The girl in the red dress strode past us on her way to the exit. She was tall and curvy, skin flawless. Her hair, which looked like it had been professionally blow-dried on the plane, fell in soft, cascading waves down her back. She resembled a sultry Bollywood bombshell. Rashid stared open-mouthed, and even the gentlemanly Fahim was having a hard time keeping his gaze modestly lowered.
Aydin caught my eye. “‘Whoever will have you’?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
Bollywood Bombshell swayed back to us, trailing a teeny red Louis Vuitton case that was probably stuffed with perfectly tailored dresses, all in a loose-fit size two.
“Hana, this is Zulfa. She flew in from Vancouver for a quick visit,” Aydin said, and cleared his throat.
“Well done, brother,” Rashid said from over my left shoulder. He stuck out one hand for a high-five. “Perhaps you can give me some tips later on. Or introduce me to her sister?” I shoved my cousin back, colouring at his teenage behaviour.
Zulfa only smiled at Rashid. She was probably used to people acting foolishly around her. “I’m always happy to meet my fiancé’s friends,” she said.
It took a moment for her words to sink in.Fiancé?
“We’re not engaged,” Aydin said firmly. “She’s my publicist.”
That was one I hadn’t heard before.
Zulfa took his hand. “We’ll be together soon enough, sweetie. I can’t wait for the grand opening.”
What a strange thing to call your engagement ceremony.
Aydin jerked at her words. “You don’t have to do that in front of them,” he said, voice harsh. He didn’t even look at me. “They’re not important. We have to go. Now.” A faint pink tinged his ears as they left.
Kawkab Khala sniffed at their rudeness, and I ground my teeth. Aydin had flirted with me only a few minutes before. Now he could barely look at me, embarrassed that I had caught him with his fiancée—or, rather, hispublicist—in the airport. That was twice he had brushed me off after first trying to befriend me. I was done.
Besides, whatever was going on there was none of my business. I had my own drama, featuring Instant Relatives—just add one airport and no advance warning!
Fahim had found a second luggage cart. “Good thing we brought the van,” he said, smiling. “Who was that guy?”
“Stand down, love messenger,” I said. “That one belongs to Miss Pakistan.” I looked at the mound of luggage. “Why do we have baseball bats?”
“Didn’t Ghufran Khala tell you? I’m applying for an athletic scholarship.” Rashid picked up a bat and swung at an imaginary ball.
“I didn’t know baseball was popular in India,” I said, quickly taking the bat from his hands before he hit someone.
“What could be more Indian than baseball?” Rashid asked.
We made our way out of the airport. Pensive, Smiling, Disdainful, and Athletic—my family. May God have mercy on us all.
Chapter Ten
Fahim insisted on driving home: something about wanting to live long enough to meet his unborn child. Kawkab Khala claimed shotgun and I was crowded into the back with Rashid and the overstuffed carry-on bags. I wondered how long my cousin and alleged aunt intended to stay. From the looks of it, the answer might be forever.
“How is the, er, family?” I asked. I couldn’t recall Rashid’s parents’ names or if he had any siblings.
“They were sad when I left, but happy I was being accompanied by Kawkab Khala. I have never travelled outside India.” Rashid’s gaze was fixed on his cellphone, which was pointing out the window as he took video of the ride home. “Everyone is so polite here,” he said. A man in a tow truck flipped off Fahim, who, in an effort to restore balance to the universe, was driving ten kilometres below the speed limit.
I stuck my head between the front seats. “Are you sure you know where the accelerator is, Fahim? It’s that pedal on the right. The one you’re not pressing.”
He ignored me.
I settled back against the seat, trying to get comfortable despite the carry-on wheels jabbing into my ribs. “Tell me about your family, Rashid.”
“My parents are both accountants, and they have sent me to Canada to learn all about accounting.” Grinning, he added, “They don’t know about the athletic scholarship.”
“And why did you decide to visit Canada, Kawkab Khala?” I asked. “Did you hear about our breathtaking parks? Niagara Falls? Poutine?”
Kawkab Khala didn’t reply. Maybe I would let my alleged aunt sleep on the sofa after all.
