“What if you turn out to be one of those people who are incapable of falling in love?” Annie said as she leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her coffee.

“Of course I’m not going to be one of those people.” I scoffed, appalled by this idea. “Why would you possibly think I could be one of those people, Annie?”

“Because you push away every nice guy you’ve ever met and refuse to date anyone longer than two weeks. I mean seriously, Leila, we have produce in our refrigerator with longer life spans than most of your relationships.”

“That . . . is not true.” I was completely taken aback by the blatant verity behind her words; a realization that I was not quite ready to acknowledge in that particular moment. So what if I was a “serial” dater and not a “long-term” dater? Before I went away for college, I was a “never allowed to” dater. I grew up Muslim. My conservative parents made sure all my free time was occupied with homework from AP classes, community activities, and tennis. Annie was being slightly unfair given that the whole concept of dating was still fairly new to me in comparison to my non-Muslim peers.

“Fine.” Annie lifted one of her eyebrows accusingly. “Then remind me of the last time you were in a long-term relationship.”

I hesitated as I thought for a moment. “That’s beside the point,” I said dismissively when nothing immediately jumped to mind. “Besides, I’m not just looking for a nice guy,” I stated firmly. “I’m looking for the right guy.”

“The right guy?”

“Yes, the right guy. And I don’t need to waste my time on a long-term relationship when it’s pretty obvious I haven’t found what I’m looking for yet.”

“Okay, Leila,” Annie said, shrugging. “Then tell me, what makes someone the right guy? Let’s make a list.”

“A list?” I half laughed. “I’m not shopping for groceries, Annie,” I said, leaning back with my arms crossed. I couldn’t help but feel irritated by her interrogation of my love life.

My decision to attend college outside of Los Angeles—away from my parents—had given me four years of unrestricted freedom to date without having to deal directly with the aftereffects of fear, guilt, or the risk of bringing shame upon my family. But my hopes of attaining a bona fide Bollywood romance at school were destroyed freshman year when I realized that aside from myself, not many other Muslim desis—aka, people from the Indian subcontinent—chose to attend my small liberal arts college. Even the Muslim Student Association on campus was more just a club consisting of five overly zealous bearded guys who seemed more interested in planning protests and food drives than talking to the opposite gender. So while I had plenty of opportunities to meet “nice guys” over the next few years, my dating experiences were chiefly restricted to non-desis, which—to my dismay—was much less glamorous than the sizzling on-screen story lines entrenched in my mind.