Much Ado About Nada E-Book

Uzma Jalaluddin

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 457

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'THE CONTEMPORARY TAKE ON PERSUASION I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR. I AM SUCH A FAN!' EMILY HENRY 'IN A WORD: BRILLIANT' NEW YORK TIMES Once they were sweethearts, now they're strangers. Worse than strangers - practically enemies. But will a chance encounter offer Nada and Baz a second chance at love? Nada Syed is stuck. At twenty-eight, she's living with her parents and mourning the failure of her start-up baby, which failed because of a double-crossing business partner. Nada's best friend Haleema is determined to pry her from her shell - and what better place than at the giant annual Muslim conference? And did Haleema mention that Baz will be there? What Haleema doesn't know is that Nada and Baz have a secret history. And in their chance encounter at the conference, that history comes hurtling at Nada, bringing a moment of reckoning. Will Nada find a way to let go of the past but hold onto her dreams? Everyone is raving about Uzma Jalaluddin: 'Warm, witty and utterly charming. I'll read anything Uzma Jalaluddin writes' KATE QUINN 'Perfection! Uzma Jalaluddin is one of the best writers in romance today, and this gorgeous book proves it' SARAH MACLEAN 'Uzma Jalaluddin has a remarkable gift for breathing new life into classic romantic plots' KATE HILTON

Leseprobe

Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2023 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Uzma Jalaluddin, 2023

The moral right of Uzma Jalaluddin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 991 3

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 993 7

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

TO IMTIAZ, FOR EVERYTHING.

PART ONE

Once upon at a time at a Muslim convention . . .

CHAPTER ONE

Present day

Nada Syed was no coward; at twenty-eight years old, she had simply learned that strategic retreat was the better part of valor.

Cell phone clutched in one hand, black ballet flats in the other, cream-colored hijab loosely draped over her short, dark hair, she tiptoed down the spiral oak staircase of the home she shared with her parents and two brothers. She crept toward the laundry room, which had a side entrance that led to the driveway, her car, and freedom. As she reached the door to the laundry room, her phone pinged with another message from her best friend, Haleema: I’ll be there soon! We’re going to have so much fun at the convention!

Nada shuddered. There were few things she could think of that would be worse than being forced to attend the Islamic convention over a hot July weekend. Perhaps skinny-dipping in the Arctic Ocean. Or being forced to eat her mother’s offal-and-tongue nihari curry.

Her phone pinged again. Haleema really didn’t give up; that persistence had fueled her rise to the top of her graduate engineering program, but right now, Nada wished her friend had the profile of a party-forward humanities major, because Nada needed to concentrate. Coordinating a covert weekend outing was tricky. Her mother, Narjis Syed, guarded their front door more zealously than a nightclub bouncer and asked more questions. Nada glanced at her phone, reading her friend’s messages quickly.

Aren’t you excited? Girls’ weekend! Then: Babe? Where’s my sister from another mister? Nada? HELLOOOOOOO????

Haleema wasn’t going to stop until Nada responded. Carefully dropping her shoes and slipping her feet into them, she texted her friend the perfect decoy message: Just getting ready. Big plans for the weekend! xxx.

Nada knew two things: 1) she couldn’t attend the convention for reasons that couldn’t be disclosed to anyone, especially not Haleema and 2) by the time her habitually late bff showed up at Nada’s house, she would be long gone, snacking on a delicious latte and blueberry scone from her favorite café.

One might wonder why a twenty-eight-year-old woman didn’t simply stroll out of her parents’ house as if she owned the place, flip her busybody neighbors a flirty goodbye, and head to wherever the hell she wanted. That person was clearly not the daughter of traditional South Asian parents, nor did they live in the Golden Crescent neighborhood in the east end of Toronto, a.k.a. “the nosiest place on Earth.” And they were particularly not the daughter of Narjis Syed, mother of three, interferer of all.

The side-door escape was the perfect plan, Nada thought, opening the door to the laundry room.

“Beta, what are you doing?” Narjis straightened in front of the washing machine, where she was sorting through a pile of clothing.

Busted.

“Answer your mom, Nada.”

Framed in the doorway, her best friend, Haleema Olawi—pretty, perky, perfect—lifted one perfectly threaded eyebrow.

Double busted.

“Your friend has been waiting for you this last half-hour,” her mother scolded, closing the washing machine door with a snap. She was a plump, diminutive woman, just barely five feet tall. Like Nada, she had full eyebrows and dark, knowing eyes. Her gray-streaked hair was gathered in its habitual braid. She and Haleema both stared at Nada, waiting for an explanation, but Nada’s mind blanked.

Haleema had always possessed an innate ability to charm the aunties, and she used this superpower to full effect now, gracefully lifting her hands in frustration. “Honestly, Narjis Aunty, I don’t know what to do with this one! Zayn got us free passes to the convention, plus a hotel room. I even have tickets to the matrimonial speed-dating event, and your daughter tries to back out at the last minute.”

Narjis’s eyes gleamed at the mention of matrimonial speed-dating, and Nada contemplated making a run for it. But Haleema had been on the track team at university and would hunt her down. Nada went with the snarky approach instead.

“When was the first minute?” she asked.

Haleema ignored her. Instead, Nada’s soon-to-be-ex-friend widened her eyes. “Can you believe Nada hasn’t even met my fiancé yet? Zayn’s family runs Deen&Dunya, you know. Imagine, my best friend too busy to meet the man I’m about to marry!”

Deen&Dunya—Arabic for “faith and life”—was a massive Muslim convention held in downtown Toronto over a July weekend. It was like Comic-Con, except with hijabs, jilbabs, beards, and kufi skullcaps rather than intricate fan-created costumes. Nada had managed to avoid the convention since it first launched five years ago. This avoidance had little to do with Zayn, but Haleema refused to believe that, and now Nada was trapped between a long-held secret and her best friend’s willful personality.

Haleema was the only daughter of wealthy entrepreneurs who lived in Dubai. It was true that she was a little bit spoiled and used to getting her own way, but she had always been a good friend to Nada. And it was also true that Nada had been ducking an introduction to Zayn for three months, the entire length of Haleema’s whirlwind engagement. There was a certain inevitability to this moment, Nada realized, and as a good Muslim, she should know better than to keep fighting her fate.

“I was just on my way to pick up some coffee?” Nada tried, a last-ditch attempt at escape. She had never been one to give in quietly.

Her mother wrinkled her brow. “Waste of money. Chalo, I’ll make you some chai while you pack for the convention. Make sure to bring a pretty dress.” Narjis walked toward the large kitchen at the back of the house.

“And put on something cute,” Haleema added. “You never know who you might meet.”

Shooting her friend a “this isn’t over” glare, Nada made her way to her bedroom. It was a good-sized room with two windows and an en suite bathroom. She had decorated in muted creams and beige. The bright, geometric cover on her Ikea Hemnes double bed was the only splash of color, the result of a failed attempt at reinvention years ago.

She hesitated at the door to her walk-in closet, her eyes drawn to the very back, where she had carefully hidden a large floral hatbox behind her overflow-hijab storage unit, beside her collection of salwar kameez. Inside the hatbox was . . . Nada shook her head. No time for that line of thinking. It was fine. The convention would be fine. It had been years and years and . . . everything was fine.

She threw a long dress, heels, and a matching hijab into a backpack, along with some toiletries, then changed into a navy-blue jumpsuit, an oversized blazer, and a pink hijab.

In the hallway, she bumped into her father.

Abbas Syed was a tall, thin man, an accountant by trade but a mediator by inclination. His thinning hair was streaked with gray, as was his carefully cultivated mustache. He looked at her from behind round glasses that magnified his large brown eyes, no doubt wondering why she was in a rush—and what he could do to help. Abbas was forever trailing after his enraged wife or irritated children, calming everyone down and smoothing the path back to grudging family tolerance. Her father had only ever wanted one thing: that his whole family live together under one roof forever. This wish had led him to buy a large house at the edge of the Golden Crescent, with enough bedrooms and bathrooms for everyone, and a driveway big enough to accommodate a fleet of cars. He had also encouraged his eldest son, Waqas, to move into the renovated basement apartment with his new bride when he had married ten years ago, when Nada was finishing high school.

Waqas still lived there. Unfortunately, his now ex-wife had moved out six years ago. They shared custody of their twin daughters.

As her father’s large brown eyes peered at her, Nada explained her haste. “Haleema is here to pick me up. We’re going to the convention downtown.”

Her father frowned. “Downtown is not a safe place for young girls. Dangerous pedestrians, opportunistic parking lots, malicious puppies, and traffic is always bad on the highway. Maybe you should livestream instead?”

Her father’s anxiety was legendary in the Syed family. Maybe she could use this to her advantage now.

“You should tell that to Mom and Haleema,” she suggested. “They’re both insisting I attend. You know I would much rather stay home with you, Waqas, and Jamal.”

A look of alarm crossed her father’s face at the mention of Haleema. “As long as your friend is driving,” he said.

Drat. Everyone was afraid of Haleema.

“What about the opportunistic parking lots?” Nada asked. “The malicious puppies?”

He patted her hand absently and shuffled to the kitchen in search of chai. Reluctantly, Nada hefted her overnight bag and followed him.

Downstairs, Haleema and Narjis were enthusiastically discussing wedding details as Nada rejoined them. Haleema glanced approvingly at Nada’s outfit change.

Although Nada knew that Zayn’s family ran the largest Muslim convention in Canada, his role was a bit murky. Haleema had described him as the general manager and once as the CEO.

“Actually, Zayn is an artist,” Haleema now confided to Narjis. A risky move, in Nada’s opinion—her mother didn’t approve of any profession she couldn’t find on the Aunty Pyramid of Eligible Careers: doctor, lawyer, engineer, accountant, or IT professional, in descending order of respectability.

“He paints?” Narjis asked, smile fixed. “So good for men to have hobbies, nah? Otherwise, they are always hanging about.”

Nada hid her smile behind a sip of the cardamom-spiced chai her mother had left for her at the wrought-iron kitchen table.

“No, he’s the lead singer of The Companions,” Haleema said proudly, but Narjis only looked blank. “They’re a famous Muslim band? Their first album, 99 Ways to Love, even got a write-up in the local paper, and their first tour a few years ago sold out.”

Privately, Nada wondered if this was true. She had done some light snooping after Haleema had announced her engagement, and while Zayn had a professional-looking website and enthusiastic fans on social media, she doubted the market for Muslim spiritual music in North America was large. Her mother, despite her prejudice against any arts-adjacent career, likely had it right: Zayn worked with his parents running the convention, and made mildly popular music on the side.

“We’re going to get stuck in traffic,” Nada said, now anxious to get on the road. She was very aware that any conversation involving weddings and employed men would inevitably lead back to her lack of either. The other women ignored her. Haleema was busy snacking on samosas and Indian mithai arranged on her mother’s good plates.

“In any event, I am glad you have convinced Nada to attend the matrimonial speed-dating event,” Narjis said now. “She has put off marriage for too long. She is the last single woman among her friends and she is almost thirty years old.”

“At which point I’ll be voted off the island,” Nada added agreeably, and shot Haleema another glare. This was the first time she was hearing about her alleged participation in the matrimonial speed-dating event.

Narjis ignored her daughter. “There is a time and a place for everything, don’t you agree?” she said to Haleema. “You can’t leave marriage too late. Otherwise, women grow set in their ways. The problem is that Nada is too picky.”

Haleema, ever the loyal friend, interjected. “Nada will marry when she’s ready, Aunty. She has excellent judgment and has never rushed into anything in her life. She has her engineering job, she has her family and friends, and for now, that’s enough. When the time is right, she will find her match. Inshallah.”

Nobody could argue against Inshallah—“God willing.” Nada appreciated the subtle reminder that the future was out of their hands, but felt uneasy with the rest of her friend’s pronouncement. Was this how Haleema saw her? A woman with no agency. A staid, timid singleton too set in her ways to ever take a chance. Someone who waited for the vagaries of fate or an unseen hand to land the perfect partner in her lap, or preferably, in her father’s study, asking for his daughter’s hand.

Even more appalling was that her mother and best friend seemed to think that Nada was content. She must be a better actor than she thought. Then again, as the middle child in her family, her role was clear: make no waves, cause no fuss. So what if her heart was filled with regret?

Seeking a distraction from these uncomfortable reminders, she spotted a felt box on the counter and reached for it. “What’s this?” Nada asked.

Her mother glanced at her father while he refilled his mug with chai from the simmering pot on the stove, before shrugging. “Some of my old gold jewelry. I’m taking it to be cleaned, to have it ready for when you marry. I will expect a full report after the convention.”

Nada carefully tipped the jewelry out into her hands. Looking over Nada’s shoulder, Haleema cooed at the treasure trove of bright yellow gold. It seemed polished enough to Nada, but she didn’t have her mother’s exacting eye.

This wasn’t a few odd items; it was the bulk of her mother’s collection, gifted and curated from her days as a young bride nearly forty years ago: floral jhumka ear bobs, heavy gold bangles studded with semiprecious stones, long chains with pendants, and several bridal sets with precious stones. This box contained tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of twenty-two karat gold. Narjis seemed wistful as she watched her daughter handle the pieces, and on impulse removed a small chain familiar to Nada. The pendant had her name in cursive.

“I had this made when you were born. You never wear it anymore,” Narjis said, before tenderly packing up the jewelry.

Nada fastened the necklace around her neck and rose, quietly thanking her mother for the chai. Even though she usually preferred coffee, she was convinced that her mother’s homemade chai had magical qualities. “I’ll keep an eye out for any suitable, single Muslim men at the convention,” she promised, not really meaning it but wanting to make her mother happy.

Narjis nodded but didn’t say anything else. It was a veritable truce and a sign that it was time to go. They had collectively consumed a half-dozen samosas, three chum chum, and two gulab jamun, along with the cardamom chai. If they didn’t leave now, her mother would pull out the lunch menu. As much as Nada dreaded Deen&Dunya, delaying the inevitable was worse.

As if reading Nada’s mind, Haleema smiled prettily at Narjis and uttered the only sentence that could free them now: “Thank you so much for the delicious snacks and chai, Aunty. Did I mention that Zayn has a younger brother who is single? He will be at the convention too.”

Even though Nada’s stomach lurched at her friend’s words, they were effective: the women were on the road and speeding toward the highway in five minutes flat.

In the car, Haleema broke the silence. “I know why you didn’t want to come to the convention,” she said, eyes fixed on the inevitable 401 traffic.

Beside her, Nada held her breath. Was this it? Would she finally be forced to come clean about her reluctance to meet Zayn?

“Why is that?” Nada asked casually.

“I saw the program. I know Sister Rusul is one of the speakers at the convention, and Haneef will be there too.”

Now the lurching in her stomach became a wave of nausea. She hadn’t experienced car sickness since she was a young girl. Nada closed her eyes. “Did you really sign me up for matrimonial speed-dating?” she asked, hoping to distract her friend.

“Nice try. Anything new with Ask Apa?” Haleema asked, and Nada’s heart twisted painfully.

Ask Apa was Nada’s first, and only, business—the culmination of her dream to become a techpreneur. A dream her mother’s best friend, Sister Rusul, herself a business owner, had encouraged. Apa was Urdu for “big sister,” and Nada had conceived of the idea in undergrad, when she had few mentors who understood her dreams and struggles as a second-generation South Asian Muslim woman. What she had needed was an apa, a wise older sister to give her good advice. Ask Apa was born—a community-focused app that would allow users to get advice from a culturally sensitive search engine. Nada had seen the potential in microtargeting years before it had become fashionable.

Except her app, and business, had failed spectacularly.

“Nothing is happening with it. The app was dead on arrival,” Nada said, and she knew how bitter she sounded. She had invested nearly two years in the app. She had borrowed money, worked closely with Sister Rusul on her business plan, toiled day and night, right out of undergrad. She had even had business cards made up: Nada Syed, Ask Apa CEO. The thought of them neatly stacked inside her closet made her want to cry.

“I always thought it was a great idea,” Haleema said, her tone firm. “If that jerk Haneef ’s Ukhti app hadn’t launched six months before yours—”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Nada said. Whenever she thought about the wildly successful Ukhti app—Arabic for “sister”—she was filled with shame. That chapter in her life had been devastating and was inexorably linked with Sister Rusul and her son, Haneef, Nada’s forever-nemesis.

“You’re in a rut, and you hate your job,” Haleema said, interrupting Nada’s gloomy thoughts with her characteristic bluntness.

“I’m a junior solutions architect,” Nada said. “It pays well. I just got a promotion last month. It makes my parents happy.”

“I think you’re scared to move on from what happened,” Haleema said. “But I got you. If we spot Sister Rusul or her slimy snake of a son, we’ll throw halal gummy bears at them. Nobody hurts my girl and gets away with it.”

Nada felt a sudden rush of affection for her friend. Haleema was half Pakistani, half Egyptian, and blessed with smooth tan skin and large hazel-green eyes that gave her small, triangular face an elfin look. She stood at a petite five foot two, and her hijab was always fashionably styled. They had first met at the Muslim Student Association during Nada’s first year of university and had become fast friends, though Haleema was two years older. They were both studying engineering and spent a lot of time panicking over assignments and exams. Haleema in turn had introduced Nada to the group of Muslim women she still hung out with today. Since graduation, they had all gotten married; a few even had babies now.

When Haleema turned thirty last year, she started to panic at her single status, even going so far as to ask her estranged parents for help finding a husband. Her parents had worked their Canadian contacts, and by spring Haleema had been introduced to, fallen for, and agreed to marry Zayn Haq, convention entrepreneur and allegedly famous community musician.

Nada picked up her friend’s phone and examined the picture that graced the home screen. Zayn was a good-looking man with deep-set hazel eyes, a square jaw dusted with stubble, and thick black hair that flopped attractively over his forehead. He smiled cockily at the camera, one eyebrow half-raised in challenge, a knowing look in his eye. He was a bit too pretty for her taste, but her friend seemed happy. He looked so different from his brother. She put the phone away and opened the windows to get some fresh air.

They zoomed past the familiar outlines of the CN Tower and the Rogers Centre stadium, where the Blue Jays played, the wind making Nada’s hijab flap around wildly.

“Maybe I am a little nervous to attend the convention,” Nada admitted in a small voice, her nerves playing an entire orchestra in her stomach.

Haleema threw her a wide smile. “You’re going to love Zayn. And I can’t wait to introduce you to his brother. Forget about everyone else. They don’t matter.”

Nada had tried forgetting. She had buried her secrets and regrets in a small bundle she kept hidden in a floral hatbox inside her closet. It hadn’t helped; even years later, they kept bubbling to the surface, magma that threatened to erupt in a dramatic volcanic explosion, obscuring her emotional atmosphere and making progress impossible.

She had prayed for a sign. She had been patient. She had tried, again and again, to move on, to forget. Nothing had worked. Now fate had set its sights on her at last. In a way, this moment was inevitable. More importantly, Nada was tired of running.

They pulled up to the Metro Toronto Convention Centre, and Nada stepped out, ready for whatever came next.

CHAPTER TWO

Present day

As she stood outside the convention center entrance, Nada realized that she had spent so much time trying not to panic about who she might bump into at Deen&Dunya that she hadn’t devoted any panic to the convention itself. Her eyes widened as she walked into the soaring entrance hall with Haleema. The space was already teeming with people. While she had known the Deen&Dunya convention was popular, she hadn’t realized it had grown into such a massive success these last five years.

“Zayn told me over twenty thousand people registered this year, with people coming from all over the States and Canada,” Haleema said, pride clear in her voice. No wonder she had insisted Nada dress up—this was clearly a place to see and be seen, if the fashion parade of attractive hijabi women everywhere was any indication. Haleema had chosen a pretty emerald dress that cinched at the waist and highlighted her hazel-green eyes, paired with a camel-colored hijab and matching heels. Nada was glad her friend had forced her to change. The elegant navy-blue jumpsuit and blazer with the sleeves rolled up to showcase her favorite bracelet was the right combination of effortless cute. She was also grateful that she had decided to stick with her black ballet flats; Haleema would be complaining about pinched toes within the hour, judging by the sheer sprawling size of the convention center.

Beside Nada, Haleema chattered on about the Islamic scholars and politicians who had traveled to be on the bill, as well as the gala dinner for VIP guests tomorrow—for which they had tickets, naturally. “Also we can’t miss the concert tonight! Zayn will be performing. You’re going to love it!”

As the women made their way through the entrance hall, Nada kept turning her head, trying to take everything in, from the banks of escalators transporting eager conventioneers, to the enormous bazaar with more booths than she could see from this angle, and was that a pop-up food court? Her head grew dizzy as she tried to absorb the scope of Deen&Dunya. Haleema’s boasts about her fiancé now took on a new light, and she rapidly recalibrated her initial assumption. If Zayn was even partially responsible for this undertaking, she was impressed.

“See why I’ve been bugging you for years to attend?” Haleema said now. “You’re going to meet so many boys!”

Nada laughed. Her friend was nothing if not focused, though it was true that Islamic conventions were notorious for meet-cutes— sanctioned, serendipitous, or more formally arranged.

But it was more than that, Nada thought as she looked around. There was a buzzing electricity in the air, the happy hum of thousands of people greeting, meeting, and reuniting. The only other times Nada had been surrounded by large numbers of Muslims were during Eid celebrations at her mosque, but this convention was on another level. An unexpected swell of joy replaced the butterflies in her stomach. It felt affirming to be part of the crowd, to watch her fellow Muslims take up space and center their stories, experiences, problems, and triumphs.

This feeling of belonging lasted until she spotted the snaking line in front of the registration tables by the escalators. Undaunted, Haleema headed straight for the middle, where their friends Marya and Owais let them cut.

“My sisters,” Marya explained to the older woman behind them, who rolled her eyes and muttered something insulting about their mothers in Urdu, before shifting to accommodate the interlopers. Cutting the line was a mostly tolerated tradition at these events.

Marya had been one of the first women Haleema had introduced Nada to in undergrad. She was a thickset woman with sharp eyes and a generous mouth, now a pediatrician and married to a tax attorney. They lived with Owais’s parents in a massive house on posh Mississauga Road, in the west end of the city. Marya hugged Nada first before turning to Haleema, cooing over her friend’s two-karat princess-cut diamond engagement ring, and peppering her with questions about Zayn. Owais held their two-year-old son, Ali, in his arms and listened with interest. Haleema’s engagement had been quick even by the standards of their marriage-obsessed community; many of their mutual friends would meet the groom for the first time at the wedding.

“So where is Zayn?” Marya asked, scanning the crowd as if he would appear when summoned. “I thought you’d get the royal treatment, now that you’re marrying into the Haq dynasty. Text your man and tell him you’re here.”

Haleema obliged, and her phone pinged back almost immediately. “We’re supposed to go to the hospitality desk over . . . there.” She pointed across the hall at a lone booth with no line. As they approached, Nada spied a tall man, his face in shadows. There was something familiar about the shape of his head, the breadth of his shoulders, and her steps faltered.

“Is that Zayn?” she asked Haleema hopefully.

Her friend shook her head. “His younger brother,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Zayn is busy right now, but Baz will take care of us. I’ve been looking forward to introducing you.”

Nada felt as if she were walking through soup as she approached the booth, each step a leaden weight. Blood rushed to her face as she made out familiar features: smooth brown skin, hair cut close to his head, deep-set eyes, full lips. Baz Haq, after all these years. She couldn’t stop staring. Then Haleema greeted him and gestured to her friends to come forward. He caught sight of Nada, and his warm brown skin turned ashy. As if he had seen a ghost.

“Do you two know each other?” Haleema asked, pretty brow furrowed in confusion.

Nada said nothing, but Baz answered. “From a long time ago.” His tone was clipped, discouraging further questions. His face shuttered tight, Baz kept his eyes trained on Haleema and ignored Nada entirely. Mortified, she joined Marya and Owais, who were fussing with Ali.

Haleema returned to the group and distributed cloth swag bags with the convention program, name tags on lanyards, complimentary meal coupons, and business cards.

“You never told me you knew Baz,” she said. She seemed hurt, her grand gesture ruined.

“It was years ago. I barely recognized him,” Nada said, trying to change the subject. She ducked her face, hoping her friends wouldn’t notice her panic. Baz had been so cold. With shaking fingers, she rummaged inside her bag and pulled out a shiny, bright pink badge with the words Happily Ever After Matrimonial Matchmaking emblazoned across the front in silver. There was also a bright pink ticket to go with it. The speed-dating event. Baz had packed this bag for Nada. She put the badge and ticket back in the bag. Breathe, she instructed herself. The worst is over. You’ve seen him, he still hates you, the world will continue to revolve.

“He said the same thing,” Haleema said. “He said you looked so different from the last time he saw you. I was hoping to set them up,” she explained to Marya and Owais, who observed this exchange with more than a little curiosity. “But I don’t think he’s interested after all. Sorry, Nada. You’ll have better luck at the speed-dating event, I’m sure.”

“Maybe Nada should put on some more makeup and try again. If you can bag a Haq brother, you’re set for life,” Owais said.

Nada wanted to smack him. “What do you mean?” she said mildly instead, trying to buy time, to calm down. The instinct to feign ignorance kicked in, and her friends stared at her, confused.

“The Haq family is rich,” Marya said simply. “Why else would Haleema want to marry Zayn?” She handed Nada a business card from the swag bag.

Haleema made a face, clearly offended. “My family has done well too. Zayn is a good guy.”

“A good guy is a bonus. A big bank account from a successful business is the lure,” Owais said.

Marya frowned. “Don’t be crass,” she scolded her husband. “Zayn’s family took a chance putting this convention together five years ago. It was a big gamble, but it paid off because of their hard work. Actually, I heard Baz Haq is the real brains behind the operation. You need to think like him, Owais, and open your own practice. I keep telling you . . .”

Their voices descended into bickering, and Nada tuned them out. She still held the business card Marya had shoved into her hand a moment ago, and now she stared at the black type against the muted gray background: Baz Haq, COO, Deen&Dunya Inc. Conventions and Event Planning.

She looked over at the booth where Baz was finishing up helping a young family. He glanced back at her, and even from this distance, she caught the subtle narrowing of his eyes, the cold blankness of his expression. A sudden anger seized her. Nada plucked the pink badge and ticket from her bag and marched back to the booth.

Baz warily watched her approach. She slapped the badge and ticket on the counter.

“Do you need a few extra?” he asked flatly. “It was hard enough to get one. The event has been sold out for months.”

“I don’t need this. Take it back. With my thanks,” Nada added. Now that they were face-to-face, her bravado vanished as she recalled Haleema’s words. Did she really look so different? She knew the years had sharpened her features from their youthful roundness. Her one vanity was her clear, light brown skin, for which she had her mother’s genes and a nightly application of expensive cold cream to thank. Still, Nada was well aware that her beauty was the sort that grew on a person rather than striking them at first glance. This had never bothered her; the gift of spectacular good looks seemed more trouble than it was worth. Her height was average at five foot five, and she had inherited her mother’s curvy figure. She had always felt comfortable with her even, neat features—her small, round face, large brown eyes, full slanting eyebrows, and slightly-too-large lips.

In contrast, Baz had glowed up. He had always been tall, but he seemed to have grown taller still, and his frame had filled out in the years since their last meeting. Now his shoulders were so broad they made the booth feel cramped. His skin was a smooth brown, and while the dark brown, deep-set eyes fringed with outrageously thick lashes were now making a thorough inventory of her face, she knew they were as unpredictable as his mood: warm amber when he was happy, darker when upset. His hair was cut close to his skull, a neat fade with little ornamentation, and a short beard outlined a stubborn jaw.

“Are you sure?” Baz asked, still in that strangely impassive voice. “Haleema said you were looking to get married. She promised your mother she would find someone at the convention.” His eyes bored into her. “You’re lucky to have such a thoughtful and kind friend. And here I thought people always got what they deserved.”

Nada’s face heated. “Can we please be civil?” she said quietly, hoping her friends—who were no doubt straining to hear every word— were out of earshot.

Baz laid a single finger on the pink badge, the color stark against his skin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said smoothly. “Thank you for returning the ticket. Enjoy your first time at Deen&Dunya.”

How did he know she had never attended the convention before? Nada turned to go, then turned back. “Your brother is going to marry my best friend,” she said.

“It would appear that way, yes.”

“I’ll be part of the wedding party, which means our paths will cross. We can be friendly, if only for their sake,” she suggested, her thoughts whirling. Had he looked for her in years past?

Baz stared at her, seeming somehow taller still, an implacable ice giant. “We’re not friends, Nada. Our circumstances make that impossible.” The implication was clear: And you are to blame for this situation. There would be no give, no path forward here, and Nada had been foolish to try. Still, he wasn’t the only stubborn one.

She lifted her jaw. “Will you perform at the wedding? Maybe you could play the daf,” she said, hoping for a light chuckle or a smile.

Instead, his eyes flashed with hurt so sharp that she felt viscerally wounded and nearly took a step back.

“I don’t play music or write songs anymore. I had to grow up. I suggest you do the same.” He looked behind her to the next customer in line, a curt dismissal.

Humiliated, Nada walked back to Haleema, Marya, and Owais. Baby Ali had started to fuss, and they were crowded around the stroller, cooing at the toddler, when she rejoined them.

“All good?” Haleema asked with a tentative smile. Her friend would expect an explanation later. Nada had no idea what she would say.

“Perfect,” she said, forcing herself to return the smile. “Let’s go meet your mysterious fiancé.”

They made their way to the bazaar, Owais and Marya clearing a path through the crowd, which seemed to have doubled in size.

Behind them, Haleema leaned close to Nada. “Where did you and Baz meet? You never mentioned him.”

Nada shook her head, feeling even more foolish. By insisting on speaking with Baz to return the matrimonial speed-dating ticket, she had aroused Haleema’s suspicion even further. She had never had to explain Baz to anyone before.

“Oh my God. Were you and Baz a thing?” Haleema asked, misinterpreting her silence.

“Did he behave as if he was my secret boyfriend?” Nada asked sharply.

“No . . . ,” Haleema started, then brightened. “A secret love, long buried in the past. How romantic!”

Nada sighed. “I first met Baz at Sunday school when we were kids. He . . . we . . .”

“Childhood sweethearts?” Haleema asked hopefully.

“At one point, I was his bully,” Nada said quietly. “He can’t stand me.” She prayed that this would satisfy her friend and she wouldn’t ask any follow-up questions.

Thankfully, Haleema only cracked a smile, amusement crinkling her pretty eyes. “Really, Nada. His bully!” she repeated, laughing. “Wait until I tell Zayn.”

CHAPTER THREE

Seventeen years ago

Nada was eleven years old when she became a bully.

Regular school was tough, a jungle of hormones and mean girls and meaner boys, but Sunday school was different. For three hours every Sunday morning at the Toronto Muslim Assembly mosque, a large white stucco building adorned with a giant copper dome and minaret tower in the heart of the Golden Crescent neighborhood, Nada reigned as undisputed queen. And she loved every second of it. For one, she was popular. Her parents were well-known community volunteers, which granted her status. For another, she had attended Sunday school since she was six years old and was considered an old-timer. She knew how to access the best bathrooms, which stairwell to use for confidential conversations, and which of the Sunday school teachers were the most strict and which were most likely to turn a blind eye to small mischief. As reigning queen among the younger set, she also ruled on who was acceptable and who was not.

When eleven-year-old Baz joined the class in October of her grade-six year, Nada decided he didn’t make the cut. Baz was a scrawny boy and short for his age. His hair was thick and unruly, sticking out in wild tangles from beneath a tight-fitting white kufi skullcap. He was dressed in a blue salwar kameez that was too short in the arms and too long in the legs. Worse, he smiled at everyone, displaying large, uneven teeth. His face was a jumble of mismatched parts too, his nose too big, his eyes too deep-set, his ears sticking out, and his neck too skinny.

In short, for a young girl who was neither cool nor popular in regular life, who was instead a frequent target of schoolyard bullies, Baz was an easy mark. Within five minutes, she wiped the smile from his face. By recess, she had convinced the rest of the girls in the class that he was persona non grata.

That year, Nada’s Sunday school teacher was Sister Huda, a cheerful young woman who had recently married and was training to be a kindergarten teacher. Nada thought she was nice, even if she treated her students like babies.

“Class, can we all say a big assalamu alaikum to our newest student, Ba-zil?” Sister Huda said, carefully enunciating his name.

“My name is Baz,” the young boy corrected.

Nada laughed out loud. “Basil. He’s named after a plant!”

The class laughed. In regular school, she was most often the butt of jokes. One boy in particular, Matt, had started to say unkind things in the schoolyard. Last week, after a seating plan change, Matt had joined her table group, and the first thing he did was make fun of her name. “Nada means nothing,” he had said, lips curled in a sneer. “You’re nothing.”

“Not Basil. Baz,” the boy corrected quietly now, before taking a seat across from the table she shared with two of her friends.

When Sister Huda’s back was turned, Nada leaned over to the young boy. “Why is your kufi so tight? It makes your hair stick out, like a plant.”

Her friends gasped with delight at her remark, which only encouraged her.

“No, wait,” Nada said. “Your head looks like a dome. The SkyDome!” she said, referencing the white-domed stadium in downtown Toronto.

Baz gave his tormentor a pointed look. “You’re mean,” he said. He ignored her for the rest of the class.

I’m mean, Nada repeated to herself. She liked the sound of that. At regular school, Nada was just another kid who wasn’t very good at sports or lessons. She wasn’t part of the upper echelons of the playground social hierarchy, and now that Matt had decided to make her a target, her remaining friends had made themselves scarce. When she had tried to tell her parents, they dismissed her complaints and told her to tell the teacher. But the teacher never seemed to notice when Matt picked on her.

And now Baz thought she was mean.

How delicious.

During recess, Baz joined the other boys on the basketball court. The boys had little interest in or opinions about the new kid’s clothing or hairstyle and were happy to let him join them, especially when he proved adept at three-pointers.

When class resumed after recess, Nada drew a picture of Baz’s head and made it resemble the SkyDome, its retractable roof open to an angry-looking sun. Smaller stick figures sat inside the dome. Neatly below the drawing, she wrote, The Adventures of Dome Head. The cartoon was passed around among the girls, who thought it was hilarious, until it was confiscated by Sister Huda.

Nada was roundly scolded for her artistic efforts and told to stand in the corner. She had never been in trouble before. On her way to the corner, she brushed past the desk where Baz sat. “Dome head,” she whispered.

Baz ducked his head, and Nada felt the first curl of malevolent hunger climb up her spine. She spent the next ten minutes in the time-out corner plotting how else she could torment her victim.

For the next few weeks, Nada carried out a systematic campaign to destroy Baz’s Sunday school life. She waited with a sense of glee for him to arrive in the classroom every week. When he did, she made sure to make eye contact and then roll her eyes and snicker, or whisper something to one of her friends. She always made sure Baz saw; she lived for his flush of embarrassment. He continued to play with the boys and ignore the girls. The children were still young enough to separate into two distinct groups—the boys played sports, mostly hockey or basketball, while the girls chatted or walked around the building.

Nada plotted.

She spread a rumor that Baz smelled, and the girls spent a few Sundays holding their breath whenever he walked past. Matt had started a similar rumor about her. He had said she smelled like B.O., and she asked her older brother, Waqas, a freshman in university, to explain what that meant. He kindly bought her a deodorant stick, which she applied diligently every morning before school. Lately, she had taken to carrying it in her school bag to reapply after lunch.

In Sunday school, she started another rumor that Baz was an orphan sent to the school to learn how to behave, because the orphanage couldn’t deal with him anymore. At home, her parents were still not listening to her complaints about what was happening at school. They told her to avoid her bully. “He’s probably jealous of you,” her mother had said to her the night before.

Her favorite trick, the one that got her a stern talking-to from Sister Huda as well as the frazzled principal of the Sunday school, was when she stole Baz’s brand-new Nike basketball shoes during the prayer and hid them in the girls’ bathroom. When the shoes were finally discovered an hour later, Baz’s face had shut down entirely, but she could detect faint tears in his eyes. Matt had stolen her deodorant from her bag last Friday and taunted her on the playground with it. “It smells like your stinky farts,” he said, which didn’t even make sense, but everyone laughed anyway. She’d cried in the bathroom afterward.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you, Nada,” Sister Huda stormed. “You’ve always been such a quiet girl with excellent adab, ‘manners.’ I know your parents raised you better. Is this any way to behave toward your Muslim brother?”

He’s not my brother, she thought, staring mutinously at the ground. My brothers would have told on me by now.

But Baz never did. He never complained throughout her torment of him. He stopped smiling during Sunday school and grimly ignored her. He continued to wear his too-tight kufi jammed over his unruly curls. He continued to show up to class in a series of pastel-colored, ill-fitting cotton salwar kameez. He continued to play basketball with the other boys and not make eye contact with any of the girls.

Nada had started to feel a tiny bit ashamed of herself by this point, but it was too late. The other girls looked up to her, and she needed the mix of awe and fear on their faces to get her through the school week. She needed Baz’s sadness and somehow craved his hatred. It made her feel better about herself. Sometimes she wondered if this was why Matt bullied the other kids. At parents’ night, his father had been stern and aloof, and openly scoffed at his son’s work, loudly comparing it to others’ in the class.

The school year dragged on until it was time for the Sunday school talent night.

Every year the Sunday school put on a performance for parents during the spring break. The younger grades were pressed to sing an Islamic nasheed. The older children would put on a funny skit poking fun at their teachers. Nada’s class prepared a tableau based on a prophetic story, with the message to be kind to everyone. Sister Huda pointedly made Nada play the role of victim in the tableau.

On the day of the talent show, the small gym of the Toronto Muslim Assembly was decorated and set up with chairs for the parents. There were streamers and a balloon arch, and Nada sat in the crowd with her friends, watching as the other students performed to applause and shouts of “Takbir! ” from the crowd of captive parents.

Nada was dressed in a salwar kameez for the occasion—a pink, slippery confection that her mother had picked out, and which she hated. She wondered what Matt would think of her dress. He would probably call her a FOB, a term she had recently learned meant “fresh off the boat,” even though she had been born in Toronto. He had taken to calling her “small, smelly Nada.” A few of the other kids had started calling her that too.

On stage, she played the part of the bullied victim. Baz was the narrator—the job that got most of the lines and all of the attention.

She felt like a fluorescent pink flower in the slippery, shiny outfit. Her hijab continually slid down her head and onto her shoulders. At one point during the performance, as she yanked at her hijab and the gauzy, useless dupatta her mother had pinned to her shoulder, she caught Baz looking at her with sympathy. She glared at him; she didn’t want his pity.

After their performance, Nada went to rejoin her friends in the audience, but Sister Huda and Baz stayed back.

“We have a very special performance from Baz Haq, one of our most gifted grade six students at Sunday school!” Sister Huda announced brightly. “Baz has volunteered to play the daf. The daf is a large, circular frame drum commonly used in Persian, Kurdish, and South Asian cultures. It is also the national instrument of Pakistan!” The cheery tone and beaming expression on Sister Huda’s face contrasted sharply with Baz’s stoicism.

From her position in the audience, Nada leaned forward. Baz had clearly been pressed into this performance. Even better, the drum he was holding was nearly as tall as he was. Nada nudged her friends and they giggled loudly. From the stage, Baz glanced at them and flushed. He looked at Sister Huda, who nodded in encouragement. Nada saw him sigh, and then he began to play.

He was good. The beat was catchy, and though his fingers were not yet strong enough to make full use of the range of the daf, he had potential. He began to sing one of the most famous songs in the Muslim world, in a sweet tenor voice. Around her, parents perked up. The aunty sitting beside Nada even started to clap along to the familiar beat.

Tala’al-Badru ’alayna, min thaniyyatil-Wada’ wajaba al-shukru ’alayna, ma da’a lillahi da’.

It was the song the children of Madinah sang when the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, first entered the city as a refugee, fleeing the persecution and violence in his home city of Mecca. A song about friendship, loyalty, and generosity.

It made Nada unaccountably furious.

Afterward, she couldn’t be sure how the idea came to her. A bolt of inspiration from a dark, angry part of her heart. Her older brother, Waqas, was a huge fan of The Simpsons and faithfully watched reruns. Since he controlled the remote, she was forced to watch the show alongside him. Waqas never wanted to watch Lizzie McGuire or Sponge-Bob SquarePants. One of her brother’s favorite side characters was Duffman, the boozy, pelvis-thrusting mascot of Duff Beer. Now, Nada jumped up from her seat and yelled, “Duffman! Oh yeah.”

Her friends giggled, and some of the adults—Simpsons fans, no doubt—laughed out loud. A few of the boys joined in, and a chorus of “Oh yeah!” rippled through the audience.

Sister Huda marched up to Nada and removed her from the gym, but not before she saw Baz carefully lay his stupid daf on the floor and walk off the stage.

Baz didn’t return to Sunday school after the talent show. Nada looked for him every week. One of the other boys said his family had moved to Mississauga, the sprawling suburb in the west end of the city.

Meanwhile, things improved in regular school. Matt moved on to other victims. Her friends drifted back to her.

As the months passed, a quiet, tiny part of her wished she could see Baz one more time. To apologize or to further crush his spirit, she wasn’t entirely sure.

CHAPTER FOUR

Present day

Nada followed her friends up one of a series of escalators that led to the top floor of the convention center, a cavernous building in the shadow of the CN Tower in the middle of Toronto’s financial district. The convention’s main lectures and concert would be held there, in a large ballroom, while a secondary area was occupied by the bazaar and food court.

The Deen&Dunya bazaar was housed in a space the size of an airplane hangar, one half devoted to the food court featuring dozens of halal food stalls, the other half filled with blue-swagged booths set up in a grid pattern with a central circular stage. The bazaar, teeming with families, couples, teens, and children browsing and snacking, had the atmosphere of a souk market. Nada dodged a caravan of giggling teenage girls followed by a pack of teen boys, their boisterous laughter on full display.

Zayn was somewhere in the bazaar, but Haleema didn’t seem to be in a rush to find him. Instead, the three women browsed, Owais following with Ali in the stroller. Their first stop was the halal candy stand, where they stocked up on gummy worms, peaches and cola bottles, essential snacks for the weekend. Next up was “Hijab Street,” a stretch of a dozen or so booths that sold scarves in every color, texture, and pattern imaginable. They identified colors and patterns to buy on the last day of the bazaar, when vendors eager to get rid of stock would slash prices in an end-of-convention fire sale. Over Haleema’s shoulder, Nada spotted a small crowd gathering. She drifted closer.

A young man stood on the circular stage, holding a microphone and smiling rakishly at the crowd. He was dressed in a tight white T-shirt that showed off impressive biceps, dark jeans, and expensive sneakers. His symmetrical features, slashing eyebrows and deep-set hazel eyes scanned the mostly female audience with the practiced eye of a performer, and Nada recognized him immediately. Zayn Haq was exactly as he presented in his photographs, down to the overly familiar grin.

“Oh my God, he’s so hot,” a young woman said.

“I know, right? Have you heard his latest song?” her friend asked. “I think this new album will be even bigger than 99 Ways to Love. I got chills when I was listening. He just gets me. I can’t believe he’s still single.”

Nada leaned toward the young women. “Excuse me, sisters. I heard he’s engaged to be married.”

The girls—they appeared to be teenagers—gaped in astonishment. “Are you talking about Zayn? The lead singer of The Companions?”

Nada nodded, wondering how many hearts this news would break, and why the lead singer hadn’t announced it himself. Maybe he had been too busy with convention organizing. She glanced at the stage, where Zayn was signing autographs and posing for selfies. How big was his music career? If the throng of admirers was anything to go by, he had a loyal following at the convention. She wasn’t sure what, if anything, that translated to in the mainstream.

The girls meanwhile were searching on their phones and whispering to each other. One of them tugged on Nada’s sleeve.

“Nothing’s posted about an engagement on his website or social media,” she said, accusation clear in her voice. “We’ve been Zaynimals since, like, the very beginning.” Her friend nodded vigorously at her side. “Even before he broke out with ‘Only Noor’ four years ago. I know he’s been linked to a lot of women, so your news might be out of date. I’m Sofia and I run his fan page.”

Nada was tempted to tell Sofia that her best friend had a solitaire engagement ring that might suggest otherwise, but the young woman had such a proprietary air that she defaulted to a mild query instead. “Zaynimals?”

This time Sofia’s defensive tone was clear. “What his fans call themselves. It’s just some fun. The whole vibe of The Companions is, like, tongue-in-cheek humor. That means it’s ironic, but not in a mean way.”

“Thanks for the explanation,” Nada said dryly. “Maybe I was mistaken about Zaynimal.”

“His name is Zayn; we’re the Zaynimals,” Sofia’s friend explained, not unkindly. “But don’t worry, you’re a little old for his music anyway.”