Nadim: Results were posted—congratulations. We made it to the finals.

Reena smiled as she texted him back.

Reena: Congratulations to you, too. We were a great team, weren’t we?

Nadim: We were perfect. The offer still stands. I’ll figure out a way to stay a little longer if you want to do this.

She looked up from her phone at the jewel-toned bangles and glimmering necklaces surrounding her. Her family in the distance, discussing color schemes and the benefits of georgette over silk.

Even if they won the whole thing, then what? He’d still leave after. And she’d still have to lie—to her family, to her friends, and to the FoodTV people. She’d still be pretending and avoiding the truth.

Reena: I don’t want to lie anymore. I am sorry I put you in that position at all.

Nadim: I get it. I’m not sorry, though. I had a blast.

Reena: I did too.

The three little dots appeared on her screen again for a few seconds, and then a final text.

Nadim: No pressure. I’m packing and running errands for the next few days, but I would open my door if you knocked on it on Sunday.

Reena closed her eyes. Should she? She could have one more day.

Reena: I’ll knock.

Reena put her phone away and looked closely at the jewelry in the display case. Like so many other little Indian girls, she’d always been drawn to the bright, colorful costume jewelry in velvet boxes. A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she remembered being in so many similar stores all over the world. It didn’t matter where she was: here in the suburbs or in the city. In London, Vancouver, or even in Dar es Salaam, Indian stores permeated with the scent of incense, sequins, and silk gave her that familiar feeling of shared culture. Home. Reena loved being Indian. Loved the food, the glittery clothes, and today, she even loved the deep-seated traditions. Like sari shopping with aunties.

Resisting her parents’ interference for so long all felt, in a way, like resisting her culture. Family meant everything to them, and parents were expected to look out for their children long after they weren’t children anymore. She was an individual, but an individual who was part of a family.

But there had to be a middle ground—a way to make the traditions work for her instead of stifling her.

As she approached the counter, a silvery chain in a black box caught her eye. It was an odd shape—a large bracelet with dangling bells on it and a big center medallion with a long chain hanging off it ending with a ring. The whole thing looked huge, like it had been designed for a basketball player’s hands.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the woman behind the counter said.

“It’s gorgeous. Huge, though. Would never fit my wrist.”

The woman laughed. “It’s an anklet, dear. For your foot. This one is a bridal one. But we have less ornate ones as well. Can I show you?”