I let her words sink in. She was right. Even Annie was right. I had spent so much time focusing on everyone else’s expectations that I had lost sight of what I truly wanted. I buried my face in her shoulder as we hugged. “Thank you,” I whispered into her ear. She gave me a squeeze. “But what about you?” I leaned back to look at her tear-streaked face.

“What about me?” She shrugged. “Zeeshan might not have chosen me. But I choose me. I’m going to be just fine.” She smiled. My beautiful, resilient, incredibly brave, and wise-beyond-her-years friend just gave me the last push of courage I so desperately needed, and for that I was grateful.

* * *

After Tania left, I sat there staring at the laptop, a million thoughts rushing through my mind. I thought back to what Hisham had said about not having a choice. About all of us eventually doing what our parents wanted. He was wrong. Ending up with who our parents wanted us to was the easy option, but it prevented us from acknowledging how we truly felt . . . from going after what we really wanted. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a cop-out. Like nothing more than a lame excuse. I still believed in love before marriage, but I suddenly realized that it wasn’t romantic love I was lacking. It was self-love.

I looked over Zain’s emails, reading the messages again and again. This wasn’t about my parents. This wasn’t even about the deadline anymore. This was about me. And I couldn’t choose something simply because it was my only option. That wasn’t choosing. That was settling. And I loved myself enough to know I was worth more than that.

For the first time in a long time, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I placed my fingers over the keyboard and started typing.

Dear Zain,

First off, I’d like to apologize for not getting back to you sooner. Your emails were placed in my junk folder, and I am just discovering them now. A lot has changed since the last time we saw each other, and I think it’s only fair to let you know what’s been on my mind . . .

Final Toast

The banquet hall at Shalimar Restaurant was teeming with guests. Despite all the last-minute changes, it was a relief to see everything finally come together. All throughout the restaurant I had displayed blown-up photographs of my parents over the past thirty years. There were images of the two of them on their wedding day—my mother in a beautiful red sari and my father in a dark gray suit with thick, neatly parted hair and a mustache that even Tom Selleck would be envious of. There was a photograph of my mother eight months pregnant, with my father’s arm around her shoulders. They were both grinning widely into the camera, excited and hopeful for the future that lay ahead. There were pictures from various family vacations like the Grand Canyon and Disneyland, and most recently, a photo of the three of us at my twenty-sixth birthday dinner, the night this whole journey began for me.