“Sorry,” Flávia breathes when she finally lets me go. I’m trying to navigate my emotions—somewhere between adoration and annoyance.

“That’s okay,” I say, not at all sure if it is okay.

“Just … we did it.” She’s beaming. Her eyes are bright like stars and it’s too easy to get lost in them.

“I know.” My heart is about to burst out of my chest again but this time for a completely different reason.

“Do you think we can put our differences aside? Just for now?” she asks, sheepishly. I nod, despite myself.

She brightens—which I didn’t think was even possible.

“Are you coming to the party this Friday?”

“There’s a party this Friday?”

She smiles, like she can’t believe I haven’t gotten the memo—though obviously it shouldn’t be surprising at all.

“It’s Chyna’s party but it’s at our place. For everybody in the year. You should come.” She pauses, the light diminishing from her eyes slightly, her smile fading somewhat. “You can, um, bring your sister if you want?”

“I’ll think about it,” is all I say, though I already know that if I go, there’s no way I’m going to bring Priti.

“I guess you’re putting effort into this party.” Priti leans against the door frame of my bedroom as I’m applying a coat of mascara onto my eyelashes. I accidentally stab myself in the eye with the wand and smear some of the black liquid on my cheek.

“Knock, maybe?” I say.

“Your door wasn’t closed, gadha.”

“Okay, chagol.” I rub the mascara off my face.

“I’m surprised you’re really going through with this.”

“I’m going to a party, Priti. Not committing to a marriage.”

“I know. But you didn’t exactly enjoy yourself at Chyna’s last week. You left early.”

“Yes, well. This is different.”

“How, exactly?”

This is a perfectly valid question, because nothing really is different, but something feels different since Flávia called a truce. Even if it’s for only one day, should I not make the most of it?

Because I am eloquent and amazing at expressing myself, to Priti I say, “Because it’s just different, okay?”

She comes over and stands by me so we’re both reflected in the mirror. After tucking a strand of hair away, she rests a hand on my shoulder.

“This is like a scene in a Bollywood movie,” I say.

“What Bollywood movie does this happen in?”

“I don’t know! But I feel like there’s been one!”

I can see her rolling her eyes in the mirror. I stifle a smile as she says, “It’s more like a Hollywood movie, really. It’s your wedding day and you’re getting married. Your sister—bridesmaid comes over to tell you how beautiful you look in your wedding dress, etcetera, etcetera.”

“So …?”

“So …”