“Weren’t you here for dinner?”

“Of course. But now your mother knows that. Which means tomorrow your father will ask me how dinner went, and I will have to pretend things are going well and that you haven’t been saying you have no plan to marry me at least once per night.” He handed her the beer. “Your sister’s a little …”

Reena cringed as she sat on the barstool. “Sorry about her. She’s a lot.”

“Is she telling everyone we’re engaged?”

“Doubt it. Saira’s a huge gossip but doesn’t air our own family laundry. She’s more radio receiver than broadcaster.”

“You sure you two are sisters?”

“I’ve often wondered the same thing. I still can’t figure out why she was here today. My guess is it has to do with eggplant.” She sipped her beer.

Nadim’s hand shot to his mouth, stifling a laugh.

“That’s not a euphemism. I actually mean eggplant.”

“With your family, I believe it. Just to confirm, I can’t let her know about the contest, either, but your cousin knows, right? I’m having trouble keeping up with who knows what. Hard enough to come up with a story for why I shaved my head.”

True. This had become ridiculous. She considered whether a spreadsheet could make things easier. She couldn’t let her parents know about her friendship with Nadim, and couldn’t tell him about her father’s business troubles. And, of course, no one could find out that she’d lost her job. The only secret easy to keep here was the head lice.

She took a long sip of the beer. “Just follow my lead. Why are you early, anyway? I told you Marley won’t make it until six thirty, at least.”

“I know. I wanted to watch you cook dinner. Since we’re supposed to be fake-engaged, I figured I should see you cook more than once before we film.”

She laughed. “Sorry, I’m not going to cook after all. Not when I have all this stuff Mum made. You okay with Indian food?”

“I am Indian, Reena. More than okay with it.” He sighed. “I miss my real food, the stuff I grew up on in Africa. Indian food in restaurants is nothing like the Gujarati–East African stuff we were raised on, right?”

“There are a few decent East African restaurants in town. I’ll take you one day. But, yeah, I know what you mean. Restaurant Indian food isn’t the same.”

“The joys of being a double-migrant.”

Reena hadn’t heard that term before but liked it. She smiled. “Double-migrant because our families first migrated from India to Tanzania, then Tanzania to Canada?”

“Yup. Of course, for me it’s India to Tanzania to UK then to Canada. Triple-migrant.”

But he didn’t want to stay here.

“That’s why I learned to cook,” Reena said. “I wanted to be able to eat the good stuff without relying on my mother.”

“The little bit of your mum’s food I’ve had has been great. I think you’re the better cook, though.”