Absorbed in every detail, I turned the corner and bumped nose first into a tall figure walking straight toward me.

“Oomf!” I said, staggering backward in surprise.

“Oh!” the figure said, looking into my face. It was the man from Meena’s photograph. In person, he was about six feet tall with chestnut-colored skin and a single dimple that punctuated his left cheek as he pursed his lips together. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, lines of concern appearing between his light brown eyes.

I shook my head, patting my nose.

“As’salaamu Alaikum.” He smiled; the indent in his cheek deepened. “I was looking for Meena?” Directly behind him was the giant heart hanging from the stage.

So this is Haroon. I tilted my head to get a good look at him. I was impressed. He might not have been the boy of Meena’s choosing, but her parents had come through for her, at least in the looks department.

“That makes two of us,” I said, smoothing the tangle of hair from my face and trying not to get distracted by his striking good looks. After my talk with Meena last night, any negative feelings I once had for her had dissolved. I was surprised by her willingness to open up to me about her reasons for marrying. I couldn’t believe how gravely I had misunderstood her all of these years. And now, as someone whom she trusted as a friend, I suddenly felt this big-sisterly responsibility to make sure the sacrifices she was making would be worth it.

“I’ve heard so much about you.”

The look in his eyes switched from concern to confusion.

“I’m Leila, Meena’s cousin.” I held out my hand and he shook it slowly. “Meena is a great girl. And as someone who once felt very differently about her, trust me when I say you got yourself a good one.”

“Oh. Yeah . . . Meena’s great, masha’Allah—”

“And I know you guys are doing the whole arranged marriage thing, but you should know that Meena has so much more to offer than just being a stay-at-home housewife who cooks and cleans all day.”

He crumpled his brows.

“She’s smart. And strong-willed. I mean, she’ll probably still cook for you because, you know, she’s Indian—but what I mean is, that’s not all she can do.”

“I see. Um . . .”

“I know you two have only met three times—which is still in-freaking-sane to me—but did you know she has a talent for design?”

“Huh?”

“Interior design.”

“Oh . . . I—”

“You should see her room. I mean, obviously after you’re married—not now because her parents would probably flip—” I laughed nervously. In my head, I knew I sounded as crazy as I looked with my disheveled hair and polka-dotted pajama bottoms, but it was too late. The words kept coming. I couldn’t stop. “Design is Meena’s passion, and she needs someone who’s going to support her in that dream.”

“I—I think that’s great. I’ll make sure to—”