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Dina squeezed her sister’s hands. “I’ll be there. You’re getting married tomorrow!”

Her sister smiled, a flash of genuine contentment crossing her face. “I’m so happy,” she said. “I keep worrying something will go wrong or Samir will change his mind,” she admitted.

“He wouldn’t be so foolish,” Dina said. “Enjoy your last few hours of single life.”

As Dina drove east from her parents’ home toward Malton, the neighborhood near Pearson International Airport where Arshad and Lucky had both grown up and where Deepak and Hassan still lived, she resolved to confront Arshad about his behavior last night. One way or another, she needed to find out what he was up to. If she could avoid talking to Lucky about anything of substance, she would count today a win.

Chapter Thirteen

Lucky was parked outside Deepak’s town house, reconsidering his life choices.

Firstly, he never should have agreed to visit his friends alongside Arshad, whom he still hated and who had grown even more smarmy and detestable in six years.

Secondly, he was struggling with very different feelings for Dina, feelings he should not be entertaining for a married woman. Their interaction at the mehndi had been . . . different from what he had expected. They had worked together to save Hania’s insane decor plan. She had let him take charge and had worked alongside him and the rest of the team for hours without complaint. Her presence had been grounding, and being around her instantly made everything feel lighter and more fun. Which made no sense, because they hadn’t spoken in years, and she was married to the worst man Lucky knew.

Then there was the matter of the Post-it Note that had fallen out of her pocket. Lucky can’t hurt you again. Combined with what she had blurted out to Deepak and Hassan at the airport, it was clear she was angry at him for some reason. He had to know why, if only for the sake of closure.

A sleek red Mercedes sedan pulled into the spot beside him, speakers blaring so loudly he could hear the music the driver was playing through the closed windows. Lucky recognized Chappell Roan’s “Femininomenon” before he recognized Dina. To his great amusement, she had her eyes closed and was singing along, hands drumming on the steering wheel at the bass drop. Lucky got out of his car, walked over to the driver’s side, and tapped on her window. Dina jumped, eyes wide, before snapping off the song and rolling down the window.

“I like ‘Hot to Go!’ better,” he said.

“Blasphemy,” she said, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She looked away, and he realized he couldn’t stop staring. His affliction seemed to be growing stronger with every interaction, despite his best efforts.

Lucky thought Dina would have changed after being with Arshad all these years. The woman he knew in law school had been open, self-effacing, humble, wildly attractive. He had thought (hoped?) that a few years of being married to the biggest jerk he knew would have transformed her into someone just as shallow, self-serving, and materialistic as Arshad. Instead, Dina appeared to have blossomed into someone even more witty, intelligent, and insightful than she had been before—and she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He looked away and forced himself to think about something other than his enemy’s wife: global warming, childhood poverty, the fate of the Pokémon franchise—anything other than how much he still liked Dina, and how unavailable she remained.

As if proving this point, Dina asked, “Where’s Arshad?”

“He’s your husband—shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Lucky said, his tone grumpy.

“I came straight from my parents’ place. He was going to meet me here.” She pulled out her phone.

Lucky wasn’t interested in talking about Arshad. Not when he had another question for Dina. He reached into his pocket to pull out the Post-it Note.

“Arshad isn’t coming,” she said, frowning down at her phone. “Apparently something came up with work.” She looked at him, their gazes tangling. She looked away, biting her lip, and Lucky tried to think calm, cool thoughts. “I should go. I’ll let you catch up with your friends in peace.”

Lucky felt a momentary flare of disappointment at these words, his hand releasing the Post-it Note. He took a step back just as Dina reached for the button to start her car again.

Suddenly, a familiar voice carried across the parking lot. “Oy, Lucky! Chutiya, stop flirting with another man’s wife and get in here!”

Deepak stood in front of an end-unit town house, smiling hugely and waving. He was dressed in a white undershirt and jogging pants, his curly hair pulled back in a man bun. Dina raised her hand, then shook her head, miming that she had to leave, but Deepak was having none of it.

“Bhabhi, don’t tell me you’re flopping too, just like your mans,” he said, using the Hindi honorific, which meant “brother’s wife.” “He texted me, and I already called him every bad name I know. No reason for you to leave too, after driving all this way. You can’t leave Malton without trying some of my mom’s cholay,” he said, referring to a savory chickpea curry.

Dina paused, thinking this over. Lucky watched her, and when she let go of the steering wheel and unbuckled her seat belt, his heart did a strange flip.

“I do like cholay,” she said to him, smiling slightly. Together, they started toward the town house.

Deepak’s town house was cramped, cluttered, and last decorated sometime around 1999, based on the floral sofa set, pale-pink melamine countertops, and the white kitchen table and white metal chairs. A framed picture of Guru Nanak adorned the walls of the carpeted living room, and a miniature model of the Golden Temple in Amritsar, India, was visible in the particleboard hutch, alongside a collection of shot glasses collected from various vacation spots. Lucky felt a flush of secondary embarrassment—he had lived in this neighborhood growing up, and his house would have looked similar, with pictures of the two holy mosques in Mecca and Medina instead. He couldn’t help but wonder how Dina saw the place, compared to the opulence she was no doubt surrounded by in her own home. He pushed those thoughts away. He refused to feel secondhand embarrassment over his friend’s furnishings, or to allow Dina’s presence to make him ashamed of where he had come from. Deepak certainly had no qualms showing Dina around, pointing out rooms and features.

“You live here with your mom?” Dina asked politely.

Deepak laughed. “Nah, fam, this is Mom’s place. We hang out here because it’s usually empty on Saturday, when my parents are at temple.”

He led them through the kitchen, where a few pots were simmering on the stove, releasing a heavenly aroma that made Lucky’s stomach rumble with hunger. “We were about to give up on you too,” Deepak added, nodding at Lucky. “Hassan called that chutiya Arshad—no offense, Bhabhi—and he played like he was busy or sick or something, but we knew better. Then I spotted this dumbass—sorry, Bhabhi—in the parking lot,” Deepak said, nodding at his friend.

Dina was smiling, and when she spoke, she seemed delighted. “Thanks for the invite, Deepak. And you’re right, Arshad can be a chutiya.” She paused. “What does that mean, again?”

Deepak roared with laughter, as if she had made a joke, and opened the door to the basement, preceding them downstairs. “Oy, Hassan, we got two out of three. You owe me twenty bucks.”