Love from a to Z

MARVEL:
HER AND ME
She was here, across from me, almost the exact distance as we were in the
airport waiting area when I first saw her.
At that moment, a week ago, I had a secret I couldn’t share.
And now here it was, out in full view of the girl in the brilliant blue hijab.
I was sitting in her aunt’s living room, and Zayneb knew my diagnosis,
and she was sharing her day and laughing like everything was okay.
Thanks. For being chill. About me being here and just in general.
She picked up her phone from the arm of the sofa. 
Of course. But I don’t get it?
Why are we pretending to be cousins?
Hey do you want to come with me and Hanna and my Dad to the Museum of Islamic Art on
Sunday? If I’m up to it?
Is that that beautiful building sticking out into the water? That structure made of cubes?
Yup. Designed by the one and only I. M. Pei.
But isn’t Sunday the dune-bashing thing? That you’re going to? With Emma P.?
I looked at her, searched for a sly smile, a laugh, something. But she
didn’t lift her gaze from her phone, just closed her eyes and shook her head,
her smile frozen.
Wait, did Emma P. tell her something too? Like she’d told Connor and
Madison?

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No. Hanna wants to go to an exhibit at MIA.
Pausing, I thought for a minute.
If Emma P. had said something about me and her, I had to set it right with
Zayneb.
I couldn’t let her think—
Emma P. does her own stuff. Nothing to do with me. Nothing.
Was that clear enough?
I’m not into that. I mean I am, but not with Emma P. Not with anyone.
Wait, now she’s going to think—
I mean I COULD be into someone. Someone I liked.
Oh yeah, Adam, way to go. Full steam ahead, instead of pushing pause.
I didn’t dare glance up to see what effect my textual diarrhea was having
on her. It must be the medication, my extreme impulsiveness. A side effect.
Or maybe the remains of the euphoria from this morning.
Okay, I’ll come with you guys to the museum.
Then we both looked up from our phones at that same moment, and, you
know what?
Marvelously what?
Fifth impressions are the absolute best.
Her eyes were as wide as her smile.
• • •
I don’t remember what Ms. Raymond said to me when she got back to the
apartment. Or the particulars of how I got home after.
The only thing I remember is the trail of questions Zayneb and I texted
each other back and forth—her mostly about how I was feeling, about my
diagnosis, about MS; me about how she liked her Doha visit so far.
The clearest feeling I remember is this: the way that it felt like the space
between us folded and folded, and kept folding until the distance shrank,
until we made sense to each other.

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