“I-I’ve been f-friends with … th-them m-my who-whole l-life.”
I wipe another tear away from her cheek, tucking a strand of hair away from her face. Then, I cup her cheeks in mine, holding her face up so we are eye-to-eye. She blinks. Hiccups. Then, sniffs.
“There will be other friends,” I say. “Other people. Who … will appreciate you. Who will mean it when they say sorry. Who will be able to say the word ‘bisexual’ without cringing.”
Hani lets out a soft chuckle, and the hint of a smile on her face makes me smile as well.
“I’m sorry,” she says in a whisper. “I shouldn’t have—”
But I’m already kissing her, so the words are trapped between us. The apology dances between our lips and our tongues, and in her hands in my hair, in my hands on her back. We only pull apart to the sound of the rain against the pavement, and I’m not sure how long it’s been raining for. From the look on Hani’s face, neither is she. Both of us are smiling—grinning, actually—and clutching each other’s hands like they’re lifelines and if we let go we will drown. We’re both already soaked, but we lean forward again, pressing our foreheads together, and Hani trails a line down the nape of my neck with her fingertips.
“So … you forgive me?” she asks, her eyes bright with hope. Instead of responding, I lean in and kiss her once more.
“Come on.” I take her hand in mine and tug her away from the school gates. The rain is cold against our skin but there’s something almost cleansing and wonderful about it.
“Where are we going?” Hani asks, letting me pull her along.
“Anywhere we can be together,” I say.
chapter forty-nine
hani
IT’S THE HOTTEST DAY OF THE SUMMER, ANDI’M GLADthat schools closed last week. There’s no way any of us would have been happy being stuck inside a classroom in the scorching heat.
I’m sure that most Irish people are out at the beaches or parks sunbathing. But Ishu and I are outside our tiny local mosque—having a barbeque.
“I feel weird,” Ishu whispers in my ear, tugging at her salwar kameez. It’s a cotton kameez that is soft yellow in color. Nobody should look good in yellow—but Ishu does.
“Why?”
“Everyone else here is Muslim.” She casts a glance around her, like if somebody hears her confessing to not being Muslim, something bad will happen. “They keep saying ‘salam’ to me, and I don’t know if I should say it back or not.”
“You know if somebody says ‘salam,’ they’re just saying hello in Arabic?”
“Yes, but—”
“If someone says ‘Dia dhuit’ to you, which by the way means ‘God be with you,’ do you say ‘Dia is muire dhuit’ or do you just—”
“Okay, okay,” Ishu concedes, rolling her eyes. “I just … meant, are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?”
“Yes, obviously.” I reach over and slip my fingers into hers for a moment, giving her a gentle squeeze. She takes a deep breath, and that seems to calm her down a little at least.
“Hani?” Abba waves me over from where he’s standing by the grill. He’s surrounded by the Muslim men from the mosque that he’s got to know more and more over the past few weeks. In fact, I’ve been seeing more of Salim Uncle nowadays than I have of even Ishu. It seems he’s at our house all the time.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Ishu, before slipping away from her and toward Abba and his friends.
“Hey, Abba,” I say as I approach, casting a wary glance at Salim Uncle.
“We wanted you to meet someone,” Abba says, pointing to a girl standing beside Salim Uncle. She has long, wavy black hair and she’s wearing a baby blue summer dress that goes all the way down to her ankles. She’s also almost as tall as Salim Uncle himself.
“This my daughter,” Salim Uncle says.
“Hey, I’m Aisha.” She waves.
“I’m Hani.”
“Her bhalo nam is Humaira.” Salim Uncle beams, like he couldn’t be prouder of the fact that I’m called Humaira.
