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“I met Deepak and Hassan in the terminal,” he said, speaking over her. “They said we should swing by the old neighborhood.”

“What neighborhood?” Dina asked.

Again, Arshad ignored his wife. More and more interesting, Lucky thought.

“Are you free for a little side quest while you’re in town, buddy?” Arshad grinned at him, and Lucky remembered how many of their more nefarious plans had started just like this, with his “buddy” Arshad suggesting a plan and Lucky going along with it. Because he had considered Arshad his brother, his friend, his comrade-against-the-world. What an absolute fool he had been. By the time he had realized the full extent of Arshad’s selfish nature, it had been too late and Dina was gone.

Then again, it would be interesting to see Dina’s reaction to their old neighborhood, and she had already met Deepak and Hassan. Some instinct told him that Arshad had glossed over or diminished where he had grown up, perhaps motivated by the need to paint his background in a more desirable light. Everyone loved a good rags-to-riches story, so long as they didn’t have to dwell on the rags part for too long before getting to the riches. Perhaps he would ask Dina what she meant when she had called him a liar and a bad friend.

On the other hand, spending any more voluntary time with Arshad sounded about as much fun as throwing himself down a flight of stairs. He came to a decision.

“No thanks,” he said. “Not if it means breathing the same air as you, buddy.”

Arshad laughed, as if Lucky had made a joke. Neither he nor Dina had so much as cracked a smile since Arshad joined them. “Always the joker. At least let us take you out for dinner. What do you say?” His arm was back around Dina’s shoulder again, Lucky noticed. He also noticed the expression on her face was pained, as if she were biting her tongue. Behind them, he spotted the wedding party on the other side of the short path, clearly waiting for this odd trio to finish up whatever they were discussing. Which Lucky was more than happy to do.

He decided to keep things uncivil and brief. “Drop dead, Arshad,” he said, and crossed the street to join Samir and his family.

Chapter Eight

Back at the Airbnb, Lucky’s mother was, predictably, cooking dinner. As he had suspected, Huma had smuggled a rice cooker in her luggage, as well as a bag of rice and a ziplock bag packed with spices, and then sent Saleem out to buy chicken pieces for the tahari she planned to cook, a deceptively simple dish that was made with marinated chicken pieces mixed with fragrant basmati rice, like a biryani but without the yogurt.

No matter how many times Lucky had offered to order takeout or pick up something from a nearby restaurant, his mother refused. “Waste of money,” she had grumbled, followed by, “Eating too much outside food is bad for you,” and finally, “Are you tired of your mother’s cooking, Lucky beta? Am I useless to you now?” whereupon he had quit arguing and taken a seat on the sofa bed where his brother was currently lounging.

Samir’s family had insisted on covering the cost of accommodations for all their guests and had sprung for a three-bedroom apartment for Lucky and his family. He made a mental note to thank his friend for his generosity—maybe he would renovate his powder room when they returned to Chicago.

“Could have told you to let it go, bro. You know Mom cooks when she’s nervous,” Saleem said from his position on the couch, eyes still closed. He had been pretending to take a nap while Lucky argued with his mother.

“Why is she nervous?” Lucky asked.

Saleem half opened his eyes and looked at his brother. “First time back in Toronto since . . .” He trailed off, and instantly Lucky felt a rush of shame. He had been so wrapped up in his own feelings: anger at Arshad, confusion and something else at Dina, that he hadn’t even thought about how the rest of his family must be feeling upon their return to the city.

“This is Jiya’s first time visiting,” Lucky said now, nudging his brother. “You should show her and Nisa the sights. Play hometown tour guide.”

Saleem nodded, his eyes closed again. “Why do you think I’m trying to rest up? We’re going to hit the CN Tower and the aquarium tomorrow morning, before the mehndi,” he added. “Maybe show her around the old neighborhood. You could come too.”

The invite was sincere, but Lucky had no desire to visit the familiar tourist traps, and he had already refused one invitation to visit his former hood. “If you add Niagara Falls, you’ll hit the desi tourist trio and get double the points,” he said, smiling. “Is Mom going too?”

His brother shook his head. “She wanted to visit some friends. We’re going to drop her off on the way.”

Which left Lucky with the day to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had an entire day with no plans. Back in Chicago, he was always on the move—running from a jobsite in one end of the city to another, or meeting prospective clients, filling out paperwork, completing an invoice, picking up supplies. His days were long and filled with work, the moments he could snatch with Mariam, back when they were together, or at his storage facility slash amateur art studio his only downtime. Before he could tell his brother that he might tag along with them after all, Jiya emerged from the second bedroom. Behind her, he spotted Nisa, curled up on the queen bed napping, and his heart melted. She truly was the light of his world.

Jiya perched on the arm of the sofa and tugged on Saleem’s sleeve. Her husband sat up, and they shared one of those telepathic glances that married couples seemed to enjoy the moment after they signed the marriage contract.

“Mom, can you stop chopping onions and come over here a minute?” Saleem called.

Huma listened, wiping her hands on a hotel towel. “What’s going on?” she asked in Urdu, looking from her daughter-in-law to her younger son.

“We have some news,” Saleem said, and Jiya instinctively put her hands on her belly.

“Alhamdulilah!” Huma cried, embracing her daughter-in-law. “Another one on the way?”

As Jiya nodded and smiled, explaining that she had just finished her first trimester, Lucky embraced his brother.

“Can’t imagine another little Nisa running around soon,” he said, behind the lump in his throat.

Huma hugged Saleem, then turned to Lucky. “Your brother will soon have two children. Where is your wife, Lucky?”

This question hit him harder than usual, even though he knew it was coming. It was a question his mother asked him so regularly now, it was part of their daily conversation. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, and why aren’t you married yet, Lucky?” was as routine as drinking coffee, but somehow the news that his younger brother would soon be a father two times over hit harder.