“Your mom was having trouble even before we arrived. I admit I played a part, but you can’t put this all on me,” Aydin said. He really didn’t get it; he didn’t understand how much privilege and power he had. He held all the options while my family had to scramble to stay afloat.
“That doesn’t make it okay to take away our choices!” I yelled. “We have nothing to fall back on. My entire family will be ruined because you can’t stand up to your father!”
“You know how I feel about my father,” Aydin said, and he stood up to face me.
“YOU STILL TOOK HIS MONEY!” I roared.
He flinched, stepping back as if I had hit him. His face flushed an ugly red, raw emotion crawling across his cheeks and jawline as if I had slapped him. I wished I had.
“You’re not innocent in this, Hana,” Aydin said, his voice dark and low. “You spread rumours online about Wholistic Grill. You called Workers Safety and tried to shut down my renovations. At least I told you the truth.”
“Eventually! You told me the truth eventually!” I cried. “To think I felt guilty for what I had done. I erased the posts, I even vouched for you online, when you were out to get us from the start. I should have gone with my first instincts and burned your restaurant to the ground!” I was spinning out of control, anger snapping at my heels and urging me forward, even as I recognized the hurt, shame, and guilt on his face. But it wasn’t enough. After everything that had happened to us—on Golden Crescent, online, downtown. I had trusted him, helped him, and he had betrayed me.
I could feel the pinpricks of tears, but I held them back. “How could you do this to me?” I asked, hating how small I sounded.
“I wanted to tell you the truth as soon as I realized...” He trailed off. Then, more softly, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen? You weren’t supposed to feel bad for me? To feel sorry for my family when you pushed us out of ourethnic slumand onto the street?”
“No!” he said.
I dared him to explain. I was standing so close I could feel the heat of him, just as he could see that I was trembling. “Then what?” I yelled back.
“I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO FALL FOR YOU!” Aydin shouted.
His words pushed me backwards in shock. We were both breathing hard now, facing off like two exhausted boxers in the final round.
I tossed my head, disbelieving, hurt, and sad—and so very, very sorry. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you actually feel something for me, Aydin. That’s not love,” I said deliberately. “Love doesn’t deceive, or play games, or always take.”
Part of me knew that wasn’t the whole truth. I had witnessed his kindness; I just didn’t know if any of it had been real. My next words were cruel, a direct hit. “What would your mother think of you now?”
I regretted the question immediately. Aydin closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were wet. He swore under his breath and walked away.
I forced myself to leave, slipping out by the patio gate, leaving the biryani poutine he had made for me—and what was left of my heart—on the table.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Iwas still furious with Aydin the next day, and I wasn’t sure what to do about his confession. I wondered if I should tell my family. Fazeela and Baba had both asked me to start sharing, but what good would that information do? I didn’t want to admit to sabotaging Aydin online, and it might all come out now. I wasn’t sure why Junaid Uncle wanted our closing in any case, aside from proof that his son could be shaped by his motives. It seemed like terrible business practice to me, but then I didn’t live in the rarified world of corporate plotting. Besides, I could picture my mother’s indifferent reaction to Aydin’s behaviour:We were in trouble before he came along. I do not see the issue.
I also wasn’t sure what Aydin had expected the previous night. Some sort of easy forgiveness, perhaps? If so, we had both been surprised by my rage. And I had been even more shocked by his admission that he had feelings for me.I wasn’t supposed to fall for you!His words echoed in my mind as I got ready for my shift at Radio Toronto.
There had been attraction between us from the start, but love? We were virtually strangers.How could you do this to me?Rememberingmy own words brought a flush of embarrassment to my cheeks.What would your mother think of you now?I couldn’t stop thinking about the look in Aydin’s eyes when I had conjured up his mother. He had deserved my anger, but perhaps not that final cruelty.
I wasn’t sure how I would face him again. With swords drawn, pistols at dawn? Or would he wave his white flag, tempt me with some more biryani poutine, and refuse to fight? What would I do then?
One thing was sure: the truth was out between us, all our secrets revealed. In the light of morning, that honesty felt clean and oddly refreshing. I was tired of lying to myself about how I really felt about so many things in my life. I was tired of going along to get along and of ignoring the cost of that deceit in my life. It was time to open the windows and let sunshine stream into the dark corners. It was time to take my story into my own hands, not leave it in the hands of those who didn’t respect my words.
I dressed for work, mentally flinging open those windows as I wrapped my most colourful hijab—pink, blue, and purple—and secured it with a straight pin. I put on mascara and bright red lipstick with a heavy hand. And I thought about the women in my family—my mother, Kawkab Khala, Fazeela. Each had faced major challenges, and not one had chosen the easier, less strenuous path. They had all fought for what they believed in, for as long as they could.
I willed that same clarifying light to stream into the conversation I now realized I had to have with Marisa and Thomas.
MARISA LOOKED AT HER WATCHwhen I walked through the door of Radio Toronto—I was on time for once. “Nice to see you’re making an effort, Hana. I know things have been difficult for you lately,” she said.
I felt a prickle across the back of my neck. Her words had been designed to put me in my place, but instead they were having the opposite effect. Marisa knew about the Golden Crescent attack; it had made the news, and once again I had been quoted and interviewed, representing my family business and the street, but not by Radio Toronto. I knew she resented my refusal to do another on-air radio segment, about the attack on my neighbourhood. That was probably why she was being so short with me.
She asked if there had been any new developments, and what the police had said. Marisa had never shown an interest in my family before, but now she peppered me with queries. Your mother has run a restaurant for fifteen years? Rashid is new to the country, here on a student visa? Fazeela used to play soccer semi-professionally and now she is on bedrest with a difficult pregnancy? But her interest was fleeting, especially since there would be no accompanying story for the station, and she turned back to the monitor in front of Thomas. On the screen I spotted an outline of the story about radicalization, the one they had pitched to Nathan Davis despite my protests.
“You’re not still doing that story,” I said flatly.
