Misfit in Love (Saints and Misfits #2) - S. K. Ali Page 0,69
ceiling Dawud’s making is super sad.
It’s woefully empty.
And he’s only got a few jugs of flowers left, mostly short, small bits with their petals missing, as well as lots of foliage, mainly ferns that are kind of brownish on the edges.
Even if he were to add these, he’s got maybe a quarter of what could cover the center of the gazebo’s ceiling.
Dawud stands up to survey his work, his hands unconsciously going to his hips.
Then he drops those hands and looks at Haytham. “It doesn’t look real.”
I’m about to lie and say it does look real when I spot paint cans on a steel shelf on the far wall behind the laddoos. They’re regular house paints, but they give me an idea. “It’ll look better than real if we add more flowers.”
“But I don’t have any more flowers except these small ones.” Dawud’s got a sullen, angry look on his face. At any other time, that bratty look would make me leave the entire thing alone. Walk away from his problem.
But the fact that Dawud is eight years old, like Layth’s little brother, Muhsin, gnaws at me and makes me want to overlook his sulkiness and share my idea with him.
“You don’t have enough flowers, so that’s why we’re going to get more flowers!” I say excitedly, squashing feelings of impatience rising inside as Dawud’s frown deepens and he looks at me almost defiantly, like I don’t know what I’m talking about.
He shakes his head. “No, we’re not going to because there aren’t any more. You don’t know anything about flowers! And you said you weren’t going to help me. You’re mean. You said I’m so not doing it. I remember.”
“But she said she wasn’t going to help me!” Dawud narrows his eyes at me.
“She’s not mean. She drove you into town, she took you places, and now she’s offering to help.”
The steady glare Haytham shoots at Dawud makes him drop the stink-eyes he’s giving me. Now he resorts to jutting his chin out. “Where are we going to get flowers? Huh?”
“Don’t answer that.” Haytham puts a hand up to me before crossing his arms. He’s wearing a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, so his arm muscles make themselves known immediately upon crossing. “Little bro, you’re not going to do anything more on this ceiling, and I’m not even going to help you put it up, unless that apology comes out of your mouth.”
I want to say it’s okay, but then Haytham’s so serious, I feel like if I intrude, he’ll tell me to apologize to him. Maybe it’s part of his expertise as an uncle to so many kids.
Dawud slumps down and does this thing where his arms swing slightly, like jiggle, actually, in front of his body and then back behind him. It’s like he’s shaking the cooties out of himself or something. “Uh. ’Kay. I’m sorry for saying stuff about you.”
“It’s all right.”
“But there aren’t any more flowers,” he clarifies, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
“Why don’t you let me and Logan and Luke get you the flowers?” I say. I turn to Haytham. “Are you busy? If not, maybe you can you help us too?”
“Sure. My duties from Sarah start in a couple of hours, so for now, I’m all yours.” He ends this with a sheepish smile. Maybe because he realizes how weird that sounds.
I hope Dawud doesn’t catch that and hoot. And I hope I’m not turning red.
Because the truth: Haytham’s super cute when he says that.
“Where is he? I brought a ton of ties for him to try on.”
I turn around to Dad entering the barn, holding a tie hanger with several ties on it.
I turn back to Dawud quickly.
“He’s upstairs,” Haytham says. “Nuah! Ties are here!”
What? Nuah?
Dad’s dressing Nuah?
I go toward the laddoos and bend down to tell them in a low voice about our adventure providing flowers for Dawud’s ceiling, making it sound super exciting. I emphasize how they need to drop everything and come with me now.
I’m trying to get out of there quickly before I have to do a double dose of glazed gazes—at Dad and Nuah.
Too late. I turn around with one laddoo in each hand ready to march out with me, Luke with a truck in his hand, and there’s Nuah in the middle of the steps coming down from the loft bedroom on the right. He walks to the middle of the Persian rug in a suit jacket that’s