be so clever.”
Zaf’s jaw dropped. His righteous anger deflated. Why was no one furious on his behalf? What the fuck was wrong with these people? “This—she shouldn’t—you sound like Jamal!”
Was it Zaf’s imagination, or did his sister-in-law’s cheeks flush slightly pink? Before he could decide, she argued, “Fatima’s right: views are money and publicity is opportunity. You are, allegedly, a young man. You should know this.” Kiran herself was some kind of Instagram model, except she made all her own clothes. She even embroidered her own hijab. Her account brought a lot of business to the clothing store she ran with Mum, so Zaf supposed she knew what she was on about. And he’d been planning to add his name to Tackle It’s website anyway. Eventually. Once he’d turned the idea over in his mind long enough to wear away the film of anxiety.
But this video . . . “It’s too much,” he said, and his voice came out rough and croaky. “Too many people. Attention isn’t always a good thing, Kiran, you know that.” Back when Dad and Zain had died, there’d been . . . a news drought, or something. Zaf had already stood out more than he should, being one of few Muslim pros, non-practicing or otherwise. Journalists had been all over his “tragic” story like flies on shit, and his world had shattered under someone else’s microscope. So, no, attention wasn’t always a good thing. He’d learned that when the press had turned his family’s unhappy ending into a sports section headline.
Kiran looked up, a flash of sympathy in her eyes. The teasing satisfaction left her voice in an instant. “Things are different now, Zafir.”
Yeah, they were. Didn’t mean he wanted complete strangers asking him about those differences. His gaze drifted to the family photo wall, dominated by old pictures that included Dad and Zain Bhai, frozen in time forever. The poltergeist of his grief curled itself up tight inside him. Pain was private. Some things weren’t for public consumption. There were lines.
In life, there were always lines. Good or bad. You just had to figure them out and stick to the winning play. Stay on track.
“I did this to help you,” Fatima said, “because you’re social media illiterate. This is big, Chacha. The hashtag’s on Twitter and everything. I knew you wouldn’t take advantage of your viral moment.”
Zaf was perfectly fine with being “social media illiterate” if it meant he didn’t say shit like viral moment.
“And this particular video has nothing to do with Dad and Dadaji,” Fatima went on, her gaze unnervingly sharp. “People aren’t talking about that at all. They’re talking about your super-romantic opposites-attract love story.”
That statement pricked the balloon of Zaf’s worry, because as far as he could tell—and he may have obsessively scrolled through the comments on his way here—it was true. Hmm.
“This associates your name with something positive. The more people think about #DrRugbae, the less they’ll remember about . . . before,” Fatima insisted.
“Doctor what?” Mum interjected. “What is this love-story nonsense? Zafir?”
“It’s not a love story,” Zaf gritted out. “My friend got stuck in a lift.”
“And you just had to carry her out in your big, strong arms,” Fatima snorted.
“I think,” Kiran said with a slow, dangerous smile, “that I’d like to see this famous video.”
Zaf glared at his niece. “I am regretting every time I ever fed you as a child. I should have let you starve.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about your new girlfriend. If your follower count is anything to go by, she’s getting Tackle It a ton of publicity.”
That was . . . an interesting way to look at it, but for one crucial detail. “Great, except she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Well, maybe she should be. I like Dani. She’s smart and funny and a good teacher.”
Mum made a sound that suggested she was moments from a pride-and-excitement-induced heart attack. “Zafir is marrying a teacher? From a university?”
Kiran, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Wait. Is this the woman you’re always telling me about, with the hair and the books and whatever?”
Aaand that was his cue to leave. He pointed at Fatima and said ominously, “I’m not done with you.”
She snorted. Kids these days had no healthy fear of their elders.
“Zaf,” Kiran said, “you can’t ignore me forever. Or even for an hour, usually.”
“Fatima!” Mum was practically shrieking now. “Show me that video!”
“All right,” Zaf said loudly, “love you guys, gotta go.”
“Wait! Zafir! Where are you going?”
He was already at the front door. He may have