“Leila! Where have you been?”

It was my mother.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had been intentionally avoiding her all night.

“I have been looking everywhere for you! Come. Jaldi. I have someone I want you to meet.” She hurriedly led me toward the kitchen, where a short, stout, mustachioed man who looked to be in his early thirties awaited us. He was smiling eagerly at me. “Leila, this is Asad.” My mother beamed. “He is a friend of Haroon’s. I just met Asad’s mother, Zainab aunty, and she is lovely!” Asad looked at me approvingly.

“Can I see you in the hallway for a second?” I hissed into my mother’s ear. She gave me a quizzical look, but I walked out quickly and waited until she appeared a minute later.

“Ya Allah, Leila! What is it?” she asked, impatiently. “Asad is waiting for you. He will think you are being rude!”

“Ammi,” I said, trying to steady my frustration. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I just thought I would introduce you to Asad. He is a very nice—”

“Ammi!” I interrupted her. “We are supposed to be celebrating Meena and Haroon! Not looking for a spouse for me!”

“Leila,” my mother said, an expression of calm washing over her face. “Beti, this is what weddings are for!” She smiled at me piteously, as if I had failed to understand something so obvious. “Weddings are the best place to meet a spouse. Did you know that Fatimah aunty, the heavyset one with the brightly colored fingernails, pointed you out to Ruksana aunty, the lady who is wearing high heels with the stylish hijab . . . high heels . . . can you imagine such high heels on a woman her age?” She clucked her tongue judgmentally. “Anyways, Ruksana aunty found Jamila aunty and Jamila aunty is the one who told me that Asad was asking about you. So, Jamila aunty introduced me to Asad’s mother, Zainab aunty, and it was she who personally asked me to conduct an intro between you two!”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to make sense of all her words.

She patted my arm. “Leila, any girl in your position would be lucky to catch the eye of a handsome boy like Asad.” I rolled my eyes. “If we are diligent,” she continued, ignoring my disinterest, “your engagement will be pakka by the end of the week, insha’Allah!” She bobbled her head.

She was crazy if she thought I would agree to an engagement with Mr. Mustache in there. “Ammi, I’m not interes—”

“Just talk to him, beti.” She pushed me toward the kitchen. “At least give him a chance!”

I sighed, hanging my head in defeat. “One conversation and that’s it. I’m serious,” I said firmly. She nodded quickly and led me back in. Asad was anxiously pressing his hands together and pacing back and forth.

“Hi.”

“Oh, hello.” He shoved his hand forward and smiled so widely that his mustache curled up at the corners. I lightly placed my hand into his, and he shook it vigorously. “So, I hear your good name is Leila?”