“Not this again,” she said. The first time he tuned the radio to the country station, she thought he was joking. Instead, he gave her a lecture on the virtues of country music. “Each song is a narrative,” he explained. “Conflict, crisis, and resolution all in three minutes. Where else can you get that?”

Now, she rolled her eyes and rested her head against the window.

“Next time I’ll do it better,” he sang. “Next time I’ll do it right.”

She shook her head. “If you’re taking me to a country music concert, I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re going to love it,” he said.

She sat up straight in her seat. “No, absolutely not. I refuse.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” He raised his eyebrows, and she shrank back into her seat. “We’re not going to a country music concert,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“Then where are we going?”

“Patience, patience.”

She sighed and looked out the window. The trees were thick with kudzu, the vines spiraling up tree trunks, covering enormous birches and maples, making them look like giant topiaries. She watched the scenery whir by and felt the intensity of the day begin to lessen. He placed his hand on her knee, and she closed her eyes and smiled.

“I’m going to fall asleep,” she said. “I always do. In cars.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and stroked her knee.

The car rolled rhythmically beneath her, and she listened to the light twang of the guitars, felt the setting sun fall along her cheek, and drifted into a soft sleep.

When they arrived, the sun had set. Streetlights illuminated the sidewalk, but it looked like any other suburb—strip malls with dry cleaners, car dealerships, drugstores, and fast food restaurants.

“Where are we?”

“Amory,” he said, and pulled into a parking lot.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up straight. “Why?”

“Look,” he said, and pointed to her right.

It was a normal suburban movie theater, but the marquee read Ek Pyaar. She turned back to him.

“This is how a Bollywood movie should be seen,” he said, and stepped out of the car. He was smiling brightly, and when he grabbed her hand, he squeezed it repeatedly.

At the box office, there was a line of Indians—grandmothers in saris chastising rambunctious little boys, teenage girls with bright lipstick and tight jeans, women speaking animatedly and shaking their gold-bangled wrists, young men, old men, toddlers, and babies. Josie felt suddenly shy, and she leaned into Devesh’s side.

“Will it have subtitles?” she whispered.

“No, but this one has a good amount of English. You’ll get it.”