If You Could Be Mine by Sara Farizan Read Free Book Online

restraint and calm as I can. Daughter waves with enthusiasm, and I wave back. Mom nods and raises the window. When the silver Mercedes drives away, I rush into the apartment building. I run all the way up the stairs and unlock the apartment door. Baba sits on a couch watching the news.
    “Fun evening?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Did Nasrin go with you?” That’s when it occurs to me. I haven’t thought about her in the past twenty minutes. I will have to call and thank Ali in the morning.
    “No. She didn’t.”

5
    IT IS TIME I face the music. If I don’t show up to see Nasrin, people will start to talk. Baba will ask questions. But being here doesn’t mean I have to like it. Soraya opens the door to the Mehdis’ home. She bows her head slightly. I should be bowing to her—she’s my elder, after all. Instead I forgo formality altogether and kiss Soraya on both cheeks. She looks so happy and surprised that I think I should have started doing this a long time ago, in place of our formal nods.
    I take off my coat and head scarf and hang them on a nearby coatrack. I’ve tried my best to look attractive. I don’t know if it will work. Maybe if Nasrin sees me look my best, she will call off the wedding. The possibility of that happening is about the same as a chance of a mullah’s admitting to watching Baywatch via illegal satellite.
    I walk into the living room, where Dariush strums his guitar, legs up on the couch like he’s the king of the castle. I clear my throat to make my presence known, but he continues to strum without looking up at me.
    “Hi, Sahar.” He chuckles, still strumming. “The ladies of the palace aren’t home yet.” I sit down on a chair and listen to him play. “Do you know this song?” he asks.
    “No.”
    “Cat Stevens.” He starts singing in broken English, and I wish he would just play without the added vocals. He sounds so stupid. My grin is waning. I should probably go and come back later. Dariush stops warbling and plays with smooth strokes, not making any eye contact with me, very much in his own world. The Mehdis’ talk of our getting together is pure wishful thinking. Dariush is no more interested than I am.
    “Can you believe this wedding is happening?” he asks. No, I can’t. It makes me nauseous and I want to punch Nasrin’s fiancé in the face with an audience of men dressed as women rooting for me.
    “I’m happy for Nasrin,” I say. I have been rehearsing that line in my bathroom for two weeks, checking the mirror to make sure that I look sincere when I recite it.
    “I don’t see her as a wife,” Dariush says. “She’ll probably take Soraya with her to cook Reza’s meals and sew buttons on his shirts.”
    “I am sure she will be a good wife.” I do mean that. Nasrin loves attention, but I think Reza will dote on her and she in turn will be good to him. Reza seems the type to be bossed around . . . the lucky horse’s ass.
    “Marriage is a farce,” Dariush says with a determined tone. Who knows how long he’s been reciting that in a mirror? I remember when he would talk to Nasrin and me about the girl he was going to propose to. He always went on and on about how gorgeous she was, an angel among mortals . . . blah, blah, blah. Once the girl’s father denied Dariush’s proposal, he went on about how she wasn’t even that pretty, a devil clouding his better judgment. Dariush, like Nasrin, inherited the spoiled rotten gene.
    “You’ve always been smart not to be interested in boys,” he says, and I try my best to continue breathing. Am I that transparent?
    “Sorry?”
    “I mean, it’s good that you studied. You won’t need to get married. So you can put on airs at parties? No, you’re on the right track, Sahar.” He is congratulating me on my one day being an old maid. What a charming fellow.
    “I’m happy for Nasrin.” This time it sounds even more rehearsed than the first time, but Dariush doesn’t notice or let on as he plays another song.