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But now, suddenly—
Their relationship makes sense. Suddenly everything she’s ever said to me about him makes sense. I still don’t think I understand Warner, but it’s obvious that something about her lights a fire in him. He looks alive when she’s in his arms. Human like I’ve never seen him before.
Like he’s in love.
“I think we should start over,” she said, and held out her hand as if to shake mine. “I’m Nazeera. It’s nice to meet you.”
Tentatively, I took her hand. Held my breath. Her skin was smooth, soft against my calloused palm. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Kenji.”
She smiled. It was a happy, genuine smile. I had a feeling that smile was going to kill me. In fact, I was pretty sure this whole situation was going to kill me.
I’m so happy for my friends. I love them, even when they piss me off. I care about them. I want their joy. But it still hurts a little when it feels like, everywhere I look, everyone seems to have someone.
Everyone but me.
“Are you just pretending to be dumb all the time? Or do you always talk like you’re drunk?”
“What?” I said again. “I don’t talk like I’m drunk.”
“You’re looking at me like you’re drunk.”
Shit, she was pretty.
“Have you seen her yet?” I ask.
And then, so quietly I almost miss it— “No.”
Shit. This kid is breaking my heart.
Their relationship makes sense. Suddenly everything she’s ever said to me about him makes sense. I still don’t think I understand Warner, but it’s obvious that something about her lights a fire in him. He looks alive when she’s in his arms. Human like I’ve never seen him before.
Like he’s in love.
“Fine.” Winston’s face darkens as he hands it over. “You monster.”
I take the cup. “I’m a goddamn joy.”
“Shit,” I said softly. “I think I might be in love with you.”
I hated that I cried. Hated that I couldn’t help it. Everyone thinks I’m not supposed to give a shit—that I shouldn’t—but I do. I always do.
“I know a lot of women who lost the right to dress like that under The Reestablishment. There was a huge Muslim population in Asia, did you know that?”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“I had to watch, quietly, as my own father sent down the decrees to have the women stripped. Soldiers paraded them into the streets and tore the clothing from their bodies. Ripped the scarves from their heads and publicly shamed them. It was violent and inhumane, and I was forced to bear witness. I was eleven years old,” she whispered. “I hated it. I hated my father for doing it. For making me watch. So I try to honor those women, when I can. For me, it’s a symbol of resistance.”