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Samir excused himself, explaining that he had to send a few emails before dinner. He kissed his wife’s forehead gently before heading back inside the house. Hania’s smile was so wide, Dina’s heart clenched. Her sister was so very happy. Hania turned to her new father-in-law. “Have you shown them the Kamyabi yet?” she asked him with a smile.

“Is that a type of . . . food?” Dina asked.

“It provides a certain type of nourishment,” Yahya said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He gestured for the Haq family and Arshad to follow him to the third-floor loft, where an atrium took up one half of the house. The walls had a few smaller paintings and sculptures arranged at the back of the room, but Yahya led them to the front wall, where a massive canvas hung.

Dina stared up at the canvas, momentarily silenced. She didn’t know too much about art, but this piece, done in an abstract style, stirred something within her.

“This is the Kamyabi—Samir bought the piece for our thirtieth anniversary,” Yahya explained with pride.

“Who is Kamyabi? Someone famous?” Arshad asked. He knew even less about art than Dina; if it wasn’t worth millions, he wasn’t interested.

“No one knows. He is like Banksy, the desi version. Samir purchased this piece from a tight-lipped art dealer the artist works with exclusively. My friends have been so impressed, they have each purchased the artist’s work. He is quite the underground hit in Chicago and beyond. Tell me, what do you see when you look at this picture?”

Azeez, Nasrin, and Dina contemplated the picture for a few moments.

“I’m not sure,” Nasrin said. “The painting makes me feel . . . sad, for some reason.”

“The red and black sections, they make me think of mysterious, spooky things,” Azeez said.

Arshad had already wandered off, bored with this exercise. He’s probably looking for a Picasso or Matisse, names that are famous enough for him to recognize, Dina thought.

Yahya chuckled. “I ask all my guests, and they each have a different answer. I fell in love with this painting the moment I saw it, and yet I could not tell you why.”

Dina stood staring at the painting for a long time after Yahya and her parents left. It was deceptively simple: a wide canvas with a riot of color and texture. She thought she could make out the faint imprint of a mosque’s dome in the background, an intricate Islamic geometric pattern in the far-left corner, interspersed with a violent streak of red through the center of the canvas. She didn’t hear Lucky come up behind her.

“Never took you for an art fan,” he said.

Dina startled, whirling around and blinking, as if she were coming out of a trance. “What?” she said.

He jerked his chin at the painting. “Yahya Uncle asks all of his guests to admire his art collection. Asking people what they notice in the Kamyabi is his favorite party trick.”

She nodded, gaze drawn back to the canvas.

“Go on, then. What do you see?” Lucky asked.

“Yearning,” she said immediately. “I see . . . loss. The artist, whoever they are, was in real pain when they made this.”

Beside her, Lucky was silent, staring at the piece. Finally, he shook his head. “Whatever you say, Haq. Personally, all I see is a bunch of junk thrown at a canvas.”

Dina laughed, turning back to face him. “When did you get here?”

“Just now.” He paused, shifting from one foot to the other. “I drove down with Aliyah. She wanted to welcome you all. She’s become very fond of you.”

Instantly, Dina felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her head. “You two seem to be getting along,” she said.

Lucky nodded. “She’s nice. Easy to get along with and not complicated.”

“She asked if we had history,” Dina said, impulsively.

Lucky raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you two were talking about in the bathroom?”

So he did notice our absence, Dina thought. She was glad that Aliyah had kept her word and not shared any details about what else they had discussed. “I told her we were friends. Or we used to be, a long time ago.” She looked at him, and he met her gaze. After a moment, he nodded.

“I’d say that’s pretty accurate,” he said slowly.

“What are we now?” Dina asked, the words escaping her lips before she could stop them. “I’ve missed you, Lucky,” she admitted.

He looked at her, then back at the canvas. “I missed you too. But this isn’t the real world, Dina. Both of our lives are on hold for Hania and Samir’s wedding. To answer your question, I guess we’re . . . nothing. The same thing we’ve always been.”