He gathered flour and butter, then pushed a bag of crisp green apples toward her. “Start peeling, sous-chef.”
Mindful of the camera, Sameera asked Tom if he had any pie stories to share. “I bet you’ve had your share of cream pies to the face,” she teased, and he pretended to look affronted.
“What are you implying, Ms. Malik?” he asked.
Sameera shrugged, looking innocently at the camera. “Only that sometimes I think about shoving a pie in your face, too,” she said, and squealed when he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up. His arms were warm and firm around her, and when he put her down, after she’d promised to behave, her cheeks were flushed.
They continued to joke and banter while they worked. Tom had a good vibe for the camera, Sameera thought as she peeled and choppedthe apples into small pieces. He was funny and self-deprecating. He also loved to tease her, and judging by the heart and fire emojis as they recorded, their live audience hung on their every word. It was a relief to forget about Andy Shaikh’s expectations and her worry about what she would do, at least for a little while.
They stopped the live stream while the pastry dough rested in the fridge. As she stirred the fresh apple filling on the stove, the fragrant smells of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and allspice perfuming the air, Sameera idly asked, “You clearly love to cook. Do you think it’s time to rethink your plan to never cook when you’re here? Barb told me,” she added.
Tom tasted the apple pie filling and added a pinch more salt before he answered, his voice even: “My dad and I had a huge fight about my cooking a few years ago. He called the career I had poured my time, effort, and passion into a ‘hobby.’” Sameera winced. “He said it would never amount to anything, that I was wasting my time,” Tom added.
Moved by this admission, she put a hand on his arm, and he looked up at her. “That’s why you decided to hide from him,” she said softly. “The secret dreams and hopes you have. The part that brings you the most joy.”
Tom shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“I hate that phrase,” Sameera said. “What does it even mean?”
“I guess it’s a reminder to accept reality, instead of longing for some dream that will never come true. Sort of like you with your parents.”
Sameera looked up at him, surprised by this comment. What had he noticed about her? He leaned forward, brushing past her as he reached for the stove and turned the heat off.
“You think I do the same with my family?” she said, and he looked embarrassed.
“We don’t really know each other,” he started. Then, thinking it over, he nodded. “But, yeah, I do. You were so upset the last time we were at Hilda’s because your mom had invited Abu Isra over for dinner. Then a few hours later, you were helping out with cooking and hosting,and you seemed fine. You pushed all that anger and annoyance down, because you knew that it wouldn’t do any good, that no change was possible. I admired your ability to do that, to move on.”
He must have noticed the effect his words were having on her, because he squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. “I wish I could do the same, Sameera. Though I did wonder one thing.” He paused, and she nodded for him to ask. “What really happened between you and your parents? You’ve alluded to an estrangement a few times now. It’s clear you love them a lot. Why didn’t you talk to your family for three years?”
Sameera’s heart juddered. She didn’t really want to get into this. On the other hand, her mother had forced this situation, in large part because of the unresolved issues left over from their long estrangement. Maybe he was owed an explanation. She was also sure Tom wouldn’t think differently of her, if he knew the truth; if anything, he might understand.
“My parents, my entire family, are observant Muslims,” Sameera started. She had never really shared this story with anyone and wasn’t sure how to begin. “And I am ... not.”
“You said your sister used to call you a kafir, an unbeliever,” Tom said gently.
She looked out the window of the bakery. In the distance, she could make out a small pond, and she imagined the life that teemed below the frozen surface as she considered her words. Tom was so different from her, on the surface at least. But deep down, they appeared to share more things than seemed possible. They had both been hurt by the people who also loved them the most. They both had trouble with confrontation, and with communicating their needs and identities to their family. They both loved their families deeply but were also frustrated by those relationships.
“I grew up surrounded by faith, fully immersed in the Atlanta Muslim community,” she said. “It’s still an important part of who I am.” This was the part she needed him to understand. Her parents had never made their Islamic belief a hardship, and she had little animosityfor the faith itself, or for her family’s practice of it. As she mulled over her next words, she realized that part of the reason she never talked about this was because she was always afraid of the listener’s reaction. That they would nod in agreement, as if to say,Of course it’s only natural that you would reject Islam and all that it entails. We’ve seen Muslims in the news. They always seem so angry. They’re so different from us. You chose right when you rejected all of that.Except her Muslim-ness would always be a part of her.
“I didn’t grow up religious, but I’m from a small town, and that’s sort of similar,” Tom said, and his kindness and empathy made her heart clench. He leaned against the counter, thoughtful blue eyes fixed on her. There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in his body, and she took a deep breath to continue.
“What I realized as I grew up was that as much as I enjoyed parts of my faith, my mother sometimes used it to try to control my behavior.” This was the harder part to talk about, the personal bits that made her feel utterly exposed and vulnerable. “It’s not her fault entirely. She was raised the same way, with a lot of black-and-white thinking, and no room for gray. I was either a good Muslim and therefore a good person, or I was a bad Muslim—which was the same as saying I was a bad person, a bad daughter, a disappointment.”
“Either you stay in Wolf Run and remain connected, or leave and never look back,” Tom said quietly.
Sameera’s lips quirked in a rueful smile. “For a long time, I never really questioned the rules my parents had set down for me. I followed the path they expected, like my sister. She made it look so easy.”
“But at some point, you couldn’t?” Tom asked gently. He had taken her hand while she talked, and he squeezed it now.
“Faith is personal,” she said quietly. “It’s a thing some people are brought up with, but at some point, you have to take it on for yourself, to make it your own. When I pushed back against a few things, such as why I had to fast every day in Ramadan, or pray five times a day, or why I couldn’t date when I felt ready for a relationship, why marriage wasalways the end goal, or when I questioned the different expectations for men and women, my parents didn’t know how to react to my questions. They laid down the law—and in my house, it was my mom who was the disciplinarian, not my dad—and I pushed back. By the time I was in senior year, we were always arguing. I thought about running away from home a few times because I was so unhappy. It wasn’t pretty, and it took a toll on me emotionally and physically. I got very sick toward the end of high school. Looking back on it, I think I was depressed.”
Tom waited, not pushing her to talk, his body angled toward hers, as if they were inside a cozy world of two.
“After a while, I realized I no longer shared my family’s beliefs. I had lost my faith, and that was ... devastating. It felt like a death.” She looked at him, and those feelings came right back—loss, grief, despair. “I cried for days. That’s the thing most people don’t understand. It would have been easier for me to believe and practice the same way as my family, but I couldn’t. Losing that connection wasn’t relief or even freedom. It was loss. It felt like a betrayal of my very self.”
She huffed out a laugh, but Tom didn’t join in, eyes steady on her face. This was serious, and he wouldn’t let her minimize the subject. Her heart swelled with gratitude for his concern, at his careful expression full of tenderness and understanding.
“The last straw was when I snuck out of the house to go to my friend’s cabin overnight a few weeks before prom. I wasn’t allowed to go, so I lied and went anyway.”
