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“Yeah, but let’s be real.” He smirks. “This will be way more entertaining than our wedding.”
35
Maya’s Law #35:
Sometimes love isn’t enough.
Some laws are made to be broken.
There’s no time to change, so I have to leave the house in this giant wedding dress. I pick up my skirt and follow behind Imtiaz, but I stagger to a stop when I realize Ammi and Hibba Baji are still lingering in the hall.
Ammi looks between the two of us. “So? What’s happening?”
Imtiaz looks at me, then back to my mother. “We’re not getting married, Auntie. I’m sorry. And we need to stop my brother from leaving the country.”
Ammi looks to me. Before she can speak, I open my mouth. “Ammi, I need to—”
To my surprise, though, she cuts me off. “Is this what you want?”
Silently, I nod.
“Okay. You go. I’ll take care of everything here.”
A rush of relief overwhelms me, and I tear up as I throw my arms around my mother. She hugs me back, her grip around me tight. I snuggle into her, like I did when I was a kid. I inhale the familiar scent of her perfume, and in that second, I know even if things don’t work out today, I’ll be okay.
“This is sweet and all,” Hibba Baji interjects, “but you don’t have time for this!”
“Oh, right,” I say.
We quickly let each other go, and Ammi gives me one last kiss on the forehead. “Go on.”
Most of the family have left for the masjid already (I do not envy Ammi or Hibba Baji right now, who will have to deal with the immediate fallout of the bride and groom deciding not to get hitched, after all), so we don’t run into anyone as we rush through the house. Imtiaz opens the gate for me, and we head for the motorcycle. He gives me a helmet, and I slip it on over my veil, which is too tightly secured to my head for me to take it off. I have to gather my veil and my skirt and hike them both up so I can settle on the back of the motorcycle without risking the cloth getting caught in the engine. Tiny cracks splinter in my heart every time a new layer of dirt dusts along the edge, but I don’t have the time for that right now.
Imtiaz kick-starts the engine, I wrap my arms around his torso, and we’re flying down the street. My hairspray-soaked curls whip in the breeze, and I spit strands out of my mouth.
He expertly weaves through the traffic. In Pakistan, there’s no such thing as a single lane; you go wherever you want. I would even dare to say the traffic is worse than in Toronto or New York; at least in those cities, most of the time, people follow traffic laws.
I catch a few stares from people in the cars next to us. A giggle erupts from my chest.
“What?” Imtiaz shouts over the wind.
I lean forward to say into his ear, “This is the most cliché moment of my life. As someone who has had terrible luck with romance in the past, I can’t believe I’m riding on a motorcycle in my wedding dress to stop a guy from leaving for the airport.”
He chuckles. “Does it make you feel any better that the guy is your fiancé’s brother?”
I’m glad that we’re already at a stage where we can joke about it. “Definitely.”
Thankfully, because we’re on the motorcycle, it doesn’t take us long to reach the bus station. Imtiaz gets off first, and he has to help me off because of the layers of skirt. Once I’m secure on the ground, he jerks his head toward the entrance of the station. “Go on, then.”
I know I’m crunched for time, but I still take a moment to cup Imtiaz’s face and kiss his cheek. I leave a red stain on his skin, but I don’t have the time to care. I skim my thumbs over his cheekbones. “Thank you,” I say.
“Yeah, well...” He waves me off good-naturedly, and though I still don’t know him that well, even I can tell it’s masking some hurt. “If you guys don’t end up getting married someday, I’m never forgiving you.”
I give him a sad nod, which he returns. Then, I pick up my skirts and run toward the station.
I’m glad I fought against Ammi when it came to the shoes, because the heels are just short enough that I can still run in them without the fear of twisting my ankle or toppling over. For some reason, though, there are a lot of people in this bus station. I catch numerous strange stares at my attire, my panicked expression, and my running, but I ignore all of it as I scan the crowds. Imtiaz didn’t say which bus Sarfaraz was taking, so I have no idea what I’m dealing with. My only hope is to find his face and pray he hasn’t set his mind firmly on leaving. I’m sweating, my dress is heavy, and I haven’t slept properly, so I’m exhausted—but I’m not giving up.
Finally, I see a very dark, very familiar head. The body is clad in a red sweater and dark-wash jeans. I’m out of breath from running, my legs ache, and my lungs feel like they’re on fire, but I gather all the strength I can and shout, “Sarfaraz!”
