Only ever one choice, p.8
Only Ever One Choice, page 8
Before, whenever her father would visit her in Cape Town, the two of them would do the rounds together, visiting all the uncles and aunties in their respective homes. Now that her father is gone, every house Mikaila visits is a constant reminder that she’s the late Imran Mohamed’s younger daughter who was with him when he passed.
Still, Mikaila can’t quite avoid visiting all the time. Especially not when the younger generation becomes aware of her return to Cape Town and her phone gets spammed with invitations to lunch after Jummah prayers on Friday afternoon.
Mikaila’s own prayer routine is sporadic, at best. Five times a day is nothing she’s ever managed to accomplish in her life, though even she knows she would be more inclined to do so if she grew up with an adult to imitate.
Her household did no such thing, and it’s one of the things she knows her father continuously worried about. She’s sure he was plagued with the question of whether religion would remain strong within her when she had her own children. Would she be able to teach Islam to them if she didn’t practice the correct way?
Well.
She knows he wished that she would end up marrying someone with a stronger religious background; someone who would guide her better than he was able to. Mikaila thinks it’s unlikely she’ll fulfil that wish, but all she truly wants is to be happy, and she likes to think her father would understand that.
Maybe.
She won’t ever know if he would, and that’s perhaps a mercy at this point in her life. What she does know is that he would want her at least to remain connected to some of his family in his absence.
So, after she’s prayed in her own home, Mikaila goes to one of her father’s aunt’s houses for lunch and encounters nearly thirteen people in the process. Which is good. If she can see as many people as possible in a single visit, merely proof that she’s alive and well, then she can probably go another few months without seeing any of them again. It’s a win-win.
The problem is they always talk about her father.
To the uncles, aunties, cousins, and everyone in between, Mikaila can’t quite exist separate from his memory. They loved him and so love her by association. They’re interested in her because of him, wanting to see her succeed, and Mikaila gets immense satisfaction informing them that she’s basically done with her master’s. It’s been a long time coming, and she hopes her father would be proud of at least that much.
The admission, though, leads to the inevitable follow-up question of what next? because of course it does. The expectations come from everyone, and Mikaila strategically deflects them by mentioning her intention to pursue doctoral research.
It’s perhaps the one thing that hasn’t actually changed about her future, when so much else has. She is very good at doing, saying, and being exactly who everyone expects her to be. It’s been ingrained in her from a young age, the weight of being the second daughter from a mixed marriage that was frowned upon then and has been begrudgingly tolerated over the years.
Mikaila knows they’ve written off her sister, in the sense that she’s already accomplished what’s expected of all women in their culture: marriage and children. It doesn’t matter that she’s in the middle of what could end up being a messy divorce, because she’s already reached that pinnacle. Mikaila knows that her considerable accolades as an academic will amount to nothing if she doesn’t end up with a family of her own.
Which she will. That’s her intention.
Just, it probably isn’t going to look anything like they expect it to, and it might actually be the first thing she does that nobody expects.
* * *
Ashleigh doesn’t text until Saturday. When Mikaila sees her name show up on her screen, she’s proud that she doesn’t immediately throw her phone right across the restaurant. It just vibrates in her lap, catching her attention, and her breath hitches only a little.
Opposite her, Mbali raises her eyebrows, and Mikaila definitely doesn’t need the reminder that Mbali and Cassie talk about her to each other.
Mikaila tucks her phone between her thighs, ignoring it, and keeps her focus on Lerato. She’s in the middle of a story from work, and Mikaila is determined to listen. Lerato deserves her attention way more than Ashleigh does, and Mikaila is able to give it to her and then some as she, Lerato and Mbali finish up their lunch, casually discussing the kitten Lerato is considering fostering and the apartment Mbali may or may not be considering moving into.
After, Lerato has to go back to work, complaining about having to be around her colleagues even on the weekend, and Mbali is meant to be meeting her cousin for an afternoon hike. Mikaila, of course, has her own company to contend with, and she decides a trip to the beach will do her well once she leaves her friends’ company.
She’s not usually one to get into the ocean unprompted, and she’s definitely not prepared for it, either. But she always has a beach towel in the boot of her car, ready and waiting for a moment just like this.
Sunglasses, book, bottle of water, and towel in hand, Mikaila chooses one of the quieter beaches she knows, Llandudno, picks a comfortable spot, and settles herself under the afternoon sun. This is notoriously Cape Town’s hottest time of the year, so there are small groups of people scattered around the strip of sandy beach, the breeze just cool enough not to be uncomfortable.
To her right, a young couple are doing yoga on brightly coloured towels, and her left side is occupied by a group of older women that Mikaila assumes is a book club from the matching novels they seem to be discussing.
But it’s the ocean in front of her, a blue that’s entirely too similar to the colour of Ashleigh’s eyes, that captures her attention. Of course she would find something to make her think about Ashleigh—as if she needed any more incentive. The waves are too gentle to be heard from this distance, but just the sight of them is enough to soothe the torrents in her chest.
She wants to be ready to live her life, but she’s not sure she truly is.
She makes a valiant effort to take in the water and read quietly, trying to relax her mind, but it’s as if her phone is burning a hole in her pocket, Ashleigh’s message waiting to be read. She doesn’t even know why she’s fighting what she’s too scared to hope for. Without even realising it, she’s been waiting for Ashleigh for years.
And now, Ashleigh is waiting for her in return. After all she’s been through, Mikaila knows better than to waste any more time. Ashleigh is not the kind of person easily ignored, and it takes zero more convincing finally—finally—to open Ashleigh’s text.
Mikaila,
The first night we spent as roommates, we promised each other we would face the world together, and I haven’t really allowed myself to think about what it meant that I broke my half of said promise. I didn’t let myself think about this moment right here, when we can look at each other and not recognise the person across from us.
We were so young. We knew nothing, and I’m convinced I still know nothing. I thought we were maturing at different rates, which was true, in a sense. We just matured in different ways, at different times, and I’ve spent the last few days realising I might have learned a lot about myself in the past few years, but not enough about you.
Truth be told, I’m not sure what’s actually happening with me. Especially when it comes to you. It feels as if I’m at my own set of crossroads, and you were always someone I could turn to. I took that for granted, I suppose, and I’ve done this all wrong.
It is your decision, of course, but could we start again? With these people we are now. I had this dream the other day that I would grow old and just never see you again, and I don’t like the way that feels.
You already know I wasn’t really thinking clearly back then, and I didn’t realise what it would mean for us to send that last text. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought it would hurt less than having our friendship fade to nothing if I just called it.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t.
I didn’t think this far in the future. That’s always been your thing. I didn’t think it would mean forever.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry we’ve got to this point, but I don’t want us to be. Not anymore. I don’t want to be back in Cape Town and not be part of your life. So I’m asking, Mik, could we start again? If that’s an unfair thing to ask of you, you can just tell me to fuck off, but I know I’ve always been my most selfish when it comes to you.
Tell me, will you let me take you to my favourite spot in this whole city? I think you’ll love it.
AVB ❤
Mikaila reads it a second and third time, screenshots it and sends it to Cassie – who responds with an extremely unhelpful shrugging emoji. Mikaila expects Ashleigh to bombard her with more messages, so it’s really a surprise when she sends nothing more in the nineteen long hours it takes Mikaila to come up with a suitable response. She’s given what she wants to say a lot of thought, allowing herself to sleep on it, before she types something she might regret.
Still, in the end, what she ends up sending is simple, a single question that says very little but gives away everything.
Where are we going?
Predictably, Ashleigh responds within a minute, and Mikaila couldn’t stop her smile if she tried. Her heart continually does that thing, and she would worry she has some kind of tremor if she wasn’t aware of just who was responsible.
Put on your shoes. I’m coming to get you.
Mikaila glances at the time, her eyes widening.
You take spontaneity to a whole new level. It’s almost eight o’clock on a Sunday night. I am NOT going anywhere.
Mikaila Mohamed. Spoilsport.
Mikaila shifts in her position on her couch, the television playing some show she’s definitely not paying any attention to.
Ashleigh von Bronckhorst. I am very comfortable in my pyjamas right now. Even you aren’t enough incentive to change that.
Ouch, babe.
Mikaila rolls her eyes.
What if I just want to see you?
Mikaila’s heart stutters, because this is—Is this it? Is she ready for what this could mean, for right now and for her future?
Regardless, Mikaila sends a location pin and a very important instruction.
Only a mini-tub of Häagen-Dazs will grant you entry.
The response she gets is a snapped selfie of Ashleigh holding up what must be her car keys as she grins into the camera.
Mikaila just smiles at the picture before she registers exactly what Ashleigh’s sent, and panics at the prospect of Ashleigh coming to her apartment. Mikaila is really in her pyjamas, basically bumming on her couch. Shit. She scrambles to her feet and looks around.
Okay.
Her place isn’t the untidiest it’s ever been, but she still spends a few minutes straightening the cushions on her couches and carrying her dirty plate and coffee cup to the kitchen sink. She makes quick work of the few dishes already in there, and then she goes to the bathroom to make sure it’s presentable if Ashleigh ends up needing it.
Next, she checks herself over, pulling her hair into a messy bun atop her head. She considers changing but decides against it. This isn’t that.
This is just—
Mikaila’s really not sure what it is, if she’s being honest. Just that Ashleigh is coming over for the first time.
Fifteen minutes later, she receives a second selfie of Ashleigh, this one darker and obviously in her car that is captioned with: Ice cream en route ☝
The entire thing is ridiculous, truly. Mikaila knows she’ll spook herself if she allows herself to think too much about it. She just sends Ashleigh her apartment number in response. And then she waits, heart rate slowly rising with the anticipation of seeing Ashleigh again. She’s spent some time accepting they won’t ever get back what they’ve lost in their missing years, but maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world.
They could become something better.
Ashleigh texts once more, complaining that the ice-cream is melting in this heat as she waits for security to sign her into the building, and then there’s a knock at Mikaila’s door. She’s as calm as she can possibly be when she answers it, opening it to reveal an Ashleigh von Bronckhorst who is positively devastating, eyes shining and blue, her grin just a little sly.
“Delivery for Miss Mohamed,” Ashleigh croons, and Mikaila just smiles like an idiot as she steps back to allow Ashleigh to enter.
Ashleigh, who very purposefully doesn’t use all the space Mikaila has left for her, and rather brushes her arm against the front of Mikaila’s body as she passes, which doesn’t help at all with Mikaila’s accelerating heart rate.
“Whoa, this place is awesome,” Ashleigh says from behind her as Mikaila turns to close and lock the door. “Do you live alone? How long have you been in here? I’m totally stealing that cushion, by the way. It literally has popcorn on it.”
Mikaila turns around to find Ashleigh already standing near the shelves in her living space. She’s got trinkets and some books and several picture frames, and having Ashleigh in her home makes her feel exposed. She hasn’t spent much time thinking about what her apartment looks like to someone new, mainly because she’s maintained the same circle of friends for a solid three years now.
Nothing much has changed in all that time, the apartment’s open plan leaving every little nook and cranny in clear view. The same beige couches, the same green and brown drop curtains, the same mounted television, vinyl record player in the corner, and even her small chest freezer—a must-have in every self-respecting Muslim home.
And it is, isn’t it?
This is Mikaila’s home.
“Ash.”
She turns, smile steady but very obviously tinged with nerves. “I didn’t know if you’d eaten dinner yet, so I also bought some sushi while I was in Spar,” she says. “With extra ginger, of course.”
“I’ve eaten,” Mikaila tells her. “That’s why I asked for dessert, but thank you.”
“I wanted entry,” Ashleigh deflects.
“And you’ve entered,” Mikaila says. “Welcome to my humble abode.” She moves forward, stopping at the kitchen counter and fiddling with the ice-cream box. Ashleigh’s bought one of those multipacks with four little tubs, each a different flavour. “I’ve lived here since we bought it my third year of undergrad,” she explains. “My parents thought it would be a good investment, which I suppose it has been, because we would have wasted a lot of money on rent.”
“Smart.”
Mikaila hums.
Ashleigh slowly approaches her. “You wear glasses now,” she says, voice low.
“What?” Mikaila touches her face, surprised to find her glasses sitting on her nose. She forgot about them. “I—Yeah, I guess I do,” she says, laughing nervously. “Sometimes. Mostly for the screen. All that staring at a laptop takes a toll on your eyesight. The perks of choosing engineering. I thought we’d be matching.”
“Contacts.”
“I thought you hated those.”
“I do,” she groans, the Drama that is Ashleigh von Bronckhorst. “They’re honestly the worst and best thing at the same time. I hate that I sometimes need them. I mean, I can’t exactly dance while wearing actual glasses, you know?”
“You still dance?”
“Not the way I used to,” she answers. “There’s a studio in Claremont I used to go to. I guess I miss it, but not enough to do something about it. I’d rather just bust a move in my kitchen and call it a day.”
“Please tell me you did not just say ‘bust a move’ and actually were serious about it.”
“I’m fetch, Mikaila.”
She laughs. “Oh my god, shut up.”
Ashleigh smiles, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. She also looks a bit more relaxed, which helps. A nervous Ashleigh is a whole other beast, and Mikaila is already nervous enough herself.
“Your ice-cream is melting,” Ashleigh eventually points out.
Mikaila takes out one of the small tubs—Strawberry Cheesecake flavour—from the box and sets it on the marbled counter closer to where Ashleigh is standing. “Did you want something else?” she asks. “Something to drink. Do you want some sushi?”
Ashleigh steps around the counter, getting far too close to Mikaila. “I’ve eaten,” she says. “My mum made pasta.”
“You love pasta.”
“It is my guilty pleasure.”
Mikaila audibly swallows when Ashleigh is close enough to feel the heat off her body. “Don’t lie,” she manages to say. “There is no guilt involved.”
Ashleigh stares at her, and Mikaila stares right back. The air is charged, just waiting to ignite, and Mikaila isn’t sure she’s ready for what happens when they’re set on fire.
Mikaila looks away first, sucking in a breath. Ashleigh’s eyes have always been so intensely blue, sparkling in a way that reminds Mikaila of the ocean. They’re one of the features Mikaila has always loved the most about her, even before she was aware of why and how.
“I was about to watch the eight o’clock movie,” Mikaila says, absently picking a different flavour of ice-cream for herself before turning to pack the other two tubs in her freezer, the sushi going into the fridge. “I think it’s something with Zac Efron.”
Ashleigh nods slowly, looking slightly dazed. “He’s kind of hot,” she says, and then winces. “Is that—I mean, can I still say that to you?”
Mikaila laughs. “I still have eyes, you know?”
“I know that, but it just—I mean, you never actually said how you identified.”
“Zac Efron is hot,” Mikaila confirms, because she doesn’t have to be straight to acknowledge at least that much. The man is a fine specimen, regardless of Mikaila’s preferences. “But my ultimate celebrity crush has to be Chris Hemsworth. And Jesse Williams, wow. I think I’m just a sucker for eyes.”
