“Yusuf said his cat loved me, but I knew she just liked to hear me scream.”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes. Rashid sent me a selfie from the observation deck, a huge grin on his face.
“You paid for your ticket. You should go back up there,” he said.
“Are you kidding me? I’d pay money not to go up that elevator ever again. Every time someone visits from out of town, we take them tothe CN Tower. I’ve been here approximately two hundred times. I should be thanking you.” I was babbling. Aydin’s reaction had taken me completely by surprise. His arrogant self-possession was one of the most consistent—and irritating—things about him.
“I haven’t been here since I was five years old,” Aydin said, breaking my nervous silence. “I came with my mother and father. I was so excited. But on the way up, Mom had a panic attack. I think she was afraid of heights too.”
I looked at Aydin. His colour was back to its usual warm brown, but there was something glazed about his eyes. I scooted over slightly. He was speaking into his lap, hands curled into tight fists. I wanted to reach over and loosen that grip.
“I didn’t know what was happening,” Aydin continued. “She started gasping for air as soon as we got on the elevator. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on her face. My dad was so embarrassed.”
My eyes were fixed on his, but he wasn’t looking at me, or anyone else. His gaze was fixed on the past.
“That’s awful.” I didn’t know else what to say.
“She tried to enjoy herself for my sake. I was so obsessed with the tower. My father kept scolding her. Finally I started to cry and we left. It happened so long ago, but the minute we got on that elevator, it all came back.”
This time I did reach over and gently squeezed his hand. We sat in silence, not looking at each other. Rashid sent me another picture of him walking on the glass floor, his face glowing with excitement. I showed Aydin the photo and he took a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry I ruined this for you,” he said in a small voice.
I imagined five-year-old Aydin, caught between his terrified mother and his stern father. I wished Junaid Uncle were there, so Icould slap his disdainful face. “Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t apologize.”
We lapsed into silence once more. I glanced over at him and saw that his ears were slightly pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry I stepped on your shoe,” I said.
He smiled, relieved. “I’m sorry I criticized Three Sisters when we first met.”
“That’s okay,” I said, looking out at the nearly empty pedestrian walkway. “Rashid and I are hatching a plan to destroy you.”
Aydin laughed out loud, startling a pigeon perched beside us. “There’s the Hana I know. You were being so nice I was starting to worry.”
“I do have a reputation to maintain.”
His breath was warm, and his dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “I like it when you’re mean to me,” he said.
I stood up abruptly. “I think Rashid is going to be a while. Want to get some ice cream?”
Aydin blinked, then nodded. “Sure, but I’m paying. Don’t argue.”
IT WAS AN EIGHT-MINUTE WALKto the Dairy Queen from the base of the CN Tower. Given his easy, loping stride, no one would have guessed that the tall man in silver sunglasses beside me had just suffered a panic attack.
Aydin looked at me as we walked, and I saw twin versions of Hana staring back. I was much shorter than his six-foot height, the reflections distorted. I adjusted my bright blue hijab and white tunic. Something had changed between us on the ride down the CN Tower, leaving me feeling raw and a little shy.
We stopped in front of the Dairy Queen. Both of us started to speak at the same time, and I laughed and gestured for him to go first.
Aydin shifted uncomfortably and reached into his pocket. “I bought you something,” he said, handing over a small velvet pouch.
Mystified, I opened the drawstring and a heavy metal object fell into my palm. As I examined the tiny cube, he coughed in embarrassment.
“It’s a radio keychain. When I saw it at the Golden Crescent convenience store, I thought of you. Mr. Patel says it really works.”
The mini radio had an old-fashioned dial and was painted a delicate gold and white. It looked expensive, like something you would buy at a boutique, not our local convenience store. I fiddled with the tiny knobs on the side and then looked up at Aydin. His ears had turned pink again, and he had trouble meeting my gaze.
“It’s beautiful,” I said gravely. His face lit up with the first genuine smile I had seen since I gave him the free plate of biryani. “Thank you.” I carefully pocketed the keychain.
“Consider it partial reparation for past behaviour,” he said, and my heart lurched.
