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“Having your dreams come true doesn’t translate to all your problems disappearing like magic,” Lucky said. “I think my dad was naive in that way. He thought all he needed was one lucky break and then it would be smooth sailing. That’s not the way life works.”

“I know that,” Dina said, feeling the slightest twinge of embarrassment. Did she? She had married Arshad, then divorced him when it became clear he had no loyalty for her, or respect for the promises they had made to each other. Maybe some part of her was like Majid Uncle—she had thought she could cure her broken heart by marrying the closest approximation to Lucky, only to find herself disappointed by the flawed reality.

Lucky slowed the truck near a dark building and turned off the ignition before turning to face her, his handsome profile backlit by the sunshine. “When we lost it all—the business, my dad, the money to pay for me to finish law school—I was furious. We had been in tight spots before, but not like that. I started to pray, to think, to plan. Every day I woke up in the morning and asked myself: What could I do today to make my life, and my family’s life, a little better? People helped. Not my uncle, but in a way, his behavior spurred me. I vowed we would survive and thrive, if only to show him that we didn’t need him at all.” He looked at her then, eyes still haunted by the memory of those long, difficult years. “I rebuilt because I refused to accept the alternative.”

Dina exhaled slowly. His words were vulnerable and honest. He was laying bare a truth she had only begun to understand: During times of catastrophe, transformation was the only way forward.

Lucky continued, his voice warm and steady, an intoxicating spell. “I don’t believe in following your dreams. I don’t believe in contentment or chasing your bliss or whatever it is that unhappy people tell themselves to help make sense of their lives.”

Dina stared out at the road ahead, mostly empty now. “What do you believe in?” she asked.

Lucky put on his indicator and neatly parallel parked his big truck in front of a large building. “Multiple income streams,” he said, startling a laugh out of her. He grinned. “Come on.” He unbuckled his seat belt and jumped out of the truck before jogging around to her side and opening the passenger side door. He held out a hand to help her down. She regarded it dubiously.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“A second location,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

She gave him a dirty look, then took his hand. His palm was warm and solid in hers, and felt so very right. She let go the moment her feet touched the ground and then looked about her. He had brought her to a twenty-four-hour storage unit. Lucky motioned for her to follow him.

He swiped them both inside the climate-controlled building, and they rode in silence to the fourth floor. The hallways were tightly packed and labyrinthine, but he knew where he was going; he led her down one hall, turned right, then left, then finally came to a stop in front of a unit that looked the same as all the others. He unlocked it, revealing a large space inside. A flick of his hand turned on the fluorescent overhead lighting, and Dina blinked. Inside, the room had been divided in two: Part of the room was used to store tools and equipment in tidy bins, while large open shelving held more complicated machinery, including a table saw, and smaller tools hung neatly on a pegboard. The second half of the room was empty except for a tarp on the ground and a single piece of canvas laid on top. She turned to Lucky, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m trying to keep an open mind, but I can’t help but flash to scenes from Dexter,” she said.

Lucky laughed and led her to the canvas on the ground. It was a painting in progress, she saw, with colorful splotches in vibrant blues and greens and the faint imprint of an Islamic geometric pattern behind. She turned to him.

“I know this style,” she said, contemplating the painting in progress. Her eyes widened, and she turned to Lucky. “Wait a minute . . . are you Kamyabi, the mysterious painter that Yahya Uncle can’t stop raving about?” she asked. Lucky shrugged.

“When my life fell apart and all the dreams I had for myself vanished, I had to pivot. I started working in construction and renovation. I’m good at it. But it had never been my dream. Then I found art.”

“Art,” Dina repeated, dubious.

Lucky nodded. “One of my clients had a bunch of paint samples they wanted to throw out. I brought them to my unit, thinking I could use them somehow. My job has turned me into a bit of a magpie—I never know when something will come in handy. One day, I was bored and made something for Nisa. She loved it. I started messing around, just having fun with it. It felt good, doing something for myself. Pretty soon I was coming here whenever I had some time to stare and think and try things out. Samir came by to borrow my jigsaw and saw this massive canvas I had been working on for months. He had the bright idea to sell it to his parents, feeding them some story about the reclusive, famous artist who made it. I think he told his father he needed to get in on the ground floor of an undiscovered talent.” He shook his head.

Dina laughed, shaking her head. “Diabolical. But also true. Your work is very good, Lucky.”

Lucky shrugged. “I tried to talk him out of it, but Samir said his father was always buying ridiculous things for way too much money, and if he could help get my art out into the world, he would. The weird thing is, Yahya Uncle fell in love with the painting.”

“It’s beautiful,” Dina said. “He told me he sees something new in it every time he shows it to someone.”

Lucky seemed pleased by this assessment. “A few weeks after Samir sold his dad the painting, he came back and told me that all of his dad’s friends wanted an original Kamyabi for their homes too. He came up with the name; it’s Persian for ‘success.’ He’s a good friend. And now I have a waiting list,” he finished.

Dina stared at him. “That’s amazing, Lucky!”

He waved her away. “It’s mostly rich people competing against each other for the latest toy. Plus, I take so long finishing each painting, I don’t really make any money. But that was never the point. When I’m here”—he looked around the space, illuminated with harsh fluorescent lighting, surrounded by tools and bins full of even more tools, Dina assumed—“something in my mind quiets. It’s like everything else falls away, and it’s just me and the canvas. When I’m working on a new painting, the world makes sense for a while.”

Lucky’s face was glowing as he spoke, as if he were illuminated by a light from within, and she felt a stab of envy. There was nothing in her life that made her as happy as painting seemed to make Lucky. She wanted that same feeling, even if it wouldn’t replace her job.

“I’m no Kamyabi,” she said.

He shook his head. “Kamyabi doesn’t exist. He’s just someone Samir made up, a story he invented for others. You asked me how I moved on and rebuilt. The strange thing is, survival is the easy part. Finding a reason, a purpose, that takes work. For me, it was knowing that every job I took helped stabilize my family. But the painting, I do that for myself, because it brings me joy. That’s what you need to find for yourself.”

“All I do is work and watch shows and show up where my parents want me,” Dina said. Her eyes were on the unfinished canvas, the colors melding together in front of her.

“What did you enjoy doing before law school? Or after you graduated. Did you and Arshad have a hobby you did together?” He looked so earnest, so sincere, she hated to disappoint him.

“Mostly we worked or went to networking events. There always seemed to be a law society party, or South Asians in Law, or a gala to attend. Arshad felt we had to show up, especially to the big community events, to make sure Haq Law was front and center. One year he convinced Dad to rent a booth at Deen & Dunya,” she said, referring to the large Muslim conference that took place in Toronto every December. “And then ditched me so he could socialize for most of the weekend,” she couldn’t help but add.

Lucky shook his head. “That guy. Why did you marry him?”