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So alright, maybe it is like Nav.
She remembers the day Saira had pressed the manifesto into her hands like an amulet. How Momtaz had felt a flame inside her fan into a roaring fire. This is genius. You're genius. This— And she had an inkling then, as their hands touched, that if she were to go on talking, she might find more than that to say. There was something in her, not just in Saira, that called out to be heard—to be heard by Saira, specifically. The pulse of some unexcavated truth: Saira's scrawl a summons to speak it. But she didn't.
Over the notebook, Saira looked at her with what Taz recognized as a deep, abiding, and trusting affection. Sure, outwardly, that presented itself as another grim and deadly stare. But Taz knew Saira pretty well—No one gets me like you do, Saira had huffed once years before, with a rare grin; more, Taz knew, than she had ever told Abdullah in their age-long situationship—and the warmth she saw in her gaze now took her breath away. Momtaz could do anything with Saira looking at her like that.
"Yeah," she said. It sounded floaty, unlike her. "Yeah, it's fire. I'll set up for you, whatever you want." She coughed, recovering herself. "I'll have to sign Lady Parts, of course."
"Sign?"
"With Momtaz Records."
Saira laughed and looked absurdly grateful, as though Momtaz Records were a reality and not an offhand joke. They traded dreams another eight hours. Neither seemed to notice the time swooping by. It was their dream by the end, shared and dizzying as they grew bolder and loopier and fell asleep over half-drunk coffees at Taz's grandmother's kitchen table. They'd both breathed in the dream's intoxicating smoke. It bound them, Taz thought, like brothers-in-arms. It was a commitment Saira wouldn't shy away from. It was better than marriage.
She'd really thought that.
It's just so embarrassing. It's like the time Saira first came to visit Momtaz at the shop, when she'd just started working there. Taz'd thought it'd be funny to tease her as if she were a customer, to ask what kind of shag she was chasing. She'd pointed out the most scandalous things in the back, gestured artistically towards dildos and harnesses. Saira had become flustered, which was absolutely hilarious to Taz, until it wasn't hilarious anymore. Was Saira reading too much into her words, seeing flirtation where Taz had only meant to joke? Would it make her uncomfortable if Taz was flirting? Was she thinking about Abdullah (who was clearly nowhere near adventurous enough)? Was she actually interested in strap-ons? Taz hadn't been lying when she said that she bet Saira's strap game would be peak. Was that a normal thing to say to your best friend? Probably it was and girls said it to each other all the time.
And she'd teased Ayesha for simping. But that flashy sellout writer—Momtaz shudders with fresh humiliation at having brought her near Lady Parts—was nothing like Saira.
Saira is the opposite of a sellout. Saira is their fearless leader, their guiding star. Saira is a poet who speaks truth to power. Saira cuts her own hair squinting at the bathroom mirror with kid scissors. Saira is her best and closest friend. Saira is hard and beautiful and awkward and amazing. She had made the right decision for the band. She would take them to new heights, paid shows, radio, all the things Taz had always wanted to bring them. Lady Parts would be great. If Saira were less incredible, this would be easier.
Momtaz misses her like a lung. Momtaz never wants to see her again.
"She should have appreciated what she had in you," her sister says too cannily. She doesn't specify what that was. It runs far beyond "friend," but Momtaz herself has never named it.
Saira doesn't like labels. And reaching into the grab bag and finding one that was too astonishing, too unsteady, would shake up Momtaz's world. She didn't do that, didn't bother to try. Why would she? If she had tried to name what they had, to package what she felt into a golden shining box and proffer it as some kind of relationship, Saira would have fled its walls.
Really, put that way, she might as well have done so anyway. She'd made those calculations based on a Saira who would always be there. Who she could keep at a friendly arm's length forever.
Well, it doesn't matter now.
So Taz visits her old stomping grounds. She even texts Nav. Do you know how stupid it feels to have spent a year of your life in a Young Offenders’ Institute for just some guy? Probably he isn't just some guy: he can't be for her to have done all that. He's probably magnificent. Worth every hour. Taz remembers how she used to feel about him, the way she'd romanticized her own ride-or-die devotion. She really likes to do that, doesn't she? He'd been everything back then.
He's not magnificent. And Saira wears flannels a thousand times better.
Think about what you want, her grandmother had said. What are you doing? What is Momtaz Records?
She had thought about it: she still feels an ember of that flame inside. If it can't be shared—but she will find a way to be enough herself, to share out that love she holds on her own terms, to diversify her damned portfolio.
There was no other woman who had ever made her feel exactly the way Saira did. It was probably just that they had been best friends, really best friends, even if neither of them ever said it that way; it was probably just that Saira made her feel part of something important. That was why she felt so hollow now. It wasn't worth thinking about anymore, asking uncertain questions about anymore. Her sister could think what she liked about Momtaz and Saira. Momtaz herself couldn't be arsed. She was building something bigger.
And then Saira's there with haggard eyes and a drawn face and Taz comes to life again. She'd kept up the willpower to leave texts unanswered but she can't manage it in the flesh. None of the vindictive words her sister suggested come to her lips. Yeah, she's going to promote the band still. Of course, she's thrilled for them. It might have been like before, if each word didn't cut at Taz's heart a little bit more. But Saira doesn't seem thrilled. Taz wants to ask her more about it, to sit her down with coffee, to problem-solve (another one of her sister's terms for Typical Momtaz Behavior). She holds back. It's probably just nerves. Or guilt. It's not Taz's place to do that stuff anymore, anyway. She has to remember that.
The album leaks and Taz's first thought is for Saira. She doesn't expect to see her not an hour later, standing in her office like Mr. Darcy in the rain.
Taz's heart throbs in her chest. Its voice is scream-loud, its golden truth undeniable, unavoidable any longer.
Oh, no.