ma’amool cookies in the sala. Deya refilled their cups before heading to the kitchen, Nasser closely behind. She settled across from him at the table, bringing the warm cup to her face for comfort.
“Sorry to make you wait,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Nasser said. “How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Learn anything interesting?”
She sipped on her chai. “Not really.”
There was an awkward pause, and he fidgeted with his teacup. “You didn’t think you’d see me again, did you? You thought you’d scared me away.”
“It’s worked so far,” she said without looking at him.
He let out a small chuckle. “Well, not on me.” Another pause. “So, should we talk about the next step?”
She met his eyes. “Next step?”
“I mean, marriage.”
“Marriage?”
He nodded.
“What about it?”
“What do you think about marrying me?”
Deya opened her mouth to object, but thought better of it. She needed to prolong her sittings with him until she knew what to do. “I’m not sure what I think,” she said. “This is only the second time I’ve ever met you.”
“I know,” Nasser said, blushing. “But they say people usually know if something feels right instantly.”
“Maybe when deciding on a pair of shoes,” Deya said. “But picking a life partner is a bit more serious, don’t you think?”
Nasser laughed, but she could tell she had embarrassed him. “To be honest,” he said, “this is my first time agreeing to sit with the same girl twice. I mean, I’ve sat with a lot of girls—it’s exhausting, really, how many my mother has found at weddings. But nothing serious ever happened with any of them.”
“Why not?”
“There was no naseeb, I guess. You know the Arabic proverb, ‘What’s meant for you will reach you even if it’s beneath two mountains, and what’s not meant for you won’t reach you even if it’s between your two lips’?”
Deya’s contempt must have been written across her face. “What?” he asked. “You don’t believe in naseeb?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe in it, but sitting around waiting for destiny to hit feels so passive. I hate the idea that I have no control over my life.”
“But that’s what naseeb means,” Nasser said. “Your life is already written for you, already maktub.”
“Then why do you wake up in the morning? Why do you bother going to work or school or even leaving your room, if the outcome of your life is out of your hands?”
Nasser shook his head. “Just because my fate has already been decided, that doesn’t mean I should stay in bed all day. It just means that God already knows what I’ll do.”
“But don’t you think this mentality stops you from giving things your all? Like, if it’s already written, then what’s the point?”
“Maybe,” Nasser said. “But it also reminds me of my place in the world, helps me cope when things don’t go my way.”
Deya didn’t know whether she found weakness or courage in his answer. “I’d like to think I have more control over my life,” she said. “I want to believe I actually have a choice.”
“We always have a choice. I never said we don’t.” Deya blinked at him. “It’s true. Like this marriage arrangement, for instance.”
“Maybe you can go around proposing to any girl you want,” she said. “But I don’t see any choice here for me.”
“But there is! You can choose to say no until you meet the right person.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s not a choice.”
“That depends on how you look at it.”
“No matter how I look at it, I’m still being forced to get married. Just because I’m offered options, that doesn’t mean I have a choice. Don’t you see?” She shook her head. “A real choice doesn’t have conditions. A real choice is free.”
“Maybe,” Nasser said. “But sometimes you have to make the best of things. Take life as it comes, accept things as they are.”
Deya exhaled, a wave of self-doubt washing over her. She didn’t want to accept things as they were. She wanted to be in control of her own life, decide her own future for a change.
“So, should I tell them yes?” Fareeda asked Deya after Nasser left. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, a cup of kahwa to her lips.
“I need more time,” Deya said.
“Shouldn’t you at least know if you like him by now?”
“I barely know him, Teta.”
Fareeda sighed. “Have I ever told you the story of how I met your grandfather?” Deya shook her head. “Come, come. Let me tell you.”
Fareeda proceeded to tell her the story of her wedding night, nearly fifty years before, in