stopped being Daniel, he stopped being baba or habibi. At some point in time, the love ran out.
The flowers wilt, the Arabic poetry ends, the accents disappear, the olive trees die.
"He's not my boyfriend," I'd said to Petra shortly. Then, I turned to my mother. "I don't want to talk to him."
A sigh. But she let me go. She was kinder and more forgiving than I was.
When I'd reappeared, dressed for school, a healthy swatch of foundation on the skin of my neck, my mother and her wife were gone, leaving me with nothing to do but glare out at that empty spot on our lawn before grabbing my keys and leaving too.
I should have stayed at home.
Aryan's pace beside mine is drawing attention. Behind my sunglasses, I catch heads tilting our way, curious eyes. I try to outpace him, walking as fast as my Vans would carry me, but, of course, he keeps up without strain.
"Why are you stalking me, Shankar?" I accuse him.
"We're going the same way, Zahed," comes his easy reply.
The UCLA campus is big. I haven't even been into half of the buildings on this campus. The campus is also divided unofficially into the North campus and the South campus.
The only ever time I wander into the North side of campus, mostly arts majors and people who debate the meaning of life and society, is if I have to meet with Dima. Otherwise, I stay far away because God knows I don't have an artistic bone in my body and I wonder about the meaning of life too much on my own to want to do it at school too.
While Aryan and I are both students of the South campus— Science and Maths mostly—, we don't clash very often considering the Engineering students have their own very large building relatively far away from my Biology student struggles. I figure he's heading to the library. Which means I'm stuck with him for a ten-minute walk.
I sigh irritatedly as I walk, rolling my eyes behind my shades.
He's wearing a t-shirt, tight at the brown skin of his biceps, mint green in colour. My eyes fall down to my own cardigan, slipping off my shoulder, in horror. We're matching.
For the first time, I consider stripping on campus.
God.
Aryan has been looking at me quietly, I realise, perhaps biding his time until he opens his insufferable mouth again. He didn't wait too damn long, I observe. I feel his gaze skim my legs.
"Nice jeans, Zahed," he comments.
Well, they're not really jeans. They're denim pants with the majority of their legs fabric cut away, managing to hang onto my legs just barely. I usually don't wear long pants. I've been protesting them since I was fourteen years old. They're simply not comfortable. I only put these particular pair of pants on this morning— if you could even call them pants— to annoy my mother.
It was rather petty of me but I was still annoyed at her for even suggesting I talk to my father. And nothing upsets a Middle Eastern woman like a pair of ripped jeans.
Aryan sounds a lot like my mother when he says, lips quirked, "Did you, by chance, get attacked by a lion on your way to class?"
"Can you go walk somewhere else?"
"I'll gladly walk away after you talk to me," he answers. He adds with a scoff. "Trust me, I don't want to be here."
I roll my eyes at the dig. "I am talking to you."
"I'm trying to talk to you about the news, Zahed," he scowls at me, impatient.
"I'm sorry," I drawl. "Is TMZ getting in the way of your hookups, Shankar? Just tell the girls that the media is full of lies and you'll get your ass."
"It's not the ass I'm concerned about," he says.
I laugh then.
"Oh?" I peer up at him, blinking behind my glasses. "Then, if TMZ calling me your girlfriend isn't a problem for your sex life, I don't see why you're still talking to me."
He grimaces down at me, slowing his step as he states, "My entire family has seen those pictures."
I shrug. "That's not my problem."
My blunt reply doesn't phase him. He expects it, rolling his eyes and continuing anyway, "Well, my grandmother is seventy-eight years old and there's nothing she'd love more than to have her favourite grandson have a Big Fat Desi Wedding to a movie star's daughter."
I'm so glad I have yet to take a sip of my drink because I would've choked on it then.
Did he just say Big Fat Desi Wedding?
My ears are ringing.
I'd already decided that I would rather never get married than have an Arab wedding. Those things have like a million guests and I can barely tolerate four people at once, far less for every human being I've ever known all at once. And I decided I never want to see Petra dabke lest she end up being better at the dance than me. Then, I'd feel real shame.
So, the words Big Fat Desi Wedding are terrifying to me.
Aryan doesn't even look amused to see the pure horror on my face because his expression mirrors it. We've both stopped dead in our tracks on the way to my class. Students filter past, shooting us looks as they go.
I can almost hear their thoughts. And I wince at them.
I stutter out, "Well, tell her the goddamn truth. Oh my god. It's not that hard." I shudder. "No way in hell."
Aryan nods sharply in agreement. I think it's the first time we've ever agreed on anything. "No way in hell," he repeats.
And I think this is all over and he can finally leave me alone but he's speaking again. "But," interrupts Aryan, "you underestimate just how determined my grandmother would love to see me married off."
"Shankar," I am pleading now, "this is beginning to sound like a you problem."
"It was a you problem yesterday in the car park, if I'm not mistaken, Zahed."
I glare now. "Did I ask for your help?" I push my sunglasses up onto the top of my head hotly now, just so he could see my glare to its full extent. "No," I answer my own question. "I did not. You're not my white knight, Aryan Shankar. Don't get it twisted."
"Well, Zahed," begins his sharp reply, unflinching beneath my glare. He's dipping his head now, as though if he draws closer, I might understand his words more.
Truth be told, the closer he is, the more I want to punch him. Now, with his breath fanning across my cheeks, I never wanted to punch him more. Punch him right on the stupid little dimple that pierces his cheek every time he talks. It's there now— even when he's scowling at me.
"I'm actually asking you for help right now," he says. "You're not my bloody white knight either. Don't get it twisted." He throws my words back at me. "You got me into this mess. I'm just asking you to get me out of it."
I narrow my eyes at him.
"I'm sorry what?"
Yeah, I'm going to punch him.
"What?" He repeats. "Are you having comprehension problems, Zahed?"
Fucking hell, he was so punchable.
"I got you into this mess?" I repeat, voice rising. "Did you not hear me at all, you piece of shit?" I shake my head fiercely. "I didn't ask you to do shit for me. I didn't ask you to hold me back in that fight. You should've let me fuck up Buttercup. The bitch deserved it."
Aryan steps back. He looks around as if he's bewildered by what he's hearing. Students pause now. They're openly looking now. Aryan's voice is equally loud when he replies, half-laughing, lips tilted cruelly at me, "There you fucking go again, Emira."
Emira? I see straight red.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
My hand is in a fist but he's talking again before I could fling it. "On and on about Buttercup," he snaps at me. "You're not in high school anymore, Zahed. Enough with the fucking mean girl antics. It doesn't make you any better than her. I said it yesterday and I'll say it again— you're just like her. Petty."
His words hit me hard squarely in the chest. Petty? Yeah, he was right. But hell, if I have to crumble down to my knees from that well-aimed blow, I'm gonna go down swinging. I'm gonna take him down with me.
"Not in high school anymore, huh?" I shoot back, venom dripping. People are staring. Someone is recording. "That's real fucking rich coming from you, Shankar."
"What the fuck are you on about now, Emira?"
He thinks he's done something now, using my full name. I think I'll do something when I rearrange his damn face. A broken nose sounds about right.
I growl, "This isn't high school, Shankar. You don't walk around this damn campus like you're some god because you have abs. Jesus fucking Christ. You don't get to call yourself a good guy just because you're nice to drunk girls. It's the bare fucking minimum. You aren't some hero. You aren't shit. You're not the hot fucking shit you think you are, Aryan Shankar. So, spare me your damn lecture on morality. I don't want to hear your damn bullshit. You don't know me."
Oh, but that doesn't shut him up. He never shuts the fuck up, how could I forget?
"I don't know you, huh? Who fucking knows you, Zahed?" He shakes his head, flinging out an arm behind him as he glares at me like I'm the worst thing he's ever had to look at. I return the glare. I hate him. I hate him so much. "Does Nazarenko know you? Does anyone fucking know you?" A callous laugh. "Or do they only know what you want them to know? They only hear what you want them to hear? Fuck off, Shankar," he mocks me. "What the fuck do you really want to say to me, Zahed?"
"I fucking hate you," comes my seethed reply. It makes him laugh. My fist is tight at my side. I'm boiling in fury.
"Yeah," laughs Aryan shortly. "I don't like you that much either."
"Then, leave me the fuck alone!" I scream. "Go off and fuck with some other bitch who actually gives a fuck about what you have to say because I don't! Go away, Shankar! You're like a godamn fucking fly, buzzing in my ear, stinking up the place, making all this noise!"
"You're the one who's screaming," he shoots back.
I groan. "Fuck off with your fucking screaming." I roll my eyes. "You disgust me. Everything about you."
"At least I'm not lying to myself," he levels back at me.
"You're still talking? Fuck's sake." My voice is going hoarse from all this shouting. If I want to win this fight, I'm going to have to resort to blows because my voice is leaving me.
"You're such an actor, Zahed," he says to me. "Just like your daddy. Fuckin' Hollywood is calling your name. Is it him, huh? Or is it the one who fucked you up so bad you can't even say his name in a bloody drinking game?" His eyes fall to my neck, below layers of foundation. I feel his gaze like a brand, piping hot iron burning into my skin.
I don't think.
One second, he's looking at me, he's looking at me like he hates me.
The next second, I'm jerking my arm up and flinging the iced contents of my cup at him.
I drop it onto the pathway of the campus and stare at Aryan, who's blinking, soaked in coffee and sugar and ice and coconut milk. He slicks back his wet hair and looks at me like I'm insane. His mint green shirt is now brown at the neckline, stained and soaked with coffee.
I don't look around because I know they're watching. They're recording. They're whispering. I don't give a fuck.
I hold his stare. His dark eyes burn into mine.
"That should convince your grandmother that we're not dating," I tell him flatly, before pushing my sunglasses back onto my face and walking off.
♥ ♥ ♥
I'm still angry hours later.
I was angry during my class because I'd lost my fucking drink. I was angry on my drive home because I remembered that he'd had the audacity to drive my car, my hands sitting on the wheels right where his had lazily held it yesterday. I was angry when I stepped into the house, kicked off my coffee-stained Vans and glared at my reflection. I'd pulled that cardigan right over my head, tossing it onto the floor and falling back onto my bed in nothing but my lace bralette and torn-up jeans. I clutched a pillow tight to my chest and used it as a barrier against me and the side of the bed Ivan had occupied. Then, I'd closed my eyes.
When I wake up, I'm still angry.
Cinna wakes me up, licking my cheek. I push him away gently, scowling and wiping my cheek.
At least I know they aren't tears. I don't cry over assholes.
I sit up dazedly, feeling like a steam roller had run me over. I ignore my phone's tirade of notifications, only opening the ones from Dima. Well, there's only one.
Sent an hour ago. I glance out my window, the sky is darkening in shades of violet and burnt orange. It's been probably five hours since I came back from class. Seven hours since that fight. It's funny how your brain calculates numbers that way.
Dima's message isn't long and it isn't about Aryan at all.
We still on for Abe's?
I blink at my screen dimly. Then, I remember our ice-cream plans. I know he's going to grill me. But it's also been a while since we've hung out as just us— Dima and Mira. I miss it. I type back a single thumbs-up emoji before lifting off of the bed.
In the bathroom, as I'm about to wash my face, I reach for the first hair tie I could. I'm halfway through pulling my hair up into a ponytail when I stop. I loose it, letting it fall down around my shoulders, and drop Kenna's red scrunchie onto the sink.
I replace my discarded cardigan with a white crop and on my way to the door, phone and keys in hand, I drop a few treats into Cinna's bowl just because he woke me up.
Abe's Creamery isn't a long drive. It's a little ice cream shop sitting in a little strip mall in Calabasas, complete with the red and white striped sign out front and black and white checkered tile inside. It always smells like caramel inside. It's not like the trendy shops that open every year, selling cronuts and ice cream cotton candy tacos. I'm pretty sure Abe's menu had only had like three changes in the past decade. And for this reason, it's relatively devoid of the hustle of the rest of the world.
The bell dings above my head as I step into the shop, shoving my keys into the pocket of my distressed jeans. The shop is empty. I'm here before Dima.
Abe— or rather, Ibrahim— is an Iraqi-American man with a head of silvery hair and silver-framed glasses perched at the edge of his hooked nose. No one scoops ice cream like him. And at the sound of the bell, he sticks his head out from around back and grins at me from behind the long display of ice cream.
Abe's Creamery is a place from my childhood. My father used to take me here. He ordered vanilla with pistachios and I ordered anything with rainbow sprinkles. I would stand behind the counter, barely tall enough to see all the flavours on display, as the two men held long conversations in Arabic. I could barely keep up with my father's Arabic, only picking up a few words. Shukran— thank you. Peace be unto you. Habibti— that's how I knew he was talking about me. But I most definitely could never keep up with Abe's Iraqi dialect.
He greets me in English. "Miss Zahed," cheers Abe, clapping his hands behind the counter. "I was just thinking about you. I just made a fresh batch of vegan vanilla ice cream."
I beam across the counter at him.
Abe's menu had only changed three times in the past decade. And that had been to add three new vegan flavours— chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, just for me.
I'd wandered back here a few years ago in high school and he'd remembered me instantly. When I'd informed him that I don't even have milk and I'm not sure why I even came in here, to begin with, I was initially given the traditional Middle Eastern spiel about how milk is good— halloumi and knafeh and all of that— but Abe had quickly shaken his head and told me to come back in a week. A week later he had three samples of almond milk ice cream for me to taste test.
I've been a loyal customer ever since, dragging Dima along with me after school kicked our asses.
I never did tell him that I used to come here with my father though.
"The regular, please and thank you, Abe," I grin, leaning against the counter, watching as the older man nods and proceeds to scoop two healthy scoops of his vegan vanilla masterpiece into a paper cup, topping it off with a generous round of pistachios.
Abe never wants me to pay. The back and forth debate at the register is part of the ritual at this point. Eventually, I win, and by then my ice cream has almost melted.
It's still good though and I'm sitting quietly at the end of the shop, letting spoonfuls dissolve on the tip of my tongue when Dima walks in.
He heads to the counter and orders his usual as well, chatting with Abe.
The sight of him falling into the seat opposite me, a cup of peanut butter ice cream with hot fudge in hand, is so familiar that I feel a terrible pang in my chest. I missed him.
Kajal's clay beads dangle at his wrist as he digs into his ice cream, fixing me with a lazy look, his hazel eyes glowing in muted amusement. "You threw your iced coffee at Aryan, Mira?"
I can't help it. It's the wry tilt of his lips. He's amused with me. He's my best friend. I laugh.
I laugh, leaning back into my chair, ice cream in hand. "He deserved it."
Dima shakes his head. "What is going on with you, Mira?"
I shrug. "We just had a disagreement."
"I'm not asking about that right now though," he says calmly. Dima is so calm. Dima is so centred. He's not even the pretentious type of calm as Ivan. He's literal solid earth. I never feel like I'm going to fall when I'm standing next to Dima. "I'm asking about you, Mira. I'm worried about you. Your dad— we can go toilet paper his house if you want?"
"Please," I laugh at his offer. "You have asthma, Nazarenko. You can't outrun the cops for shit."
"Not you using my asthma against me, Mira," he says, spooning some ice cream into his mouth.
"Like, it's not that hard," I carry on, rolling my eyes jokingly. "Just breathe, dumbass."
"Do you learn anything in your Biology class?" He narrows his eyes at me.
"Considering I was lowkey drunk during my last Biology class, which was a test, by the way, no."
Dima sighs, "I leave you alone for like what— two days? And you start day-drinking, Mira?"
I grin across the table at him. "Give it another day, Dima, and I'll start pole-dancing. Just you wait."
"As if you could pole dance, Mira," he scoffs at me, jabbing his spoon my way. "You'd fall flat on your ass, we both know it."
Okay, yeah true.
"At least I don't have asthma," I shoot back.
Dima rolls his eyes. "Hear me out," he says. "We won't have to outrun any cops. We buy the toilet paper at Target. Stash it in your trunk and drive up to Bel-Air. In and out. Toilet-papered. You like to speed, don't you? You're the getaway car. You see sirens in your rearview mirror, you floor that shit. Sounds like a plan."
"Jeez," I reply, "Daniel is quaking right now."
"As he should be," replies Dima smartly, punctuating it with a spoonful of peanut butter ice cream.
He literally has a peanut allergy. His defence is My grandparents didn't escape the Soviet Union for me to grow up in America and not enjoy the luxury of peanut butter.
"I'm going to tell Kajal," I tell him.
This is a new one. But I was there when Kajal dragged the three of us— me, Dima and Aryan— to a new place that had opened up at the Grove because she wanted to try something she'd seen on Instagram. The place was shiny, with those neon glowing signs with witty catchphrases and Dima and I had met each other's eyes, his hand in Kajal's, thinking the same thing. This isn't Abe's. He proceeded to order his regular anyway, only for Kajal to remind him he had a peanut allergy. I could only hide my smile as Dima simped so hard he ordered strawberry instead.
He doesn't have to ask what I'm talking about. We share a hive mind, honestly.
Dima narrows his eyes at me, leaning forward on his arms. "You wouldn't."
"That doesn't look like strawberry to me," I inform him, pointing with my spoon at his cup.
"You're supposed to be on my side, you traitor," he snaps at me.
"You do have a peanut allergy though," I defend myself. "Don't you get hives?"
"It's worth it," comes his even, stubborn response.
He and Ivan have that in common— that stubbornness. That's pretty much where it ends. They both write too though. But Dima's stories and Ivan's are so different. It's like they were literally born to disagree.
"Mhm." I nod along. "I'm def telling Kajal."
"Mira," he counters, "you're supposed to be on my side. I was on your side when you said Aryan deserved to have coffee at him. He's a good guy but you're my best friend. I'm on your side. So, kindly, shut up. You're not telling Kajal shit. I'll kill you."
He's a good guy?
I swallow some ice cream just to chase the bitter taste in my mouth at that.
You aren't shit, I told him. I'd been harsh. But so had he.
Dima senses my quiet and his face sobers. He leans forward, eyes reaching for me. "What happened between you two, Mira?"
"Nothing," I say quickly.
You're such an actor, Zahed. Just like your daddy.
But nothing happened. I'm not even lying. Nothing happened. Then, why is there such a bitter, ugly taste in my mouth as I replay the words exchanged earlier today?
I drop my spoon into my cup. It's empty. I laugh, "He's not even my type."
Dima's eyes drop to my neck. My entire body goes cold. I defensively shifty hair over my shoulder.
There Ivan goes again.
Or is it the one who fucked you up so bad you can't even say his name?
His eyes lift to mine, brow lifted as he taps his own neck. "Doesn't look like it."
Alarms go off in my head.
The lie is on my lips before I can even stop it. "It was a one-time thing," I blurt out.
Dima blinks like he hadn't expected me to come clean— well, I hadn't. "I—," he stutters. "Mira, you seriously fucked my girlfriend's cousin?"
I bite my lip. Ew, no. But I say anyway, "You're the one who made me drive him around!"
He covers his face with his hands. "Drive him arou— Jesus! I'm never going in your car again— what the fuck?"
I cross my arms over my chest. "Yeah, anyway, he's not my type. At all. Really bad kisser too. Awful. It's over with. Stop being dramatic, Dima."
He drops his hands and looks at me flatly. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." But you'll probably hate me if you know the truth.
"Yeah, I'm not telling Kajal this," he decides.
"Probably don't tell your girlfriend her cousin is a bad kisser, no," I add.
He laughs, shaking his head at me.
"But why'd you throw your coffee at him?"
I shrug. "He's just really fucking annoying."
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i literally did not breathe at all while writing that fight and I refuse to reread it so we just go with it, okay?
eNemiEs tO lOvErs but on x games mode.
anyway, i want ice cream but i'm way behind on nano and i do not think i will be completing it so i do not deserve ice cream. but hey, i did give yall 10 chapters of llfh and 2 chapters of bh so far in November so that's something? maybe I'll have ice cream
xx thea