Suddenly Hisham poked his head back in. “Oh, by the way, Leila, your mother is looking for you.”

This night officially blew. My mother had just been in the kitchen no less than five minutes ago. Whatever she wanted now could not be good. “Okay.” I quickly excused myself while my head reeled with frustration. I’ve already wasted thirty minutes of my time talking to Asad. And now the one guy I want to talk to is under the impression that Mr. Mustache and I are an item. And to top it all off, my mother is looking for me. As I dragged my feet into the hallway, preparing myself for the worst, Hisham quickly jerked my arm and pulled me into the dining room.

“Is my mother in here?” I asked, looking around, panicked.

“No. I just . . .” Hisham’s eyes flickered playfully. “I just had a feeling you were in need of some help.” I knitted my brows, my brain still working to catch up with what he was saying.

“Wait, so my mother’s not looking for me?” I asked, a little disoriented, as I was still expecting her to jump out from one of the corners.

“You’re welcome?” He smiled. It finally dawned on me that he had just saved me. I leaned against the wall, letting out a deep sigh, and grinned.

“My hero.”

He laughed.

“No, really, between this and what happened this morning, you deserve some sort of badge.”

“If it helps, what happened this morning was not a first for me.” He shrugged.

“By the way, that, in there.” I pointed toward the kitchen. “My mom totally cornered me into that conversation. It’s actually pretty embarrassing—”

“No need to explain,” he cut me off. “We’re at an Indian wedding. It’s expected.”

“So I hear.”

“Besides, I’m sure Asad isn’t the only one chasing after you tonight.”

I blushed.

“I mean . . . um . . .” he stammered nervously. “What I mean is there are a lot of rishta aunties circling around. You should beware.”

I laughed, feeling the heat rise in my face. “Rishta aunties are pretty bad, but they’re not the only aunties to avoid at these types of functions.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, there are also the career-focused aunties. The ones who ask you a million questions about your studies and profession. ‘What do you mean you studied English? Aren’t you from America?’” I mimicked.

Hisham laughed.

“And the judgmental aunties. The ones who have an opinion about everything, from the food, to the decor, to the appropriateness of your outfit! And don’t forget the lay-it-on-thick aunties. The ones constantly bragging about their kids. ‘My daughter just won the Nobel Prize AND got engaged in the same week!’”

“Those are the worst!” Hisham shook his head. “What about the pushers? The ones who aggressively force you to eat even after you tell them you’re full?”

“Those aunties I don’t mind so much,” I teased.

Hisham grinned. “You’re right. There are far more evil aunties to worry about.”