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“Fair. But if you believe in that stuff, then fortune comes in fluctuations. Maybe for a while you’ve had lots of bad luck, but that means you have a long period of good luck coming.” He points to my ring. “For example, you said you’ve had bad luck when it comes to love. But if you’re getting married, doesn’t that mean your luck’s turning up?”
Theoretically, he’s right; this is a great rishta, Imtiaz is a wonderful man, and my mom’s starting to treat me like the adult I am—sort of. Doesn’t that mean I should be happier? That I should feel like everything’s all sunshine and rainbows?
The short answer: yes, it should. But it doesn’t.
A shiver runs down my spine. I peer up at the vents above our heads. Air-conditioning hits my face full force, and I reach up and close it. “It’s kind of chilly in here. Why is the air-conditioning on full blast?”
Thankfully, Sarfaraz doesn’t bring up my deliberate change in subject. Instead, he closes his own vent. “Do you feel better?”
“A little,” I respond. I press my palm against my lids. “I feel a headache coming on.”
“Did you sleep okay last night?”
“No,” I answer. “I don’t sleep well in general, though.”
“You could try sleeping now.” He checks his watch. “We still have some time before we reach Sigriswil.”
“I don’t know.” I hesitate. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, waving me off. He holds his phone up. “I’ll watch something on Netflix, and I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
“If you’re sure.” I sink down farther in the seat and rest my temple against the cold window, which sends a small shudder through my body. Even though the vent’s closed, I still feel some of the forced air blowing on my face, as well as the air coming from the other open vents in the car. I close my eyes, hoping to catch at least a few minutes of sleep.
12
Maya’s Law #12:
Always bring a backup to your backup.
I manage to sleep. It’s peaceful. I’m warm, and I feel like I’m wrapped up in a really fuzzy blanket.
Wait. Warm? A fuzzy blanket? I fell asleep with the air-conditioning blasting and my arms wrapped around myself to keep the shivers away.
I open my eyes to see a light sweater spread over my front, covering as much of my chest and arms as possible. I look to my right to see Sarfaraz, sans sweater, leaning the back of his head against the seat. He’s in a T-shirt, and his arms are crossed over his chest, but I see him shiver once or twice. Sarfaraz shifts every now and then, and I realize it’s because he’s trying to get out of the way of the direct stream of cold air coming out of the vent.
Reluctantly, I take the sweater off (I’m starting to become accustomed to his smell of lemons and laundry, which probably isn’t a good sign). I’m about to drape it over his chest, but the train suddenly jerks like a car that’s run over roadkill.
I scramble to regain my balance, but I end up sprawled on Sarfaraz’s lap. My stomach flops on top of his legs, my hands flying out. Unfortunately, in my desperate attempt at seeking stability so I don’t fall completely to the ground, I accidentally graze the bulge in the front of his pants.
Sarfaraz’s eyes fly open, and he sits up so fast I lose my balance. The floor rushes up to my face, but at the last second, his arms wrap around my stomach. Sarfaraz touching my body brings heat to my face. I push up as fast as I can while he pulls me into a sitting position.
Once I’m back in my seat, Sarfaraz immediately draws back. The spot he touched scorches, like I accidentally touched a hair curler to my skin. He clears his throat, his ears bright red. “Are you okay?” he asks, looking straight ahead.
Allah ka shukar hai, he’s not looking at me. I will my own face to go back to its normal color. “I’m fine.” Keeping my focus ahead of me, I hold his sweater out to him. “Sorry about that. Just trying to return your sweater.”
I feel him take it from me. Thankfully, the train slows to a much smoother stop a few minutes later, and the automated speaking voice says something in German before announcing in English, “Approaching Thun station.”
That’s our stop. Still not making eye contact, we shuffle off the train and find the bus stand for Sigriswil. Twenty minutes later, we reach our destination. At this point, the awkward air between us has started to clear, and I completely forget about it once I step off the bus and get my first glimpse of Sigriswil.
It’s even more breathtaking than in Crash Landing on You. Kelly’s right: there’s a certain magic that only exists when you see something in person. The sky is bluer. The buildings are sturdier. The dewdrops on the grass shimmer even brighter.
A bunch of small buildings with russet slanted roofs scatter along the bottom of the large, looming mountains. I can’t tell if the buildings are houses, offices, or stores, but I can make out one church, the telltale cross peaking at the top of the tall pillar.
The backdrop of the buildings looks like it came right out of a postcard. The mountains appear distant yet somehow close-up, hidden behind the swirling gray clouds. Snow speckles on the top of the peaks like sprinkles on ice-cream cones, somehow managing to glisten despite there being no sunlight. I can’t help but tear up.
People clamber about, some carrying umbrellas over their heads despite the fact that it’s not raining yet. They’re not even paying attention to the weird tourist who’s trying hard not to cry because the place they live is so beautiful. Well, not only because of that, but after such a turbulent forty-eight hours, it’s nice to stop and stare at something so natural, undisturbed, and calming.
“Alright.” Sarfaraz’s voice breaks me out of the spell. “We should move out of the way of the people trying to get onto the bus.”
