“Well, I probably have to work … you—”

“Oh, you’ll love this, I heard the best news from Rish yesterday,” Saira said, grinning. Ashraf’s sister Rish was the apparent town crier when it came to gossip within their community. “Get this—Jasmine Shah was just abandoned in Egypt by her fiancé. She had to get an emergency visa to get out and everything.”

Reena cringed. Though she didn’t know her personally, Jasmine Shah was the daughter of her father’s former classmate. The Shahs were her parents’ favorite family to dig up dirt on. And although Reena tried to stay out of it, judging them was a longtime family pastime. “Holy crap. Did you tell Dad?”

“Yeah, Dad’s schadenfreude was pretty epic. And speaking of schadenfreude, did you hear—”

“Saira wait—is that why you came over? To gossip?”

“No, I came to bring you soup. But”—she checked the time on her phone—“I should go. I need to bring Ashraf his lunch before my shift.” She got up and headed toward the door. “Feel better, sis!”

She left. Reena stood blinking at the closed door for a few seconds. What the hell was that? Since when did Saira make hot soup for anyone?

Shaking her head at the strange visit, Reena went back to her counter and started combining ingredients for the challah.

This was a good idea. Mixing the soft, almost silky dough managed to feel both comforting and cathartic. She took out her frustrations, squishing the pale-yellow blob around the enormous bowl. But the dough was still a loose, shaggy mess when another knock on her door interrupted her Zen-like kneading.

Now what? Maybe Mum with her favorite cold remedy, haldi jo dudh? God, she hoped not. One Manji visitor a day was more than enough.

She carefully turned the doorknob with her elbows, a talent she had long ago perfected, since she usually had her hands deep in some cooking project or another.

Thankfully, it wasn’t family, but Nadim at her door. Maybe. Or … was that Nadim? She tilted her head. Yes, definitely her neighbor, but again, he looked different. Eyes and nose back to normal after last night’s weeping clown look. But … clean-shaven? And hair trimmed close enough to his scalp that she half expected him to tell her he joined the Marines after she saw him last night.

Did Canada have Marines? Could Tanzanians join?

“What happened to your hair?” she asked in lieu of a greeting.

He ran his hand through the short strands, as if he’d forgotten about it. “Oh. Uh, I cut it this morning.” He took a deep breath. “Reena, we need to talk. Can I come in?”

She blinked, annoyed at this interruption. The weird pang of attraction she had felt last night seemed to have left the building along with the man’s hair. Maybe the douche-beard had magical, magnetic qualities?

And anyway, we need to talk never went well, so more bad news seemed inevitable. She motioned him in and went straight back to the kitchen and dumped the dough onto her big butcher-block board for heavy kneading. He stood opposite her in front of the breakfast bar.