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‘Did you leak the contract?’ I ask, as terror wraps round my heart like a vice.
Please don’t be true. Please don’t be true. Please don’t be true.
His expression goes through stages of emotions: initial disbelief in the furrow of his brow, horror at my question in the slight O-shape of his mouth, anger in his jaw and then understanding, finally, in the light of his eyes.
‘Farah,’ Zayan says, and it sounds like both a command and a plea. ‘I would never, ever, do that to you. I’m sorry that I made you believe I would.’
If I went on Zayan’s words alone, I wouldn’t believe him. Me over his reputation? The thing he’s spent two months fixing? Unbelievable. But I know how honesty sounds on Zayan, how desperation looks on him. He isn’t lying, and the realization brings a fresh wave of tears to my eyes. Relief forces me to slump in his arms.
‘I’m sorry,’ I choke out. ‘I’m sorry that I thought –’
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ Zayan interrupts, not an ounce of anger in his voice. ‘I understand why your mind jumped to that. Especially when I didn’t pick up your call. I should’ve been there, helping you through this. I was caught up doing damage control, and not thinking about how you’d be affected by this. I’m sorry. But I’m here now, so tell me what happened in the library.’
At my silence, he squeezes our interlaced hands twice. His hold on me is unwavering, strong in all the ways I feel like I’m not.
‘You can trust me, Farah,’ Zayan whispers. ‘Tell me what happened.’
He waits patiently, and for several long moments we just breathe. Breathe until I’m sure our hearts must be beating in sync. It’s hard for me to justify my silence when I realize that I owe him the truth, in return for how much it must have cost him to trust me. Especially since my public breakdown probably detonated a bomb over our partnership.
‘I don’t want to burden you,’ I confess, and something close to agony shadows his gaze.
‘Burden me, Farah,’ he replies, his voice tinged with a desperation I’ve never heard before. ‘Please.’
And it’s that last word that forces me to speak.
‘There was this girl,’ I mumble. My eyelids fall shut, like I can’t bear to look at him. ‘She called me … a Paki.’ Pure silence sits in the small gap between us. But I keep going, every word hurting as it escapes me. ‘And I didn’t say anything back. I never would have thought someone would call me that. I know that sounds arrogant. I’ve had a lot of benefits from having fairer skin. I had someone once tell me I was a six out of ten: four points for having a British passport, and two because I looked foreign, despite having Pakistani heritage.’ My voice turns into a shameful whisper. ‘I didn’t know what a privilege that was, not until I came here, and some people started … started using my skin as an insult. But then there are people online, since we started our relationship, who think I’m not brown enough. Half of the world sees me as white-passing and opportunistic. The other sees me as too brown and untalented. I don’t know how to keep up: am I brown or not?’
‘Farah.’ The fury with which Zayan says my name causes my eyelids to snap open.
I knew it. He thinks I’m a spoiled brat. I shouldn’t have said anything. I try to disentangle our hands, but he tightens his hold, forcing me to stay in place.
‘I’m not angry at you,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m furious at everyone else. For how you’ve been treated.’
‘It’s not a big deal,’ I whisper, my jaw trembling with sudden nerves.
‘It’s not an overreaction, Farah,’ Zayan says. ‘You’ve just been verbally attacked, and then you’re also dealing with this confusion about your own culture and what it means to be brown in a society that says you’re anything but. It is a big deal.’
Twin feelings of relief and terror pulse through me. ‘It’s not,’ I say. ‘Look, I don’t even get the worst of it. Anushka and Nur –’
‘Don’t,’ Zayan interrupts urgently. ‘Don’t start playing Oppression Olympics in your head. What you face is different, but valid. It matters, Farah. You shouldn’t have to pretend to be OK when you’re so clearly hurting.’
His words sink into my mind slowly, like treacle. A part of me resists; a part of me wants to shout at him and say, I’m fine. That everything I’m feeling is just me overreacting, because if it’s just that then I have nothing to confront. Nothing to deal with. I can just move on. But I can’t. Everything Zayan says shines a new light upon the previous events of my life, and it’s impossible to look away.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I reply. My head feels tangled with so many emotions that I’m too tired to work out right now. ‘I don’t know where to start dealing with all of this. What … How … What do I do?’
‘You’re not going to work this all out in one go,’ Zayan says gently. ‘But you have to stop running from this, Farah. The only way you’re going to really work through it is by talking about it. Maybe we should talk to The Tragedies –’
‘No,’ I gasp out, attempting to wrench my hand away from his, but he has an iron-clad grip on me. ‘I can’t – I won’t –’
‘OK,’ he says softly. ‘OK. No talking to them. Yet. We’ll build up to that, yeah?’
I nod, before hesitantly taking one tiny, miniscule metaphorical step forward. ‘Maybe … Maybe.’
‘Good. I mean, not good, but it’s a start,’ Zayan replies. ‘Acknowledging that you will talk about it one day is a brave thing, Farah.’
I laugh wetly. ‘They could hate me.’
‘I would physically fight anyone who doesn’t immediately see how wonderful you are.’ Zayan’s voice is so serious I feel a genuine smile press against my lips.
