“I’m taking lessons over video conference.” She adjusted the tomatoes in the bowl a bit, then clapped her hands together. The tomatoes looked like glimmering rubies with the bright pot lights reflecting on them. “Look at all this color.” She snapped a picture with her phone.

“Ah. Your true motivation. Your precious Instagram.”

“We eat with our eyes first.” She took a short video clip of the spread of food.

“You eat with your camera even before that.” He hopped out of the sight line of the camera. “Hey, leave me out of this. I don’t want to turn up on your tick-tack-toe thing.”

“It’s TikTok. You don’t have to participate in social media, but unless you want to further solidify this boomer rep of yours, at least learn what the platforms are called.”

“Eh. What’s the point if I don’t use them? And unlike everyone else in the world, I don’t need the clicks to know my worth.”

Kamila laughed. “I don’t use social media to tell me my worth. I already know I’m fabulous. That’s why I have a duty to share all this with the world.” She swept her hands over her dress with flourish. “Now, go wait with Dad, old man,” she said, throwing in the nickname to annoy him. “You’re making me nervous. Nerves combined with newly sharpened knives are a disaster in the making.”

Kamila knew Rohan’s snarky comments were just teasing, and she usually liked to volley right back. She’d known him literally her whole life, and they both knew exactly which buttons to press without going too far. Still, she wasn’t exactly an experienced cook, and she’d prefer to finish the job without a running commentary.

He snorted. “Fine. If only to spare your flawless skin.” He smirked as he took the tray with his masala chai and Dad’s hibiscus tea to the dining room. Kamila picked up the next vegetable to cut.

As if on cue, disaster chose that moment to strike. The honed steel knife slipped in her hand and sliced her finger instead of the organic sweet potato. No problem. Barely a scrape. As she rustled in the drawer looking for a bandage, several crimson drops of blood spilled onto a bag of rubber bands. She took a breath as she reflexively wrapped her hand in her apron, and cringed as a red stain grew on the pale-blue fabric.

Her beautiful new apron. “Siri, what gets out blood stains?”

“Oh dear, beti, what happened?” Dad rushed to her side while Siri was detailing the wonders of hydrogen peroxide and enzyme soap. He unwrapped the apron from her finger, his gentle touch and concerned expression grounding her. “Oh no. I’ll get the first-aid kit.” He smiled and lovingly patted Kamila’s arm. “Everything is okay, Kamila. Do your breathing. I’ll be right back.”