“So, tomorrow, some of the sisters are coming over to help me figure out decorations for the masjid. Don’t worry about coming down if you have homework, okay, but they really do want to meet you.”

“Sure.” I was already looking down at my plate and wrapping noodle tendrils into a neat nest around my fork. I never bothered to meet her friends unless it was by accident. They didn’t linger once she got tired of their activity of the week, and we both liked it that way.

All of this was normal.

All of this was the way it was with the two of us.

Until, of course, it wasn’t.

The buffet table stretched out in front of me, a jumble of homemade treats and cultural delicacies. I was lucky to put names to some that I’d had with old friends—friends that might as well have been swept out the door with Dad after I became a “child of divorce”: chicken tikka, lamb biryani spiked with juicy raisins and shimmering prunes, and a large plate of syrupy orange jalebi sweets.

I moved slowly down the line, popping a little taste from each tray in my mouth as I went and shaking my head.

No, no, no. It’s not right. I hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. Maybe I hadn’t.

“What about the spinach offends you so badly?”

I flinched, startled. A very cute, twinkle-eyed boy stood beside me. He smirked at the flaky pastry in my hand. He was probably my age, lean in a way that suggested athlete instead of gawky beanpole. He was also—genuinely—tall, dark, and handsome, with a gentle dusting of black stubble over his chin and the slight suggestion of dimples. Out of all the things I choose to get hungry over, I try not to make boys one of them. They are more likely to give you indigestion, and they never taste the way they look at first glance.

“Nothing,” I said shortly. I turned back to the table, dropping the pastry and settling on a piece of naan. “Isn’t there a line for the guys over there?”

The boy seemed entirely unruffled by my dismissal. “Food ran out, so my mom told me to wait here while she sends over another tray. Brother Khalid has a lot of friends.”

Brother Khalid. Right. My new stepfather. I peeked over the boy’s shoulder, my eyes quickly settling on the now-familiar face: as always, grinning so you could see his snaggle tooth, and framed by a wild tangle of curls. Brother Khalid was Moroccan, had never been married, and, according to my dreamy-eyed mother, had “such a way with words.”

“Anyway, you didn’t answer my question, Goldilocks.”

“Goldilocks?” I snorted. “Really?”